THE SCOTTISH DREAMER AND I HAVE TO TALK TO THE BISHOP

Last night Phil and I went to see the Scottish Dreamer. She is in Mt. Timpanogas Hospital because after her latest surgery she can't eat and has become very dehydrated. She now has a feeding tube in...well, she did have a feeding tube in.

The morning the nurse said to her, "Have you noticed you don't have your feeding tube?"

The Scottish Dreamer hadn't noticed. "Wow," she said. "Where did it go...and when?"

"You don't remember? You really don't remember?"

The Scottish Dreamer shook her head.

"Well," said the nurse, getting all chatty as if she had juice gossip to tell. "Last night they found you wandering the halls. You had taken the feeding tube out." (The feeding tube goes in her nose and ALL the way to her small intestines. She really had to pull some to get it out.)

The Scottish Dreamer's eyes got that wild eyed look people get when they just can't believe something. She looked down at her hospital gown.

"Yup," the nurse said. "That Ambien, it does strange things to people. You told everyone you were going home."

"I did?" said the Scottish Dreamer.

"Yup," said the nurse. She looked at the gown too. (You know the kind of gown I'm talking about. They tie at the neck...in the back!)
"Yup," she said again, "said you was goin' home," and then she smiled and left The Scottish Dreamer to wonder how much of her backside she had paraded up and down the halls.

"Oh, Lynne," she said, with a shy smile. "I'll have to go talk to the Bishop!"

We had a good laugh. I didn't think much more of it until today, when I was gowned, same type of gown, tying in the front! On the Scottish Dreamer, who weighs maybe 100 pounds, the gown was probably adequate but on me, it didn't close quite so easily. I had nothing on--from the waist up. (I was getting an echo cardiogram--to rule something or other out, I'm not sure what, since my incident last Thursday. My retina doctor ordered this test plus a ultrasound on my carotid arteries.)

The technician had said, "When you're ready just open the door a little." So, I'm gowned, with the gown clutched in my sweaty little hand--I didn't bother to tie it. I opened the door with my gown-closing hand and of course, it flops open, for anyone in the hall to see. (The word, "flops" is kind of appropriate here.)

So, The Scottish Dreamer and I...well, we've either lost all our inhibitions or, we're voyeurs and really better have that talk with the Bishop.

THE SCOTTISH DREAMER INVITES A NAKED STRANGER TO BREAKFAST

The Scottish Dreamer (story here) and her family were on a little vacation in Idaho. It was Sunday morning. She and one of her boys went out their French door that led to the swimming pool and the spot for breakfast. She thought it would just be juice and a muffin but it was more. She was halfway through her French toast and thought she'd go tell her hubby and other son to hurry up so they could eat before they went to church.

When she got to their door it was locked. She'd just gone out that door. How'd it get locked? She pounded on the door, calling to her husband to hurry and come and have some delicious breakfast.

Nothing, Not even a whisper of a sound from inside.

More pounding on the door. "Hurry Clark Kent," (not his real name but it fits), "hurry and come to breakfast."

Nothing.

Then she noticed the drapes weren't closed all the way. She cupped her face with her hands and peered into the room. She saw a naked man with a tattoo of a cross on his back. He started tiptoeing to the very door she stood on the other side of.

The Scottish Dreamer was probably an Olympic athlete in her early years as she made it back to the table in one point four seconds--wearing four inch heels, yet. She picked up her fork, looked at the ceiling--as if it were fascinating--and pretended she never left the table. In fact, if she could, she would have grown roots.

I don't know if her husband and son ever made it to breakfast. I don't know if naked-tiptoeing-tattooed man did either.

I could hardly draw a breath for laughter when the Scottish Dreamer looked at me and--with the face of an angel, an innocent angel--said, "This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I don't know why."

I don't know why, either. Maybe it's Karma. Maybe she and Mrs. Bird really are long lost sisters. I'm just grateful for the laughter that saves me from insanity.

