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Chowing down at Ken's

Ron had a physical several weeks ago and was given a piece of paper to submit to a lab for a blood test.  We went together yesterday, with plans for him to have blood drawn and for us to then go pig out at Ken's Pancake House.  He gets up at 3:30 a.m. to work, so to stay awake, he drank a cup of coffee.  The rules said that was OK.  BLACK coffee.  Unfortunately, he added creamer.  Even non-dairy creamer, they say, will screw up the results.  So, they turned him away to try again another day.  Not drinking any beer at all after 8:00 p.m. was so hard for him this time that I don't know when I'll get him to do it again any time soon.  Plus, I think he's worried about the cholesterol results, figuring he will be forced to give up his woeful eating habits.  So, in his mind, no results means no problem.  I'll keep on it.  It's gotta be done.

We ate at Ken's anyway, a place that's always pretty OK and from which nobody ever leaves hungry.  It was the first time we've eaten out in ages and the first time we've found a parking spot at Ken's on our first pass through the parking lot.  Times are lean.

My poor Hoppsy had been limping and gimping around a lot lately.  Poor baby.  I'm pretty sure it's just arthritis, and the vet suggested that as much last visit, but we'll return for an official diagnosis tomorrow anyway.  I don't want to be treating for chronic arthritis and walking her ever day if she's actually injured in some way.  So we'll whip out the old credit card and make sure.

I went to the gym late yesterday afternoon.  There were people there, which is unusual and a bit irritating, since most of time I have the place to myself.  I've come to think of it as my own private fitness center.  So there I am on the stair stepper, with a woman on my left and a man on might right, also trudging away to some tunes tunneling through wires from iPods to their earbuds.  I am sweating like the proverbial pig.  It's dripping off my nose and into my eyes.  The skin on my arms and legs are beading like freshly waxed car fenders in the rain.  I glance left, then right.  No sweat.  A little glistening, maybe, but no dripping, no pouring, no gushing.  Maybe I was working harder, at a higher level on the machine?  I had been on the thing longer than either of them.  Still, I think I'm just a sweater.  Not a cable knit sweater, or marino wool, but a sweater, the verb, not the noun.  Sheesh!  

Gotta get to work.  I've decided that my most recently written story will read better in the first person than third and since I've written the whole thing in third, it will take some time to revise.  Gotta go.  Hele on.  Wiki wiki. Chop chop. 

A hui hou.  Aloha!




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