Soooo, Friday morning found me in the offices of the superhero disguised as a Mild-Mannered And Slightly Overpriced Bone Fixer Expert. I was told upon leaving the hospital after my surgery that he'd be slapping a walking cast on me when he next saw me. You can imagine, dear Muffinasses, that I was pretty damned jazzed to be eyeballing him on Friday last.
I got there, the very kind nurse with the very shocky blonde 'do unwrapped my brace, and the doc looked at it, saying something akin to, "Very nice. Verrrry niiiiice," before telling Punknurse to rip out some stitches and slap a cast on that thing.
"YAY, WALKING CAST!" says I, very exuberantly.
"Nay," said the Boneman (and I am paraphrasing here, surely you must know that), "Nay, for whilst thou art healing in one fine manner, thou artst not ready to gad about quite yet."
I was crestfallen, because after that he explained to me how he was putting on a regular cast and I was still expected to keep all weight off of it and keep it elevated. We then spoke further about future action, to include putting the aforepromised walking cast on roundabout June thirteenth. Then we talked a bit about what would be up once that cast comes off (four weeks, as I am a good healer, and he now sees that).
I got sort of a sense of dread as he spoke because, fellas, it had never even occurred to me that I might not have full function of my foot and ankle when this is all said and done. Never. Even. Occurred. I guess Boneman discussed it briefly with Maxim while I was still knocked out, but Maxim has either not found the appropriate time to discuss it with me or did not find the discussion necessary. (He spoke with finality when I asked him about it: "It's just not going to be an issue, Jett." followed by a slight shrug. Sometimes he just Knows Things and they turn out to be true.)
So the Boneman left the room and I got to more closely inspect the incisions that the surgery fairy left under my brace. The one on the inside of my ankle runs at a diagonal and is about three inches long. The one on the outside of my ankle is vertical and runs up the lower portion of my leg rougly five inches. Honestly (and I fully realize the stupidity of this, folks, so bear with a girl for a minute), the notion of these scars remaining loudly visible bothers me more than the notion of having a slight limp forever and ever amen.
I didn't have long to ponder such things, though, as Punknurse clipped off the top of the outside stitch and began pulling at the bottom of it. I thought, "Oh, slipstitches, like on dogfood bags!" but alas, it was not so. It turned out to be one long, woven stitch (??!) instead of sutures; in other words, something I'd never fucking heard of and questioned the logic behind. I didn't have to question long, though, because the feeling of that nylon thread slipping serpentine through my viable, bruised tissue was a nasty one indeed and I'd not be exaggerating at all to tell you that it made my bowels, stomach and all fashionably coordinating innards hitch up and want to turn inside out. In laymanspeak, it felt hella, hella gahhh-rossss. And I! Am not! SQUEAMISHLIKETHAT!
I got rolled into the Casting Room (where I can assure you that no casting couch sat, only bunches of gluey rolled fiberglass and various shiny, somewhat sinister looking apparatuses [apperati?]), hopped one-leg style --in the fashion I've become so adept at-- up onto the table and smiled expectantly at Punknurse. It was then that she pulled out this stainless steel contraption and burst my proverbial bubble.
The stainless steel contraption was shaped like an inverted 'L', with the foot of the L being only about an inch wide (in other words, No Fucking Help Atall) and the spine of it two inches square.
"I need you to place your foot here," said my caregiver, indicating the teeny one-by-eight slip of metal, "and push your heel down firmly. We need your foot at a ninety degree angle to your leg."
My tendons! my brain hollered. My tendons are not all sproingy like good tendons should be! Yes, there was to be some pain involved. No, I am not a fan of the type of pain involved. Neither am I scared of it or unable to handle it. I just choose to avoid it when at all possible.
"Okay," I told her, "here's how we'll do this. I heard that other gal tell you that the fella across the hall needs his cast whacked off. It doesn't take very long to do that, while casting does. You go on in there and saw around on him some and while you're gone I'll work this foot slowly and limber up all the necessary parts a little."
She found me brilliant. I found her to be of superior judgement. We temporarily parted ways, merry in our individual pursuits. With an assistant's help, I began flexing the tightly-wound tendons and ligaments and chose elephant grey for my cast.
When Punknurse returned, she clapped her hands together Miyagi-style and got started adjusting me to her liking. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and it made me nauseous, but she went slow (ignoring remarks like, "Punknurse, you are NOT my friend.") so as not to cause me any undue hurt. We got things all set up and just as she was lifting the first sticky roll of cast material, Boneman strolled through the door and made some remark along the lines of "Oh MY, that will never do!"
It turns out that his version of ninety-degree angle was wildly different than mine and Punknurse's.
