"Wow! I've never seen someone do that before!"
"I"m flexible, I guess." Great, so that's great. You've never seen someone do that before. Can you just shoot the damned x-ray already so I can get my toe taped up and get out of here already?
"No really, where'd you learn to fan your toes out like that?"
"I swim a lot, and I guess it's given me flexible feet." Seriously, can we get on with this because while I might be good at holding my toes out in that pretty, perfect fan you've never seen before, I'm cramping up because of my big, fat, swollen toe. You know, the one that is purple on top and on bottom.
"Wow. The doctor is going to be so impressed with this x-ray."
"Cool."
"Most people can fan out their fingers, but you're the first one I've ever seen be able to do it with their toes in the 17 years I've been shooting films."
"Uh huh." Toes are still cramping here, press the damned button already.
"Can you do it with your other foot?"
"Yes. I can also spread my toes apart like I splay my fingers. Will that help you get these images done?" Oh shit, I said that out loud. I hope she doesn't want that because that's going to hurt like hell.
"No, but that is so cool! You can relax now and we'll walk back to your exam room."
Greatttttttt. Everyone likes walking on a cold tile floor barefoot with a big, fat, swollen, purple toe!
And the doctor didn't say a damned thing when he came into the room. I guess only the x-ray tech was impressed with my nimble toes. I want you all to be impressed though, so I'm sharing the picture here. Be very impressed. Possibly even jealous. Your call.
It's a hairline fracture. And the doctor didn't want to tape it today because it's all big, fat and swollen and would probably bug me more to have it taped than to have it loose. Also, he told me it'll hurt for several weeks, and then if it continues to hurt after that, I should just suck it up. Okay, so he didn't actually say suck it up. He actually said, verbatim "walk it off."
Then he offered up some vicodin, which I passed on. Some 800 mg Motrin is more than enough, thank you.
Been a fun day, really. Hope your Saturday had more adventure than mine.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Grrrrrrrrrrrr-reat!
I understand that every so often programs the Red Cross has been teaching need updated into the current century. I understand that the rollout of those updates doesn't always go smoothly. I understand that paper is expensive, and so is ink.
But helloooooooooooooooooooo?
Are you seriously telling me you couldn't have popped the 250 plus page instructor trainer guide I need into my email a week ago, instead of mailing it to me yesterday? Because you mailed it to me yesterday, on a CD, when I got home, I had to print it.
That shit takes forever, on an inkjet, going screeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, woosh, woosh, woosh, click, screeeeeeeee... You get what I'm saying.
And it's not like inkjet printed stuff is waterproof, is it?
Yeah, of course it's not.
So let's print the swim instructor manual at home, sure!
*mutters*
This is so not going to end well for my new manual, is all I'm saying. Just not at all.
I really don't think it would have killed the Red Cross to run it off on one of the kajillion laser printers they have, and then run it through the copy machine the way they always used to. Progress, in this case, is pissing me off.
Because it's inconvenient to me.
I don't think I'd be half as irritable about it all if I didn't have to teach the new program Monday. Which meant that today was my last day in the office before I spend a week in the field teaching. So last night at 1 am, when the printing finished, I was sticking those little post it note flags all over my newly minted instructor trainer guide so I'd know what to copy.
(I must say though, that I'm amazed I found the little post it flags, too, because the nieces love those things, and I can't blame 'em a bit. I must have hidden them well, is all I'm saying.)
I'm really hoping I managed to copy all the right stuff because I flipped back to the appendix and made a best guess.
Tomorrow when I try to put things into my brain, so I don't look like a fool teaching (I always look like a fool teaching, but usually a confident fool!) I'll figure out what I did or didn't get right, I guess.
Someone bring me a caramel latte, because I'm going to need it!
But helloooooooooooooooooooo?
Are you seriously telling me you couldn't have popped the 250 plus page instructor trainer guide I need into my email a week ago, instead of mailing it to me yesterday? Because you mailed it to me yesterday, on a CD, when I got home, I had to print it.
That shit takes forever, on an inkjet, going screeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeee, screeeeeeeeeeeee, click, woosh, woosh, woosh, click, screeeeeeeee... You get what I'm saying.
And it's not like inkjet printed stuff is waterproof, is it?
Yeah, of course it's not.
So let's print the swim instructor manual at home, sure!
