Nowhere But Up

So. In the last few days:

I’ve backed up-

I’ve sat up-

I’ve cleaned up-

And I’ve caught up.

Now. As long as I don’t lift anything, slip on anything or try to cook anything…things should start looking up as well- - -

Clinton Kelly (My ever-pragmatic IV): “How do you plan on avoiding all of these things? It’s only the beginning of January, kiddo. You’ll have to eat, you’ll have to leave the house and I don’t think you can milk that back-thing forever…”

Kathryn: “We can alternate between eating sandwiches and cereal. We can have everything delivered. All my work’ll be done via computer and phone and ‘my back-thing’ was most excruciating, thankyouverymuch. I do believe that stress could cause me to relapse…wait, I think I’m feeling a twinge.”

CK: (Rolls baby blues) “This time, you’re buying your own Ben Gay. You may as well pick up some moth balls as well….then I can pretty much guarantee that no-one will come within 20 feet of you, much less ask you to go anywhere near their food.”

K: (Eyes light up)

CK: “I’m kidding. You have to feed da boys sometime….I believe it’s in the parent handbook. And smelling like an old fart is going to make you feel like an old fart. Never underestimate the power of the senses.”

K: “Who are you? The Dalai Lama? Did you catch a whiff of that guy on the A-Train this morning? Phew! I wanted to light a match!”

CK: (Grimaces) “I don’t know which bothers me more…the bad B.O. or the bad B.O. doused with a bottle of Old Spice. Wait. That’s not where I was going with this…”

K: (Confused) “Really? Are you sure? ‘Cause you’ve mentioned that guy several times today. I think we should talk about it.”

CK: (Sighs) “No. What I want is for you to let me make my point.”

K: “So, who’s stopping you? You’re the one who brought up farting, which thereby led to the inevitable stinky-recall of the B.O. guy.”

CK: (Leans against the wall. Pulls out Blackberry…starts scrolling.) “Just let me know when you’re done. I’ve got nothing but time.”

K: (Stares. Bites bottom lip. Glances around the room. Counts the tiles on the floor. Multiply length times width…carry the seven…add the three. Tries to whistle. Realizes she can no longer whistle. Thinks, “Didn’t I used to know how to whistle? When was the last time I recall being able to whistle? Do people forget how to whistle? Is this an old-age thing? Have I had a mini-stroke and it has permanently prohibited my ability to whistle? Who would I call for this? A neurologist? A speech therapist? My 6th grade music teacher?”)

CK: “Kathryn!”

K: “What? WHAT? Okay…rewinding….B.O….farting….senses…old fart. What’d I miss? WAIT. Weren’t we talking about smells?”

CK: (Shaking his head…lips pressed tightly together) “Yes, I mentioned the sense of smell. My point was that if you believe you’re getting old, you will act in a more elderly manner. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

K: (Squints eyes) “Who said anything about being old? I’m not old. Are you old? Who’s old?? My friends certainly aren’t old. I don’t like where this is going. I think the only thing old around here is…your watch. Now, that is OLD.”

CK: “It’s vintage Cartier. I was talking about your back. You’ve completely taken this out of context. I’m simply pointing out….ya know what? Never mind. We've spent enough time on this."

K: “Oh. Speaking of time...what time is it? Did we eat dinner? I can't remember. Man, I'm getting old."

CK: “Oh, for the love of God”