With no pomp, circumstance, or forewarning, Boneman placed his meaty orthopaedist's paw on top of my knee and leaned into the situation. I immediately laid hands on bolts of stomach-roiling pain and the kind of tears that get there before you even know you're crying sprung up. I sobbed as quietly as possible and tried not to sick all over the back of Boneman's head. Although, were a hammer nearby, I would've deposited it into his cranium without remorse.
I do not cry in public. I have a high pain threshold. That's how bad it was, you folks. I would have liked some warning, but maybe warning people has not worked well for him in the past.
I sat there burbling with the pain and all that careened wildly around my head was that my newly-tacked tendons were going to pop free. I could just hear the sound of them in my head: the springy, high-pitched whipping sound of steel bridge cables snapping.
I survived, had one day of bitter disappointment and frustration at my inability to get up and locomote at my leisure as planned, got over it. Despite doctor's orders, I've been going out. However, it's in my wheelchair and I vigorously wheel myself around the block. I slept in my own bed on Friday night, and ate in the dining room with the fam on Saturday. This morning I woke up, crawled on hands and knees around the bed and stripped the sheets. It took me nearly an hour, but I got that fucker remade to perfection. Tomorrow I will get my art desk in order (I'd started putting my studio back together before the accident) and will have a go at some glue and paint and fabric and the like.
Via Instapundit, I saw this item about a poor 19-year-old who was murdered along with his older sister by her ex-boyfriend. His final entry placed the killer at the scene.
Freaky, freaky stuff. Check out the Comments from friends expressing their sympathies to this dead boy.
(Whoops! This was supposed to go on Dirkworld. My bad.)
No pain meds for a couple of days, woo! Kind of throbby today, but pretty unwilling to compromise. Besides, the vicodin sucks ass. It's unpredictable; sometimes it makes me drowsy, sometimes it wires me up, sometimes from out of nowhere it makes me itch like the devil. Pardon my ignorance, but I kind of thought the whole major accident/injury thing merits 'THE MAN' allowing you to choose your own meds. I would have liked to pony up to the pharmaceutical bar and hollered, "MEPPERGAN, MY GOOD MAN, AND MAKE IT A DOUBLE! LET'S GET OUR SWERVE ON, AR-AR!"
Tractor Drivin' Man called me at the end of last week. I picked up the phone, someone with a kind voice began to inquire as to my well-being, and after a couple of minutes I still wasn't placing him, so I was like, "Wait, who is this?"
He told me his name and I began to cry, because even though I'd been told he was perfectly alright, I guess somewhere inside of me I was tenative and falling-apart emotional where he was concerned. We spoke for a long, long time, and several interesting things came from that conversation.
Come to find out, he was a foster kid, and he was adopted by his fosters at a very young age. So here I found myself on the phone with the guy whose tractor I've somehow demolished even though it was supposed to be bigger and more solid than my own chariot and he's telling me how much he appreciates what it is I do. It was a powerful, powerful thing.
Also, he told me of how it was that he was not even thrown from that damn machine; the bigger tractor (read: more deadly to me and mine) that he'd really needed to use that day was being 'looked at' by his brother-in-law and was having some minor repair.
"Crazy thing," he told me, "I've never had one lick of trouble out of that piece of machinery 'til that mornin'."
So he got out the smaller tractor (which, in my mind's eye, still looks pretty fucking big, if you ask me) and started to put it into service when he noticed a problem with the seat. He fiddled and futzed with the seat and gave it a quick fix, as he was already late starting his day. The manner in which he had to put it on caused it to squarely catch his pants to it, a fact he was unaware of until he was not thrown clear of the tractor when I hit it.
I'll pause while you all say "Holy God, man!"
There were a lot of factors in this wreck that make it miraculous that I still sit here and no one else atall was harmed, but my leg and foot are intent on screaming now and that wears me out quickly.
I'll close telling you that I experienced a setback in attitude, and also a tiny episode of screaming frustration, when the insurance man told Mazim yesterday that they may not cover what little (little, hell, five-kay is a LOT to us) medical that they would have otherwise. This 'maybe wrench' is thrown into the works because I happened to be in the course of a work-related activities while driving my vehicle. Fucking leechtastic asspuddles (but I will save the rant about working our asses off and STILL not being able to afford eight-hundred dollars a month for health insurance)!
But, I touch back on the facts from the paragraph before last and I remember to whack all that nonsense back into perspective. At a time when my ex has decided (you all haven't heard this gory, sordid tale yet) that he will become a neglectful father, Maxim could be turning over custody of Sam and Scout to him while trying to find funds to have my remains torched. I still feel lucky and I still feel touched (even if it is in the head).
I'm a warrior, baby, and I remain in the fight. Smail some-a dat.
