frustrations and happy things

I don't know what it is, but lately I'm really sick of being sick. I'm tired of gimping along from one doctor to another. I'm tired of making phone calls and sending emails to get doctors to talk to one another. I'm tired of being in the middle of their dueling egos. I'm tired of my primary care doctor's total lack of curiosity. I'm tired of coordinating appointments and record transfers and tests. I'm tired of asking Seatmate to pick up my meds at a pharmacy just half a mile away. I'm tired of my hips hurting and knowing that it has to get worse before it can get better, if it gets better. I'm tired of being an interesting case.

I am Jack's rising sense of impotent frustration.

However. My kitchen is a delicious jungle of happy plants. We have white planters, white oven mitts, and a soft off-white rug for the living room. We have a huge pile for the Salvation Army folks to pick up. The Sox beat the Yankees last night in the pouring rain. And the Bruins are still in the playoffs, tied at one game each in their second-round series against the Canes. Tonight, I plan on settling in with Seatmate and some Papa John's parmesan breadsticks and cheering our Bruins in game three. (It's in Raleigh or we'd be there.)

Sports dorkery: Cam Ward is phenomenal, but I think the Bruins are a stronger team overall. I can't help being an Ovechkin fan despite his constant uncalled charging and my general love for the Pens. I don't have a dog in the fight between the Hawks and Nucks, but I was madly amused by Luongo smacking Byfuglian in the face the other night when Buff gloated after a goal (something our beloved Tim Thomas might do).

YouTubery: an amazing overhead view of Mine That Bird coming from the back of the pack to win the Kentucky Derby.