Monkey's birthday was delightful. I didn't even mind getting up early to make cinnamon rolls for him to bring in to school to share with his buddies, because he's just so darn delighted by it, and it doesn't hurt that our intrepid Hippie School head teacher always tells me what a great baker I am. Yes, it's all totally selfless, when I do this. Pay no attention to my preening in the corner. (Hey, I take affirmations where I can get 'em, people.) I'd actually made the dough the night before, and done everything short of baking them and making the icing---the rolls were in the fridge proofing...
So hey, the weirdest thing happened. Remember back when we did that group fitness challenge thing three years ago and I lost weight and cleaned my house and generally became shiny and new? That was awesome. And I was skinny. And then time marched on and I stopped exercising and resumed eating everything I could cram into my mouth, and I am no longer shiny OR skinny, which really seems unfair. I mean, why shouldn't I be fit and trim even though I completely neglect to do anything that might make me so? IT'S UN-AMERICAN, THAT'S WHAT IT IS! It's also what I'm talking about over at Feel More...
We're three+ weeks out from the beginning of Zombiehandapalooza, and I can now definitively say that I am absolutely tired of this nonsense. Sure, sure, if it was a simple break, I'd still be a cast (probably poking pencils down in there to try to scratch it, because that's the sort of difficult patient I tend to be), but my understanding of this whole bionic being-screwed-back-together thing was that I would be FINE in record time. And while it's true that I can type again (hallelujah!), it's also true that 1) my left hand still has a chronic case of The Stupid and 2) it huuuuuuuuurts. That...
I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That'd be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It's not as flashy. [Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, "life-threatening hurricane" hadn't even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was...
In case I haven't mentioned it 72,000 times already, my hand is broken. I know, you haven't heard this before. It's totally new news! And so, complaining that my hand really really really REALLY hurts is also news. (Feel free to punch me in the face, now.) (Maybe it will distract me from the pain in my hand?) I have been a bit preoccupied with the pain in my hand, is my point. Because it hurts. DUH. Unfortunately, life still requires that I do tremendously demanding things like get dressed, take care of my kid, leave the house for appointments, and work. Harumph. At this point, anything with...
This is not a post I wanted to write. I blog about many things, but I think I have yet to blog about this particular thing. And yet, here we are. Let us briefly retrace my medical steps of the last week. On Sunday night, I broke my stupid hand on a stupid apple. I then spent many hours in the emergency room with my long-suffering husband, and when we left we had a prescription for a heavy-duty narcotic (Narcotic 1). I had told the ER staff that I don't do well with narcotics; in fact, most of them make me throw up. So when I mentioned this, they threw in a prescription for an anti-nausea med...
I neglected to tell you that the night we went to the ER, Otto and I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, really, what can you do? "How did you hurt your hand, ma'am?" "I was making apple crisp." The questioner would do a double-take, and then we'd burst out into fresh giggles. Also Otto kept me entertained while we waited with great suggestions like, "Sooo... wanna play Rock, Paper, Scissors?" (We later decided to change it to Rock, Paper, Scissors, Crisp, but then deemed it too dangerous to play. Cue further giggling.) Eventually they wrapped me up and sent me home with an orthopedist referral....
Left to my own devices, I don't often find it hard to write. My head is always full of STUFF---some of it important, plenty not---and the STUFF gets tangled up with pesky FEELINGS and then there is something about the act of extracting those things from my skull and committing them to letters and punctuation and letting other people see it that helps me make sense of things. It helps me to make sense of ME. That's inherently selfish, and I know it. Then again, a lot of things are. I'm not convinced the way I'm compelled to write is any worse than anything else, but I know this about it. I do...
I don't really know how interesting this is going to be for 95% of you, but someone asked me to write about it and after some consideration, I decided I would for two reasons: 1) A long-time reader asked, and I like her, and I'm a giver like that and 2) maybe even if this doesn't apply to you and never applies to you, it is somehow informative to have some idea of how this goes, even if only just as a bit of an eye-opener about how health care works in this country right now. So if you've been reading along here for a while, you already know that my daughter is now in her fourth month of...