It's fucking ridiculous, how excited I get over 'shower days'. I'm like a junior high school girl, mooning over her first dance.
I think about the shower all day; no matter what I do to distract myself, my thoughts return to it over and over. I plot exactly the order in which I will do everything:
"Shave, moisturize, wash hair, slap on conditioner...No! Shave, scrub and exfoliate, moisturize, wash hair, slap on conditioner, generally luxuriate under the spray, mmmmm...."
I elaborately plan exactly which products I will use, and when, and in what manner. I start all this nonsense at ten ay emm and keep it up until Maxim comes home --his poor little exhausted caring-for-me self-- and I expose my hair-sprouting pits by raising my arms in victory while crying "SHOWWWWWERRRR DAY-AYYYYYY! YEAH!" with a great deal of very genuine enthusiasm.
Holy hell, I sure can't wait to return to daily, full, wonderfully delicious showers or baths. I'm sick with that shit.
This morning, as my spouse was looking frantically for his keys in that 'inna-bout-two-minutes-Ima-be-late" fashion, he yanked up the corner of a pillow that rested on the wicker trunk at the end of the sofa.
Unfortunately, he was so flustered and hurried that he neglected to see/realize that the pillow corner he was yanking three feet upward in a rapid fashion was indeed the end of the BODY PILLOW that my LOVING MOMMA bought for my PERHAPS COMFORT while she was here. Likewise, he did not see/realize that I was indeedly-doo RESTING MY (pitifully smasharooed and painstakingly put back together) LAIG on it at the time.
I howled, his butthole sucked up to his chin (and was visibly reflected in his eyes, I swear) and he froze with a sick look on his face. I said three things in rapid fashion.
"I HATE YOU!" (snarling, through sobs)
"Why did you doooo that?" (whiny, plaintive, now the sobs are hiccuppy, like a little kid)
"GET. OUT." (still crying, but voice tinged with that echoey, Satan-y feel)
I've never, ever --not in our seven years of marriage, not in our eleven years of knowing one another-- told my spouse that I hated him. Not once. I felt like about five-feet-ten inches worth of Grade-Ay Prime Asshole. I know he didn't do it on purpose. I know his scope of vision at the time was concentrated on the twelve-inch area he was exploring, and that was it. Maxim is one of the most tender people I have ever known, and I'm the last person on the planet that he'd ever hurt intentionally. So after I heard the door click softly, after I watched him pull out of the drive and down the street, I let go a flood of blubbery emotion.
Frustration. Physical hurt. Boredom. Feeling trapped. Uselessness. Drug hangovers.
The end result was me wailing like a baby for about thirty minutes before sense and reason took hold, saying gruffly and no-nonsensically, "GUH. Get yourself together, whinebag.
"And don't forget to take a pain pill."
pee ess...teevee got to the point of making me want to vomit about three and a half days ago. HOWEVER! Twilight Zone marathon today, and thank you JESUS, MARY, AND ALL THE SAINTS THAT INFLUENCE SUCH DELIGHTS! woo!
pee-pee (snicker) ess...don't forget to enter the Piggly Wiggly tee contest in honor of my friend waistdog! It closes around five pee emm, my time and not yourn, tomorrow.
I, for one, welcome our cybernetic Beth overlords.
I mean, how many evil robo-organic killing machines do you know of that can make such nice little cigar-box purses?
She says she got a metal plate put in her foot, but I know the truth.
It's just a start. Her program's active. We're all about due to face the fist. What fist? Why, the mighty metal fisty rage of Beth's metal fist. That's the one. And it'll probably smell like flowers.
If you think this is funny, go ask that tractor who's laughing.
That's what they want you to think.
You can tell just from her name: Beth. It really means "Bionic Evil Tractor Hater."
B.E.T.H.
Wait 'till she starts speaking in a German accent.
In honor of my friend Rick (some of you knew him as 'waistdog'), his awesome sense of humor, his love of silliness, his fondness for his OWN shirt and because my memories of him are nearly all cheeky and funny, I'm giving away a PIGGLY WIGGLY TEE-SHIRT!
Waisty would not love the fact that I am in pain and my cute little Saturncar got smooshed all to hell, but I guarandamntee you that he's hooting and hollering over the fact that I smacked a tractor, for godsakes.
What to do: e-mail me at JettSuperior[the at symbol goes here]gmail[the dot goes here]com with 'SHIRT' in the subject line. Then tell me something, anything. It can be funny, it can be sad, it can be a secret. I'll take entries until this Saturday, then I'll throw all your names into a hat and one of the Superior heatherns will draw! out! a! winnah!