DINNER WITH THE CHARACTERS

The other night Mrs. Bird and The Scottish Dreamer wandered by and sat on the lawn swings and we had a rip roaring, laughing time. The Scottish Dreamer said we should go to dinner and hang out. So we did, but the Scottish Dreamer who now weighs 103 pounds, did not feel well, so Mrs. Bird, my friend who the angels help write her personal histroy so beautifully, and I went anyway, because we don't want to miss a good time, even though we did miss the Scottish Dreamer.

This is a terrible photo of Mrs. Bird but I know people want to see her. She'd die on the spot if she saw this but she's not an Internet girl and so she won't see this.

Mrs. Bird--outside of Mimi's--said, "Oh, look, here's some lavender. If you ever need to make lavender bags just come here."

I said, "you can't do that, Mrs. Bird--but I used her real name--that lavender belongs to Mimi's"

"Oh, I do it all the time," she said. And since you never know if she did or didn't we just laughed and went inside for dinner.

She told hilarious stories, I can't recall the one I could tell--the other one is, well, a little racy. I'll tell it another day because tonight, I'm tired. And because House is almost over and now I have to rewind and see why the alien hand was acting out, because I missed it. I did see the part about the squawking man, so I won't have to rewind everything. And House is finally going in for treatment. And the hunky Dr. Chase got married. And that was the season's finale.

Lisa, who blogs here--but not very often--and here--more often with a bunch of other sassy women--, says I should order all the House DVD's from Netflix and get this whole show figured out. Do you KNOW what would happen if I ordered House from Netflix? I already order 99% of our choices and 95% of them are weird, foreign films, grade B movies or Chic Flicks and Phil is not amused. Well, maybe he is a little bit amused as he holds his head in his hands, smiles faintly and says, "Not another one." And then he laughs, in a feeble sort of way.

And that is why I watch House late at night, after he is in bed.

There's an explanation for everything.

Well, maybe not for Mrs. Bird. Some things just cannot be explained.

Ooh, and I think I just heard someone at the front door and it's 1:10 a.m. and now I'm spooked so I'm taking the baseball bat and going to bed. Quietly. In the dark. If I never blog again you'll know why. Send flowers.

AN UNEVENTFUL DAY

Made a quick trip to Salt Lake to see our darling daughter and we ate a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger on the way out of town. I thought I could get away with that for dinner. Not so. Phil ate soup, a chicken sandwich and two ears of corn--one of them was mine.* I ate almonds.

We sat outside with three church talks, thinking we would have an intellectual Family Home Evening. We had hardly settled when four neighbors came over and were in the middle of Mrs. Bird's funny story about her chiropractor when who should happen by but The Scottish Dreamer. We sat and visited and laughed until the darkness descended, as did the mosquito's.

Zip, zop, people scattered except for the Scottish Dreamer and me. The skeeters soon left us alone--after I rolled a couple into cigars off my face and the others decided hunger was better than death.

The Scottish Dreamer and I had a good talk. What a lovely girl she is. I sent her home with books to read on health and she said, "Can I eat that last eclair first?" (If you haven't done it already you must read this post.) I told her yes, as I certainly have not been the shining example of health or sugar-avoidance. When I looked at the clock it was 11:00. Are we gabbers or what?

Sitting here at the computer, doing nothing of importance, I felt around on what should be my smooth chin and I felt a whisker stray eyebrow. When did that pop up? I tweezed yesterday. So I tweezed and it was black and long and then, right there, as I was watching, another one popped up. I tell you, it is the honest truth. Which leads me to the conclusion that there really is a bad hormone running around and it has attitude.

*It wasn't really my corn. I got a phone call from a worried sister in our ward so I covered the mouthpiece on the phone and whispered, "eat my corn," which was really his corn to begin with because I ignored his stomach needs watered the garden--the parts the BUGS HAVEN'T EATEN--while he prowled the kitchen. So, I ate almonds. And not the good salty, roasted ones either. The plain ole' good-for-you kind, that are no fun at all. You should feel sorry for me, having to eat those healthy almonds instead of the kind I really love.