Saturday, April 9, 2016
On Thursday my husband knocked down some hay bales from the new 80-bale stack and put a tarp over it, because he's not afraid of heights. I'm actually okay with heights. I just don't like climbing ladders. I helped hold the ladder for him, and helped move the 120-pound bales around, as well as helped tie down the tarp. I didn't feel like I did that much, but the next day my muscles were locked up and I could not function. I just curled up on the couch and tried not to move.
But before that happened, I pulled an old tarp out of the garage and was laying it flat on the ground in our back yard to shake all the critters out of it. I found a dead scorpion and a live giant spider that looked to be a relative of the black widow, just bigger and without the red hour-glass marking. Anyway, while I was doing that, some pilot came along in his helicopter flying low, and he must have thought I was signaling to him with the tarp, because he kept flying lower and lower while circling me.
I'm wondering if it's time that I make a big sign that I can hold up to pilots that reads, "GO AWAY," because this happens to me so often. If I don't like it when neighbors and people walking or bicycling down the streets stop to watch me in my back yard, then watching me from a helicopter or plane or powered parachute or camera-rigged drone certainly isn't more acceptable, especially since it adds excessive noise pollution into the mix. Either way, the person is not minding his own business. I thought that having people in hot-air balloon baskets yelling down to me and waving as they passed over me in my back yard back in Nevada was annoying. I didn't know it could get worse.
Thursday night a storm blew through, which triggered the worst allergy symptoms I've had yet. I had a headache that would not go away, so I took four Ibuprofen on top of an allergy pill. All I wanted to do was sleep, but couldn't because of that dang dental appointment and having to pay my tax accountant for her services while turning in paperwork. Everyone was cheery, asking me what my plans were for the weekend, and I just stared off into space zombie-like (probably with drool running down my chin) and said, "Sleeping. I need to sleep."
One young gal didn't understand and asked what I've been doing to make myself so tired. I just said, "Allergies," but wanted to say, "Old age. My body figures out new ways to break down each new day. I've got one foot in the grave."
But I didn't want to freak her out. However, I was seriously feeling like this was something I could not recover from. Yet, today all the muscle stiffness and pain and headache and sniffles are gone. Poof. Just like that.
I was feeling good and planning out my empty week, thankful for finally having a blank slate of time to work with. Then I remembered that I got something in the mail the previous day that is a stack of forms I have to fill out and have notarized. That means spending an hour or two or three at the bank, depending on how busy they are and how slowly they are moving on that day.
Did I mention that I hate my bank? The last time I went to a teller window to cash a check, I only had three people in front of me and had to wait twenty minutes while the tellers encouraged those three customers to tell them their life stories and the customers happily obliged. Then when it was my turn to be served, I deflected all the attempts at conversation and tried to keep the teller on task by focusing on the cash I needed. I was attempting to model considerate behavior for those waiting in line behind me. I held my hand out for him to put the cash in my hand, but had to wait while he counted and re-counted it out on the counter five friggin' times! I thought a prerequisite to being a bank teller is knowing how to count. Actually, I think he knew he counted it out right the first time, but is required by his managers to give each person at least five minutes of personalized attention. I suspect that by the way these tellers behave, they get dinged if they simply get down to business and keep the line moving.
Most days you have to set up an appointment to see a banker or a notary public while rows and rows of people in cubicles chat it up with their life stories. I wish more people would just write it down in blogs or memoirs so that those of us who are in a hurry to reclaim our free time (translation: horse time) can have a choice whether we want to read it or not. We can all have business cards with the web address or title of our book on them, so when someone asks for our life story, we can just hand them a business card and get on with our lives. Every time I go in there, I miss my old bank where I used to live. They'd have me in and out in 30 seconds, and still manage to fit in a few pleasantries.
Anyway, after dreading having to visit the bank again, I read my email and found an assignment for a job that I can see is going to turn into a major fiasco with multiple phone calls and appointments. So, my free time is gone once again. Just like that. Poof.