UPDATE: This is for everyone, not just those of you that knew Rick. And if you have a moment to spare on your own blog, pass the word: THEY'S FREENESS AT JETT'S!
I've been camped out on the couch since this whole brouha started (a weeeeek now, can you believe that?), as our bedroom is recessed and also bilevel. Lots of steppin' at this point is a no-go.
My upper body and left leg are wicked sore from the oft-repeated series of moves that it takes me to heave myself from the cushions and into the wheelchair. I only ask for assistance when I am way beyond fatigued or in such pain that moving myself might cause me to slip and fall. I am a stubborn cuss; that coupled with the knowledge that momma and daddy have to leave tomorrow and I'll have to do it on my own for eight hours a day while the kids are at school makes me determined to come up with solutions to obstacles.
This morning when I awoke and had to go pee, there sat my daddy on the loveseat, already working on the morning's coffee and talknews fare. Knowing that I really, really need to give certain muscles a day's rest so that they will be effective later, I set about getting off the sofa and into the wheelchair in a new fashion. Dad has been encouraging my gaining independence throughout this whole process, sort of in a quiet observer (SO out of character for him!) fashion.
So he watched out of the corner of his eye this morning, sipping his coffee, as I scooched hurriedly to one end of the sofa (GOTTA PEEEEE!) and quickly assessed the facts and trajectories and the basic physics of it all. Then, carefully, I maneuvered myself so that I was on hands and knees, face toward the back of the couch, ass-end toward the wide bank of windows facing the street. I then put my left foot to the floor and raised myself to a standing position. I let out a victory cry, and as I lowered my butt into the wheelchair's seat, observed my dad laughing so hard that he shook and tears rolled down his face.
"ATTA WAY TO DO IT, GIRL! MOM, COME SEE HOW CLEVER YOUR DAUGHTER IS!"
This afternoon Maxim helped me down three steps and into the tiny slip of a bathroom at the back of the house. The showers in the middle and upstairs baths are not working to capacity yet; that's one of the renovations we'd decided to take on bit by bit. Who knew, right?
So, through careful machinations and a few inches at a time, I made it back there and onto a shower stool left behind by last year's deceased grandmother (I will never again curse my mom-in-law's failure to get rid of things in a timely manner). For twenty minutes I was in heaven, scrubbing my scalp and shaving my pits and --let's all chant along-- looFAH! looFAH! looFAH! I felt pukey from the exertion afterward, but more human and well-put-together overall. The girls, inspired, painted my toenails a lovely shade of summer peach afterward.
This evening, listening to the sounds of three generations of Superior laughing and loving and enjoying one another float up to me from the wide expanse of dining room, I sat and thanked God. I thanked Him for my life, for all you people He has gifted me with, I thanked Him for quiet moments of happiness even amidst pain.
The realization that I am still here --still really and truly here, in this brutish, wonderful world-- hit me for the first time since the accident happened, and I thanked Him with such gratitude and relief that before I knew it I was openly weeping and confessing aloud how very blessed a person I am.
This post had ambitions of being corresponding top five positives and top five negatives lists. Now, though, since I've gotten up, gotten in the wheelchair, maneuvered across the room, arranged the leg on pillows in a rolly chair, logged on, checked my e-mail and logged into Blogger....well, this post has lost its ambition.
My mother and father are presently watching Regis and Kelly. Help me Jesus! Two weeks of forced immobility, drugs and television will relieve me of all intellect, I'm sure of it.
It must be said, however, that swiping a washcloth over your dirty ass, along with some honey-scented soap, makes you feel almost human after five days of not being able to bathe.
It's all about the small blessings. Must go vomit now.
Skillzy again. I got a call from Mister Maxim a little while ago, Jett told him to tell me to tell y'all that she made it through surgery without any problems. They've put a plate in her ankle, and they've reattached all the stuff that got detached in the accident. She's spending tonight in the hospital, and going home tomorrow.
Keep praying, next update whenever I hear from her (or she posts on here).
Oh, one more thing:
Currently this is linked to my Amazon account and I'll forward the donations, hopefully once Jett is up and around she can make one that goes straight to her. Give till it hurts!
Made the mistake of not waking intentionally and taking pain meds last night; now the leg and ankle are screaming fire. Maxim didn't wake me because I seemed to be resting soundly and I'd slept so poorly night before last. Basically, I am just killing time and distracting myself (the pain is the kind that makes you vomitty) so as not to sick all over the place.
We leave in thirty minutes so as to be in Huntsville by seven ay emm. There they will put me under and make me hurt some more so as to make me all better.
