Diagnosis: delicious

I seem to be operating on some kind of tape delay. This is yesterday’s post (Sunday), but I am writing it today (Monday) about events that happened today. We have a slingshot-around-the-sun situation on our hands. Are you with me? Follow my finger. Left…right…up…down. Ok, now touch your left index finger to my index finger and then touch your nose. Back and forth. Quickly now.

I had planned to saddle the internet with an extensive pictorial on my current lack of a hairstyle, but things happen, and we spent the day in various waiting rooms while Mr. H got expensive medical tests. They still don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s not the di-uh-beet-us or a stroke. Time in the ER waiting room operates on a different frequency. Ellen came on the TV, but the wall clock still read 10:55. No es possible! Rather than puzzle through this break in the space-time continuum, I busied myself learning Tagalog from the “Your right to a medical interpreter” poster.

Tomorrow (Yesterday today): hair. I am tired. Good evening. I’m going to press against the palms of your hand now. Push back, hard. Good, good.

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