The reason I didn't blog yesterday was because I was busy learning something. Which is: why they call urinary tract infections "raging".
Boy howdy, I reckon.
I wanted to throw my husband from the car and be the driver, mashing the gas pedal to the floor and getting to the doctor's office faster than he was bothering to drive. At the moment, I didn't give a hang about speed limits. I guess I thought there would be a medical cure at their door, plus, if you've ever had this malady, you know I had to go, and badly.
All of a teaspoon. And again in fifteen minutes or less. And again...
At any rate, I did start on an antibiotic and am better enough to sit here and blog.
But what I'm really concerned about today is that I've been receiving mail from a "Mr. Pig." For some reason this unnerves me.
I am worried it has something to do with all the pork chops, pork roasts, pork bar-b-cue, bacon, ham, etc. that I consume from time to time. Not a lot, mind you (are you listening, Mr. Pig?) but maybe enough to get a stern warning from one Mr. Pig.
I imagine him to be more sized like Mr Hog. With a tire iron in his hoof. Mean, squinty little eyes and those huge tusks that wild bores have.
Don't let that jaunty little grocery store advertising hat fool you.
He's there, and he's looking for me.
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