Specifics: I came over a hill and hit a tractor (ohhhh, the irony and humor in THAT! I will make light of it later; I don't have the energy or focus to right now). My fifty-five should have trumped his twenty or so, but it didn't. I'm glad it didn't, because the paramedics told my husband I kept asking "Did I kill him? Did I kill that man on the tractor??" and weeping bitterly after each query. Apparently he was indeed more than fine, and back out working in his chicken houses that afternoon, while I lay screaming, having my shit put somewhat back into place.
(I'm not being all bitter, even though it sounds like it)
I knocked the whole left wheel well off of that tractor --swerving, don'tcha know-- and impressed the two truck drivers, six paramedics, three passersby, two county deputies and one state trooper on the scene: "Why boys, I don't reckon I've ever seen such." and the rest concurred: They hadn't, either. At that point I was calm and lucid enough to raise my arms in v-for-victory and managed a weak, "woo! go big or go home!"
I know those fellas thought I was touched in the head, because I kept trying to make conversation to distract myself from everything and I kept getting uncomfortable (?) looks.
I have all the tendons ripped from the interior side of my ankle/foot, so those will have to be tacked back on today. My ankle was severely dislocated; they took care of that in the ER. My distal fibula (lower end of the smallest leg bone) is broken clean through and jammed sort of in and down. This will be corrected surgically as well. My orthopedist is a prince and very kind; I'm thankful that I was relegated to his care. My family is amazing in their tenderness toward me and willingnew to help.
Maxim and I don't have health insurance, and I will be out of work for at least a month, probably more. I won't lie and say I am not worried, but I am fully trusting in God to help us in the gap, because that's what he does when you are doing the very best you're able. Our auto policy will cover about 5K worth of med stuff, so I imagine that will be sucked up by ten ay emm today. :o)
If any of you wants to contact me and have the digits, feel free. My momma and daddy are here looking after the kids and will be fielding calls. Or, you could call my mobile and I'll get back to you when I'm sufficiently conscious. My doped-up ramblings may prove amusing to you.
I don't know when I'll be up to posting again, as this exercise has literally exhausted me. I ache everywhere still, and I have bruises as big as Texas on my arms and chest. What makes me laugh is the little tiny sandpaper of a scrape just below my chin. Skillzy will keep you posted (see entry below).
I am alive, and so, so glad to be, no matter the hurt at present. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.
Hi, Skillzy here. I know y'all aren't used to me being serious around here, but I am today. I just got off the phone with Jett a few minutes ago, and I could tell when I picked up the phone that she didn't sound right. You know all those trials and tribulations she listed a couple of posts down? Well, there was another one yesterday.
She asked me to tell you guys that she won't be posting for a while, and to pray for her. She was in an accident yesterday, luckily no one was critically injured, but her leg is messed up, and now she has no car, and she's having surgery on her leg tomorrow.
She promised to keep me updated, and I'll update you as soon as I hear anything. Does someone have the link to her birthday wish list? If so, put it in the comments so that people can send get well gifts. HOWEVER, save your pennies, cause what she's really gonna need is cash money. If any of you can help me set up some way to pass the hat, please get in touch with me, so we can do that.
Leave your good karma in the comments section, or send her an e-mail (jettsuperior-at-gmail.com). If you'd like to get ahold of me, mail me at (skillzy-at-gmail.com). That's all for now.
Not big on memes or pre-scripted sorts of things, but this one had character, so bang on!
1) My uncle once: rode over two state lines with me in order to teach me how to drive a stick shift.
2) Never in my life: have I bungee jumped. No way, nuh-UH, bullshit on that noise.
3) When I was five: I used to sing 'Dixie' every single morning at my snotty little elitist-bastard preparatory kindergarten. I loved that place, for real.
4) High School was: an interesting social experiment. And the place where I was the best heroine and villian I could possibly be.
5) I will never forget: the first time a man struck me in anger.
6) I once met: (not a name-dropper)
7) There’s this girl I know who: I woulda married had she been a man. Plus, there is this other girl who would rather give you her whole bag of chips rather than allow you to pluck one from the bag.
8 ) Once, at a bar: I ended up dancing all night with this Jarhead grunt instead of a cute flyboy that was trying like hell to charm my ankle socks off, because the Marine bribed this other little guy to run interference (a.k.a., the 'cockblock') on the two of us and distract ole boy long enough for the mighty leatherneck to birddog the situation. This, for those of you unfamiliar to USMC ways, is an illustration of the phrase "ADAPT AND OVERCOME, OORAH!"
9) By noon I’m usually: dealing with my third or fourth family of the day. The type of family depends on the day of the week. All my paper-crazies are stacked up like cordwood on Mondays, so never call me on a Monday unless you want to be 'dealt with'.
10) Last night: some interesting things happened. There is a post about that coming later on down the line.
11) If I only had: more money than sense, honeychile.
