Another do-nothing Sunday. Rosalie is at work and I’m watching baseball and golf and twiddling my thumbs. I’m really tired of twiddling my thumbs. What an odd verd—"to twiddle." I’ll have to look it up to see if it works with anything but thumbs. “To toy or trifle with some object,” according to Webster. Okay, I guess you could twiddle rings or buttons or people. Next time you want to confuse someone, tell them you’re twiddling them. Good, the D-Backs just scored five runs in the fourth. Now I can switch over to CBS to see if Sergio can win one. Poor guy. Ten years ago he was going to be Tiger’s competition. Never happened.
This Thursday I’m scheduled for a colonoscopy. Oh, the joy. It’s not the procedure itself, it’s that ugly preliminary. You’d think they’d have found a simpler, less awful way of cleaning one out. Oh well, my doctor assures me this will be the last one. They don’t bother with folks over eighty. Just let the old farts die of colon cancer, I guess. And next month I’m having the rest of my uppers extracted and three of my lowers. I’ll then have a partial on the bottom and a full plate on top. And a radiant smile. And a bite that actually works, unlike this damn partial upper I now have. Now if I can just get the rest of me fixed, life will be better.
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