old (2008), Uncategorized

i can’t complain…

…but, wait, I totally CAN complain. It just so happens that I don’t particularly want to. Isn’t that a treat?

Loyal readers (yes, I have a few) might notice that I normally change my quotation and song late Saturday nights, and it hasn’t been done yet. It may not get done this week. In addition to fighting my cold and being woken up at 6:30am by three rather loud children (who also saw fit to turn every single light in my house on while making their collective racket — and bear in mind my apartment is a studio and I sleep in the middle of it…), while I was starting the shower I noticed I’d left my towel on my pillow (a disadvantage of blue hair dye is that it sometimes stains my pillowcase, and also my tattoo is, uh, healing — aka shedding a bit — and so I needed protection from those extra colors…) and so I turned to go get it and, well, my knee didn’t exactly cooperate. In a split second I went from a sense of impending doom (uh-oh, isn’t my knee supposed to be moving, too, right now?) to the most intense pain I have ever felt in my entire life (and let me remind you that I spent eight hours pushing two children out of my body without any pain medication for half of that time) which left me hovering somewhere between semi-consciousness and a coma while sitting on the side of my bathtub.

After I caught my breath and saw fit to get into the shower (if I’m going to the doctor, it’s with clean underwear and a non-smelly coochie), I yelled to W. to bring me my towel and warned him I was going to the ER. The Philosopher was unreachable by phone (what else is new?) so I had W. run over to tell him to call me so he could get B. and I could go to the ER. And in the meantime, I had to text Sax Man, since HE was supposed to come over and help me properly hook up the new DVD player I was supposed to go buy at Target after my shower. Instead, the afternoon shaped up like this: he drove me to the ER, we sat in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called for my vitals (blood pressure: 109/67, pulse 56), I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called for my insurance information, I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called to get x-rays, I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted (while I tried — unsuccessfully — to use my BlackBerry to find what channel the game was on so he could change the waiting room TV to that channel), I was called to the examination room, and then in between getting diagnosed and getting my leg wrapped and learning how to use crutches and getting an anti-inflammatory shot in my arm (much to the chagrin of the nurse, who seemed insistent that my ass was a better place, but I was equally insistent that I wasn’t pulling my pants down for him) we texted snarky comments back and forth while, presumably, he watched the game. And then I hobbled out to the waiting room, we went to eat dinner, he dropped me off at home, I went to my meeting, I stopped by CVS to spend $50 I apparently needed to spend (who knew?) on makeup and facial cleansing supplies, and now I’m home blogging.

And so I can’t complain, really — after this whole thing, I’m not upset or agitated, ’cause whatcha gonna do? — but I do find it humorous that if wanted to complain, I’d certainly have reason. I have a zillion things planned for the week, and now I’ve got to do them all on crutches. I was quoted in an AP article today in which they spelled my name incorrectly. And: I’ve got PMS, cramps, a healing but still sore lip piercing, a healing but still yucky tattoo, a torn ligament in my leg, arms that ache from using crutches, a nasty cold, a sore arm from the shot, and a wicked cough. And I still don’t have a new DVD player, correctly-hooked-up sound for my TV, or a hot (preferably Italian or French) male nurse to bring me my ice packs for 15 minutes every hour for the next two days. Not that the last thing is a necessity, but I’m having such a crummy day that isn’t upsetting me much (thank you, sobriety!), I might as well invent some sort of disappointment for myself.