12) Next time I go to church: I will feel welcome and loved. Our church is great, and I fully mean that in the Tony the Tiger sense of the word.
13) Terry Schiavo: fucking ay. And bee, and cee, all the way through eff. That whole mess reminded me to reiterate to my family, even my children this time, to unplug me after twenty-one days, donate any relevant tissues and/or organs, cremate me and throw one fuck of a party where everyone laughs and talks about all the fun we had hootin' and hollerin'.
14) What worries me most: is the thought of one of my children disappearing or being hurt.
15) When I turn my head left, I see: a broad expanse of living room wall.
16) When I turn my head right, I see: a big-ass living room! Tiiiiiiight.
17) You know I’m lying when: I say I can tolerate ill-bred assholes.
18) What I miss most about the eighties: ballet flats, baby. I lurrrrrved me some fucking ballet flats.
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be: Cassandra: Prophetess, Princess, Cursed.
20) By this time next year: I would like eight hours of sleep per night. And an option for afternoon naps at my leisure.
21) A better name for me would be: Misguided Potential.
22) I have a hard time understanding: why people sometimes refuse to just shape the fuck up morally/emotionally/spiritually.
23) If I ever go back to school I’ll: be in a big danged hurry to finish up.
24) You know I like you if: I encourage you to actively do that breathing thing.
25) If I won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: cliche and played, but my momma. Mad props to the mother unit.
26) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: Mozart, Slim Pickens and I would fully throw down. There will be no Darwin nor any Geraldine Ferraro at my party. I got no love for backsliders or feminists.
27) Take my advice, never: point to your chin when your mother politely but firmly threatens to 'slap the piss out of you, Elizabeth.' Don't even try to cowboy up on this one. Just tuck that tail and humbly say, "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry for my smarty-pants behavior, mother."
28) My ideal breakfast is: turkey and fresh spinach on wheat, light mayo, BIG-ASS MOUNTAIN DEW to get the gears crankin'.
29) A song I love, but do not have is: 'Cry, Little Sister'
30) If you visit my hometown, I suggest: you abandon all mulitsyllabic, ethnic-sounding names. Become a Buchanan or McClendon or Lancaster or Alexander.
31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: I hate impressionistic, stream-of-consciousness bullshit masquerading as a 'question'. Fuck that. If I wanted psychotherapy, I'd go on my own, and then only because I wanted a prescription for Klonopin. Biznatch.
32) Why won’t people: SEND ME ALL THE SPARE CHANGE IN THEIR CARS??
33) If you spend the night at my house: you will have the poofiest blankies and most crisp linens ever. However, I would likely forget to score you a pillow, because I travel with mine and selfishly assume that everyone else does, as well.
34) I’d stop my wedding for: ...good, if the groom had been shtupping a bridesmaid in the recent (read: engaged) past.
35) The world could do without: Fred Durst. Would somebody shut that asshole up, already? And tell him to stop touching women. I fear the repercussions of him being able to procreate.
36) I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: if you crackheads think I'd ever in a million years lick the belly of a cockaderoacha, you need to step back and bring the chalkboard into focus before the exam bell rings.
37) My favorite blonde is: soft ash with honey-gold overtones.
38) Paper clips are more useful than: electroshock.
39) If I do anything well, it’s: making pretty babies.
40) And by the way: Lisbon is Portugal's capital city, and someday I hope to get good and sloppy drunk there. In whose company remains to be seen.
That's a quote from one of my favorite movies. It is not one of my favorite movies because it has an exceptional story line, but rather because of the following:
1) Andy Garcia (of whom I am not typically a fan) (although sources say he is indeed a fan of yours truly) is so godblessed slick in that movie, so very textured and touchable and as close a thing to real as you will ever see onscreen, that it matters not a whit to movie purists that the plot is goofy and not in that sexy way all the kids like. He overwhelms the "HOLY HELL, WHAT A PERFORMANCE!" buttons; they get stuck on WOO!, or something akin to it. 'Slicker'n jizz on a whore's gold tooth' (see Rob? I told you I'd use it one day...risk-taking is my forte!) about sums it up.
2) There are characters named things like 'Critical Bill'. CRITICAL BILL, OH YEAH! Critical Bill sounds something not unlike the names of certain characters that, alas, did not spring out of my head, but someone's actual loins and have peppered my life with some interesting tidbits. Read the archives if you don't believe me, suckah.
3) Christopher Walken. Any movie containing him, a reference to him or someone speaking his name automatically gets a free pass. Christopher Walken is the cheese and we are the helplessly-drawn mice.
