Dawn Brocco's Life and Design Blog

Some days just have it all going for them, others are just comedies of errors, mishaps and/or bad luck. That was yesterday.

First, hubby was doing stuff in the garage and tore a muscle in his arm. Luckily got a doc app't within the hour, so he's taped up, shall not lift anything heavy, take the prednisone and wait 2 weeks. OK. Could have been worse. But he's running out of places to put bandages, what with all the lidocaine patches and kinesio tex tape holding the poor guy together. When we say we need to sell this house and get a new life, we ain't kidding - this one is doing him in.

So, I'm waiting for him to return from the doc with the news and also waiting on the videographer team to come and take the pics for the virtual tour.

Now pickles has one gimpy leg and is nearly 14 years old, but doesn't act like an old dog. He takes glucosamine which keeps him mobile, but he shouldn't be going up and down the 15 steps upstairs following people. So I hooked him up to his line outside. He barked a bit, which is normal, especially if he sees a squirrel, bunny, etc. But then he was quiet, which he is when he tends to his toilette, so I took no notice.

I'm going around turning on lights for the videographer. Her daughter is outside photographing the grounds. Eventually, hubby returns and as I greet him at the door, and, there's the dog, on the back porch. What? He's never gotten free from his line before.

Well, the daughter was out on the rear lawn, when a deer came out of the woods and literally stopped a couple feet from her, mustn't have seen her til then, made some odd deer noise and ran off. Following not far behind was the stupid dog.

He apparently broke from his line, ran into the woods chasing the deer, made his way back up the longgggg rear lawn, then up the back stairs and was waiting for someone to let him in.

This is more exercise than he's supposed to get with that gimpy leg. WAY more, So, first he got a bath - there's poison ivy in the woods - and after resting awhile, he couldn't get up, He was OK if we hoisted him up onto his rear legs, then he could get going. He really overdid those leg muscles.

So, the man with taped-up arm who shouldn't lift anything had to carry him up and down the back steps for his toilette, then up the 15 stairs to our bedroom, where he sleeps on a chair in the corner. I would have, if I HAD any muscles left, but after losing about 30 lbs from this peri-M (not by choice), I have much less muscle tone, not that I was ever was what one could call a sturdy gal - far from it.

All the muscle-impaired people and pets spent a quiet evening together, people watching tv and feasting on a large canoli each. Haven't had one in FAR too long. And it was actually good!

One doesn't move upstate from The City and expect to ever get really good Italian anything. And for the most part, you don't get it. The best just made ricotta? A decent loaf of semolina bread, ha! Not in our town, anyway. But these were just as good as from the Staten Island Italian bakery I worked in as a teen, stuffing the shells with canoli cream, stuffing the cream puffs, stacking the Sfogliatella for display, writing the birthday cakes, handling those luscious Napoleans...

A nice treat it was.