Tuesday, November 28, 2006

It Don't Get Much Better Than This...

I left the house at 8:30am stopping to pick up some breath mints in anticipation of a close encounter with an opthamologist.

The wait at the eye doctor's was the shortest ever. But surprise! The reason my contacts aren't doing the job they should is cataracts. Not to worry. All I have to do is wear glasses for 3 weeks, they measure for the lens and after a quick couple of surgeries, my vision will be better than ever.

But wait. My glasses date back to 1986. They look like something Elvis wore in the jungle room, sat on a few hundred times and then drove his cadillac over.

So I order new glasses, the lenses of which I'll only use for about six weeks. My eyes were dilated and I was having trouble seeing things close up. As the technician put the pair I selected behind the counter I thought I saw the glint of a rhinestone on the bow (what is it with me and Elvis?) but by then I was late for work and had an elderly dog at home to check on.

The nice lady gave me an envelope before I left containing a large piece of very dark plastic with cardboard ear hangers which made me chuckle. (Like I'm going to wear that when I won't even wear my Elvis glasses. Ha!) Moments later, with tears streaming down my face I was in the parking lot, dumping the contents of my purse to find the envelope.

I made it home by driving slowly in the left lane for 15 miles and figured out that if I couldn't tell what color the stop lights were it meant they were green. The red ones I could see.

When I walked in the front door at home, still wearing the black plastic wrap around pretend sunglasses, I felt my foot slip just a tad on the carpet but thought nothing of it. I let the dog outside to eat his lunch and he promptly ran away. Then I took off the sunglasses.

He had thrown up in just about every room in our house that had carpeting. We're talking major cleanup which is more than you probably want to know.

Finally, I have to go back out into the blinding sunlight to find him and convince him I am not going to kill him, will he please come home, which he did.

Then I discover I had locked us out of the house and had to drag an iron chair to the only unlocked window. The landing spot on the inside was wet from where the dog had thrownup.

Did I mention I was late for work?

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