4) The very inspired scene in which, All Chivalried Up And Noone To Duel With At Dawn, Andy's character walks into a boardroom meeting and begins to rather aggressively re-seat the tie that moments before hung languidly about a certain accountant's neckmeat. The part I like best about this particular scene is not so much the fact that he strolls into this meeting, greets the accountant with a quick, "Hi there" prior to cinching him up in his own tie and then lectures like a Baptist preacher after the prom while strangling Ye Olde Beancounter with his own off-the-rack couture; it's the fact that when one or more of the suits shakes off enough flabbergast to dial up security, security drags Andy out but Andy is crablegged to the accountant and fucking him up the entire way. I've always been incredibly moved (artistically and otherwise, hubba-hubba) by tenacity. Tenacity coupled with violence? Well, the only thing that could make a fella more perfect in my eyes would be the fact that he owned a winery.
Now that we have that out of our systems, on to more pressing matters. I call this segment of the post "Somethings. Or, some things." I'm warning you: There will be subheaders. Don't stub your toes on them, pretties.
(there are reasons for the whole not posting thing)
And there are, indeed. Read on for further details.
Scout: First surgery, minor or otherwise!
Why does this always happen during ball season? These injuries, I mean. She misses half the season, some piece or bit of her below the elbow region wrapped, splinted or sutured, preventing her from being the full-season hindcatcher she so longs to be. To answer any and all inquiries: Yes, she is fine. Yes, it was minor. Yes, we have no more bananas, we have no more bananas todaaaaaaay!
If you barf when I gush, then I'll stand back and by all means, proceed!
I got this referral while I was away. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it firmly. What makes me look at it and go, "Awwww!", however, is the links list. I'm seated there among some of my favorite reads, and some very finely-honed literary voices nutjobbers; I am in fabulous company! Any time I follow a link and find myself on the same lists as people I really, really admire from a pencil-pusher's standpoint, it makes me feel goofy and fuzzy and notatall able to be thankful enough that people see me in the same league as the others listed in the near proximity. I don't care if you people believe that. I am the dork and I declare it thus!
More proof the state views me as a fit parent
First foster kid is on the scene. One day, we're a happy family of five, plugging along merrily despite the trials and trevails (I so want to throw in the word 'trivet' somewhere here, but even *I* don't go that far) and soONsoFORTH that life wantonly flings at you. The next, it's "Here! Have a bouncing bundle of fifteen-year-old!" and you're off! Her name, for bloggy madness, will henceforward be Piper. Piper Superior....yes, that's nice. I didn't want to truly introduce her to you all until we were sure she was a fit. In the interest of confirmation, I humbly submit a tiny exchange:
JETT: While I was doing the trim in your room, I got a little bit of paint on your blue shirt.
PIPER: My favorite blue shirt? The favorite one?
JETT: That'd be about the scope of it.
PIPER: *goggles*
JETT: Hey, I told you to get your stuff out of the way so that I could finish up in there.
PIPER: Sure, blame the victim.
So yeah, 'fits' is an understatement. We are now an official six-pack, for three years, 60K miles, or whenever her parents get their act together. Whichever comes first, cats and kittens.
Jack Kerouac and good intentions
During the period that I would like to refer to as The Era Of The Impending Death Rattle (affectionately shortened to Whiner's Glee, if you so choose), I actually quit smoking. I felt like such shit that I didn't even think of things like coating a few alveoli with tar. Then, when I actually did kindasortamaybe think about it, I couldn't find the halfpack of Marbros that were lying about before The Onset of Certain Death, I'm So Very Sure Of It. I kind of shrugged and stopped caring.
It was more difficult for me to quit smoking than it was for me to kick hard drugs, no exaggeration. It was ridiculous, as I was only lighting five sticks or so a day, and that was on heavy days. But quit I did, friend, and as much I miss it, I'll stay quit.
See, when I was sicksosick, I couldn't breathe. It was scary as a motherfucker. When I could in fact breathe, my lungs were still so fucked up that they weren't getting/processing/doling out enough oxygen to my body and I felt constantly short of breath and tired. I felt like I was getting a picture of what, in thirty or forty or fifty years, I might feel like if I kept on smoking and rang in with a case of cancer or emphysema or Godknowswhat.
Hang with me as to how this ties in to not posting. Used to be, as I'd ploink out ideas and turns of phrase on my keyboard, I'd have delusions of granduer, fancying myself Kurt Vonnegut with the obligatory mouth-phallus jouncing up and down as the smoke and chemicals rousting up the cells in my body brought to life amazing words that were possessed of a certain reader-groping magic. Smoking was inexorably woven with the act of writing, which is so pleasurable to me that I could envision myself fully Sybian in nature: Just add keyboard and stir vigorously.
