How to Master IKEA
The secret to an accessible, barrier-free, undisturbed, and shriek-free trip to IKEA is…. Tuesday evening. That’s the best time to go. I know this because Mr. Crabby and I went last night. I think we were in and out in twenty minutes (and $273 later). I’m pleased to say that I finally bought a Radmilla Jar for makin’ bacon.

How to Entertain Kittens
The secret to keeping kitties off the dining room table during dinner is to unfurl a new rug from IKEA onto the living room floor.

How to Make me Crabby
Mr. Crabby and I visited an attorney yesterday (pre-IKEA) to have our wills drawn up prior to my pending xyz surgical procedure. We’ve named the attorney Mumbly Joe, because I couldn’t understand a thing he said to me. By the end of our visit, I was certain that he thought I am idiot, because I asked him to repeat nearly everything he said. At times, I thought I’d heard him correctly so I answered those questions, only to be met with a quizzical gaze. “Where is your office located?” was one such question, to which I responded “Communications.” I think we’ll work by fax from here on in.

How to Make me Even Crabbier
Sugarmama, those ear plugs we were talking about don’t always work. No doubt to get even with me for having to drive to IKEA, his least favourite thing, Mr. Crabby snored me out of the bedroom last night. Then I found “For the Boys”, a great Bette Midler movie, on TV. I think I fell asleep close to four o’clock in the morning.

So, today’s tally is one rug-o’-my-dreams, a Radmilla Jar, new wine glasses, two wills, two puffy eyes, and one job interview. More on that later.

Will you take this table?
Mr. Crabby and I are visiting an attorney this evening to have our wills drawn up. Of course, everything will go to him should I kick off next week, but in the unlikely event that he precedes me… everything’s up for grabs. Let the bidding begin!

Seen and Heard: Today at The Hospital
In the lobby:
"Do you need some help dear?"
"Are you looking for something dear?"
"Do you need some directions, dear?"
"Do you need some help dear?"
I am directionally-challenged, but besides that, I think it's very dangerous to walk around with your eyes raised to the ceiling, looking for H Wing. My strategy? Stand there looking stewpid and no less than four people will help me.

In the pre-operative assessment waiting room:
"Fram-boys-ee. That stands for strawberry, honey. In French. They make wine from that."
Oh good grief. For non-bilingual readers, framboise (fram-bwazzz) is French for raspberry. If they make wine from "that", I don't want it.

In the assessment room, finally, one hour later:
"On the day of your surgery, leave all your jewellery at home, remove your nailpolish and don't wear any makeup."
The hell with that! No makeup and no nailpolish for one of the most significant moments of my life thus far? I've never been "under the knife" before. I was hoping to get nicely gussied up for xyz surgical procedure.

So, "should I die before I wake", sans makeup and jewellery and nailpolish, you must have a closed-casket funeral for me. I'm not leaving this face to some Mary Kay funeral home flunkie to guck up.

And about that, loyal readers will remember that my self-scribed obit is stashed in these archives somewhere.

As one final request, I would like to have a commemorative stamp established in my honour. I fancy the idea of people licking my backside after I'm gone.