Sugar Sugar….Honey Honey

I’ll tell you what’s new, Reader.

That cat donut bed thingamajigie.

Because I’m their Sugar Mama. And let me tell you, I get sporadic sugar in return from them. Just this very evening, there were small brown “crumbles” in bed and we didn’t know if Poopie* (sitting in the middle of the donut, named such because sometimes he poops wherever the hell he wants) had left behind some dry hard poops or if it was brownie crumbles from my late night snackie.

*whenever he does any bad cat things, we say, in our most disgusted voices, “Thanks, Poopin’!” but we make it sound like Putin and that’s how we reign** down our disgust on Russia.

(I had to ask Almightie Google if it was rain down or reign down. Google says: The correct phrase is “rain down” – meaning to fall in large quantities, like rain from the sky; “reign down” is incorrect as “reign” refers to a period of rule, not falling precipitation. However, in the case of Putin, I’m purposely choosing to reign down my disgust.)

I’ve completely sidetracked from the conversation that ensued, after the brown(ie) crumbles were found:

Me: “I’m pretty sure it’s brownie crumbles.”

My Mister: “Taste it.”

Me: “I’m not THAT sure.”

My Mister: “Were you eating brownies in bed?”

Me: “STOP JUDGING ME!”

Reader, it was brownie crumbles. Probably.

In other even more exciting news, I seem to have developed Trigger Finger and so I finally saw a doctor to see what we can do about the sitch. They took hand x-rays.

The Good Doctor: “Yep, you’ve got a lot of arthritis. See these areas at the base of your wrists? All arthritis.”

Me: “I thought I just had over used tendons, and I kept trying to do tendon exercises.”

The Good Doctor: “Nope. It’s old Arthur* come a-calling.”

*me, taking creative liberties with what he actually said. He didn’t sound like that at all. He had some sort of an exotic other-land accent.  I don’t even know what his name was to try to sleuth a nationality. I should probably pay more attention to the names of the people who I pay to examine me under my skin.

So The Good Doctor fitted** me with two plastic finger braces for my throbbing Triggers, and then when I asked for the next plan of action, I am taking absolutely zero liberties in the telling of what happened next.

**is it fitted? or fit?? who even know any more. who cares.

The Good Doctor gave me a recommendation to order a product called 2 Old Goats which of course I ordered immediately, and Reader, this is NOT the type of Influencer I had hoped to be. But here we are.

And then he told me, “When women get to be of a certain age, LIKE YOU, their fingers will just start to freeze. It’s a build up of the arthritis and you can massage that cream in. Don’t buy it in a tube, it will be tough to squeeze with your hands. You need the jar.”

I’ve offically become too old for squeeze tubes. I didn’t know that was a bracket. Yet I have arrived.

If this shit works I’ll order a vat and just roll around in it.

Next, The Good Doctor proceeded to gave me a recipe for a concoction to drink every day. Because of his exotic accent, I was immediately on board with whatever he said next. For all I know, he’s from the island of Dominica, which has the highest number of centenarians in the world. I’ve sat in the healing waters of the hot tubs in Dominica, and ate the very best roadside fruit ever in my life, and those two things alone should add at least two years to my life. All that to say, I was ready to listen, and got my phone out so my triggery fingers could peck out his recipe in my Notes:

Whole lime, washed, with skin. Red onion, chopped (we didn’t talk about the skin or no skin. I’ll remove the skin).  Ginger, a good half-inch or so. Shot glass full of honey. Spoonful each of tumeric and beet powder. Small cucumber with skin. Two shots of apple cider vinegar. Garlic, if I can handle it. Add some coconut water for a nice consistency. Blend up until smooth. Strain with a cheesecloth. I can eat the pulp, but be close to a bathroom as it will “clean you right.”  **PS, he also unknowingly gave me an amazing gift idea for my friendie with pooping troubles, you know who you are and guess what’s in the jar when I see you next.**

So I’m supposed to make that and drink a shot-glass sized every day and it’s supposed to be a magic lube for my insides and I guess why the hell not.

Me to The Good Doctor: “All this sounds great, I’m into the natural cures, but can you also provide some modern medicine to accompany this? I’m a walking ache.”

He tried, Reader. He tried to put in a prescription for Mobic or something but my Clinic chart refused it. I saw the giant red ERROR WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO PROCEED message. He asked if I had taken it before or was on anything that could cause interference, and both answers are NO, and so the computer just said Nope and he literally just shrugged his shoulders and that was that.

Just….. ~shrug~.

And so I thanked him (because I am Midwestern Polite, damnit) and left. I walked out with a $241 recipe, a $13 order from Amazon on it’s way, and two plastic cat toys for my fingers. Dory tries to abscond with them as soon as I take them off.

There we have it. I don’t even know what it is that we have, but something. I mean, I know what I have.  A whole lot of arthritis and 2 Old Goats on the way.

These, these are the Golden Years, Reader. That’s the lie they sold us when we were young and spry and nimble.

After my official diagnosis I’ve decided that I really do deserve all the marijuana. If not me, and this body, then who? Who is more deserving of it. No one, Reader. That’s who.

Lastly, I did schedule yet another co-pay appointment with a rheumatologist and I guess they can give you a whole body scan and, well, that will be a really interesting absolutely frightening map to see what is happening underneath all this.  And I probably still won’t be able to get a prescription pain medication. Maybe they recognize that I’m an athlete and we’re used to pushing through.