Blame it on Joyce Oroz

Super woman has a chink in her mature personage. I’m here to tell you that my smooth sailing on the sea of life has been discontinued like last season’s hand bags at Nordstoms. Admitting ones vulnerabilities hurts—kinda like when a surgeon scrapes your old bones as if they had dried egg stuck in the crannies. Maybe I did, but that’s another story.

So, thanks to modern technology and the acceptance of Pepto pink for everything from athletic shoes to zippers, I have a spanking new pink cast on my arm. If I were designing a cast I wouldn’t worry about the color. Instead I would design a clever hook on the end of the cast that would help the free hand with a million simple chores. Chores like dressing, eating, bathing and typing. Ok, maybe not typing. As it turns out I have adopted George, the dragon speaking guy and he writes for me. I speak into a microphone and George writes down something similar to what I said—sometimes not even close. I’m telling you this so I won’t have to take responsibility for mistakes and misspeaks.

George did it.

Right now I am doing my part to hold down expenses. My car sits in the garage for four more weeks. Yikes! While I try to dress myself without a hook or a clue.



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