The doctor was tardy for our appointment, but pleased to discover the progress made on my diet. He exploded with congratulatory encouragement. So much so, I feel kinda bad about licking all of the tongue depressors.
You can intone a heap of "ahhhhhhhs," waiting alone with one of those glass doctor cookie jars full of wooden sticks. I'm a self-starter. I'm perfectly capable of playing without others.
Some people say the best music is created singing in the shower. Perhaps, although I'm pretty melodious squeaking air out of an inflated examination glove while prone half naked on the plush comfort of a chilly paper sheet.
My mother would have been proud of me. I saved something for next time: thermometers. (No relation.)
I celebrated acing the check-up by chomping a large lunch with my wife, who ordered fish tacos. I yelled "Solé!" and had the Fried Green Tomatoes with Jessica Tandy au jus, suitably green, age-spotty.
For dessert, we dove into banana puddings.
Donna brought banana puddings into our marriage, all those years ago. They don't last as long as a cat, but hairballs are far less of a regular occurrence and heartworm treatments are not mandatory. At least, when we eat out.
Later, I drove home to see news of wildfires burning near downtown Los Angeles, warming the atmosphere. A Hollywood wax museum reports "goops of melted celebrities to become new Joy Behar exhibit."