Therefore, blogging kicks up what little jones I do in fact have and turns it into a snarling, ravening beast. Damn the luck.
So I've been roughing up the old parchment with a nib of pencil and a hearty ferocity as of late. Back to my roots, as it were, and several good things are coming of it, or so I imagine. But that brings us to our next point.
Woe is me.
Also found was a very nice referral way back (and it's just showing up now? the fuck? wha?) from thispersonhere. Apparently, she had me linked at one point and I've since fallen from grace in her eyes. To her I say, prime your links list for my return, baby. I'm shoring up the content, stripping down walls, punishing the brutes, making a mad mockery of formally-trained 'writers' everywhere. They will cry to their mommas and you will re-link me, by all that is holy!
I always said that he could grow no more stupid. Eatin' them words, pally.
My ex-spouse, the inimitable Biff, met him a woman.
Now then, I've been praying --LITERALLY praying-- that he be sent someone to date, fool around with, get to paint his toenails, whate'er he does for jollies since my cutthroat departure from his intimate life several years ago.
So he meets this gal, introduces my kids to her after a mere two weeks (bells! whistles! me counseling him on wisdom and the kids' emotions and how he should utilize one to deal with the other!) and then proposes to her after three.
This once very attentive father (every weekend, once during the week) has dropped level of participation in their lives significantly (one weekend a month, and doing charming things like going to his future stepson's parent-teacher conference rather than picking Scout and Sam up on their usual Wednesday night). I am not bitter, but I'm a damn sight angry, because that silly motherfucker used to have to be beat off of our family time with a stick. Now he does nothing of quality with these children and can't even manage to at least phone them in (pitiful) lieu of regular visits. His kids are hurt and confused, and once again I'm the one scraping up the pieces of them in his wake.
Look, he shore were pretty, but I am growing a little too old to be able to use that as an acceptable excuse as to why I procreated with the pinhead.
How about, "He shore were pretty, and the military gave us free obstetrics." instead?
(actually, it cost us like twenty-four bucks to bring Sam home, and nineteen or thereabouts for Scout. but who's counting?)
Anyway, to sum it up: My ex-spouse, I divorced him for being a chickenshit bastard....which, coincidentally, is the same reason she's marrying him. Mazeltov, or sommat!
Here I am to tell you:
That no, just because someone might happen to send a get-well card with fuzzy kitties on it and write syrupy things about friendship and rainbows and ribbons and fluffy bunnies and lollipops, it does not lower his masculinity quotient.
The fact of the matter is, when that card is counter-balanced with the birthday copy of Napoleon Dynamite (we have all been yelling, "TINA! YOU FAT LARD!" for a fabulous month now) that will inspire someone to show said cardperson their breastesses in some as-yet undisclosed lack of future discretion, welllll, son.....I'd say that puts you a nose ahead in the tester-esterone departy-mentaaaay.
"For my sheets, they ain't a-chaaaaanginnnnn...."
(sung to the tune of you-know-which Bob Dylan joint)
Among other things and wishes, Skillzy sent me a Sex Bomb for the ole birthday. I finally got around to using it four days ago (sampling it for the first time, see), and I was so overwhelmed by the deliciousness of it that all day I kept sticking my forearm in people's faces saying utterly insipid things like, "SMELL THAT! Doesn't it make you want to LICK THAT ARM?? Bite it? SOMETHING?? mmmmMMMMMMmmmm." Plus (bonus!), when I later slipped between the flannel sheets with the ice-skating penguins on them that bore me up immediately after the Bath O' Magictm, I was drowning in the yumminess all over again. I'm not washing those penguin sheets until I can scrape up another order and effectively scent each successive linen set I stretch across the Queen's Poofy Box O' Sleepity Goodness.
Skillz, I'm a sucker for your love. And ylang-ylang. Lick my arm. Smell my sheets. Thank you for olfactory bliss. Your four-thirty plus shipping was wisely invested, sir.
There are big fat kudos. And a glass of milk.
They are all for the carton o' generosity that one anonymous somebody had Lush send out. Putting in a purple slip of paper signed only, "Happy Birthday, Asshat" was THE BEST EVER, I'll have you know! I laughed about that one for days; you must be a long-time reader. Please 'fess up, so that I can put you in line (near the front) for sexual favors should my very-loved current spouse fall into a hole somewhere.
One more excuse before I go:
My cousin Kerri was shot by her psycho ex-husband. I've been spending a lot of time corresponding with her, stoking up the coals of self-esteem that I see still timidly pulsing at her core. It is taking a lot out of me emotionally. Pray for her, please, if you're the praying sort.
Since I was asked...
No, I will not go to the spring formal with you. Or you, or even you.
Super Ninja Reflexes, kid.
