Ode

I have nothing to write today, so I searched the internet for a poem about a lady's bottom, a sort of Ode to an Ass, if you will.  Closest I got was Ode to an Asshole which was about how to spot a person who is one.  But I did come across a useful term that had nothing to do with any of this--Old Tweener.  It is a blog that is subtitled "between changing diapers and wearing them."  The blog did not interest me, nor the way the author used the term, but as someone with a Peter Pan Syndrome, I would like to think of myself in that way--an old tweener.  I am lazy and useless but think I'm cool.  I wonder about "silly" things and endlessly dream rather than plot out a course in life or think about financial success.  I want somebody else to take care of things.  I am bad about keeping my room clean--terrible, really.  I am fascinated by curiosities.  I don't, however, like video games, which may disqualify me completely.  And perhaps I am a bit more advanced, tweeners being pre-teens.  I am, I might suggest, an old teener.  I'll just add "teen" to the back end of my age, like Dick Clark who was what--eighty-two-teen?  But Old Dick was a faux teen because he had a plan.  He had an empire.  Maybe I should have Googled "Ode to an Ample Ass."

The wrecking crew comes to clean today.  I have about an hour of things to do before they come.  I bought a new washer and dryer which are to be delivered this afternoon, but for now I have to use the tenant's to wash my brand new high thread count sheets.  There is nothing like sleeping on good sheets.  And I bought a new bed pad, too.  When I stripped the bed this morning, I decided to flip the mattress.  It is a very heavy king sized mattress and I have ruined it by being lazy and not flipping it for like--I don't know how many--years.  But the side I do not sleep on is good still, so. . . well, if I have a guest, I might be embarrassed.  I will buy a new mattress, and I've decided to buy one from the Hilton website because I liked the mattress I slept on there.  I will, however, take suggestions.  But in flipping the mattress by myself which I shouldn't have done since I wrenched my back, I broke the lamp on the side table when the mattress came crashing down.  The dryer is a gas one and the delivery person will not hook it up--a liability, they say--and I am hoping he will show me what I need to do.  Simple, really, said the salesman.  I'll bet it is. . . for someone else.  I expect to blow the house up the first time I put a load of laundry in it.  But as I say, I must pick up everything that I have thrown down for the last two weeks since Q was here before the wrecking crew arrives.  It looks foreboding.

While I'm whining, my knee is killing me and I know that I will have to reschedule surgery.  Everything is just swell.  As in big and painful.  But it is Friday and though there are a billion things to be done here at the homestead, I think about sitting around in my boxer shorts for a few days reading and watching television and eating and not bathing.  I am tired of trying to be creative, have been for awhile.  It has become a master and I its unwilling slave.  I become less and less capable of it.  I just want to sit and slobber.  Maybe I'll give video games a try after all.