Today I learned that I have Lyme Disease. Don't worry; this blog isn't going to turn into Pityparty.blogspot.com nor am I going to publish pictures of my bull's-eye rash. [Especially since it covers part of my left breast.] I was bitten by a tick about three weeks ago, but didn't recognize it as such: I thought I was brushing off a fuzzy or piece of dirt. It wasn't until I developed a rash that kept expanding, and didn't respond to ordinary measures like hydrocortisone cream that I made the connection. So I may be taking it a little easy the next few weeks. I've got thirty days of antibiotics and I hope that will take care of this. If I post a little less often, well, I hope y'all will get over it.
In other news... yesterday was the local Memorial Day parade. You may have figured out by now that I have a streak of corny a mile long inside me, and I love these old-fashioned holiday parades. My oldest marched with the Little League,
in between a bus full of [insert current politically correct word for retarded here] Boy Scouts and the local historical society. Check out the covered wagon; pretty cool, eh?
And don't forget the handy-dandy Minuteman, while you're at it.
Of course, after half an hour of standing in the sun waiting to march, my kid's patience was at a low ebb and we bailed a little ways into it, as soon as we saw Tom and the twins and Grandpop at the side of the road.
We sat with them and watched the giant watering can floats (on display, for some inexplicable reason, at a local arboretum)
and admired cute tailless doggies
and the antique cars driven by equally antique veterans. (I bonded with a guy who flew B-17s, proudly telling him my great-uncle flew in one, too.) We snickered meanly at the guy who marched in the parade with a pink CareBears backpack:
I even got to marvel at the attire of some fourteen-year-olds, whose asses were covered, barely, by no more than six inches of fabric in their Daisy Duke shorts. What were their mothers thinking?