*mutters*
This is so not going to end well for my new manual, is all I'm saying. Just not at all.
I really don't think it would have killed the Red Cross to run it off on one of the kajillion laser printers they have, and then run it through the copy machine the way they always used to. Progress, in this case, is pissing me off.
Because it's inconvenient to me.
I don't think I'd be half as irritable about it all if I didn't have to teach the new program Monday. Which meant that today was my last day in the office before I spend a week in the field teaching. So last night at 1 am, when the printing finished, I was sticking those little post it note flags all over my newly minted instructor trainer guide so I'd know what to copy.
(I must say though, that I'm amazed I found the little post it flags, too, because the nieces love those things, and I can't blame 'em a bit. I must have hidden them well, is all I'm saying.)
I'm really hoping I managed to copy all the right stuff because I flipped back to the appendix and made a best guess.
Tomorrow when I try to put things into my brain, so I don't look like a fool teaching (I always look like a fool teaching, but usually a confident fool!) I'll figure out what I did or didn't get right, I guess.
Someone bring me a caramel latte, because I'm going to need it!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dirt here, get yer dirt here!
I bought some dirt. Some lovely gardening soil, actually, but for all I know, it's dirt. It's always dirt. And it's never going to be anything other than dirt, unless I have to pay over fifty bucks a cubic yard for it, in which case it will be somebody else's dirt, because that's just not happening.
So I bought some dirt. It's got lovely organic matter mixed into it, according to the specifications. Not to be a ninny though, but I kind of thought you couldn't get much more organic than dirt to begin with. God made dirt and dirt don't hurt, so eat the weiner you dropped on the ground already.
Anyway, a humongo dump truck pulled up in front of the house yesterday, on a balmy spring afternoon where temperatures were rapidly climbing into the mid 80's. He honked. I went out and pointed the approximate goal for the dirt because everything is debatable when you have an entire dump truck ready to rumble across your lawn. What is it anyway, about great big trucks and little bitty drivers? Compensate much?
My friend Deb and her lovely Matteo were visiting, too, to get some chairs that match the table they have in either the house or the art bodega. And they also picked up a bunch of other stuff that will be repurposed, but was called "shit in the garage" as late as Monday afternoon. Seriously, the truck they borrowed looked like the home for orphan bowling balls, fabric remnants, and wrapping paper they really didn't want but got suckered into taking anyway.
When the truck honked, we'd been gorging on some gorgeous shrimp, crackers and cheese. Then it became a party when we all went out and watched the little bitty man back the big truck right up onto the lawn and dump the dirt. In our neighborhood, for no other reason than surplus bricks, we all have brick mailboxes. And every mailbox seems to line up with the driveway across the street from it. The neighbors also insist on parking their car, their work van, and the teenage son's girlfriend's car right at the end of our driveway too. Most days we're lucky to get into our own driveway.
I thought about it, for about a minute, when the driver was getting closer and closer to hitting the teenage son's car, as he kept doing his 3 point turns to get into the right spot on the grass, and then went and knocked on the door to ask the teenage son to move it. I'm very generous, I know. You should all be so lucky to live across the street from me.
Long story short, sevennnnnnnnnnnn yards of dirt were sitting in the front yard, on a serious spread of leaves, since the live oaks don't seem to know they're supposed to drop their leaves in the fall, not the spring. The driver pulled off. Matteo offered to shovel and I waved him off because he had a bathroom to finish back home at their bed and breakfast. And a lovely late morning turned into an afternoon of work.
It's cool though. Mom and I shoveled and wheeled, and got the garden beds all filled up. Then I ran the lines across them to create the "foot" sections of the square foot garden fame. We're sure to deviate from that crap in about a hot minute because rules don't mean much to us, but I thought I'd start us off at least attempting to follow directions. (That's kind of how I bake, too, now that I think about it, which explains the really flat, really yummy macaroons I made the other day.)
It was a good day.
And then we woke up and had to shovel more dirt. Damn dirt.
Today was the front yard, to try and give the oak trees back some dirt on the roots, and fill in the flower beds. Mom was working. I was working. We were working. And then she noticed the lawn crew up the street. And then she went inside, got some cash, walked down the street, and a half hour later had someone else working while we rested. Great work Mom. Seriously. You rock.
And now....
The garden beds....
(Shut up. I know there's nothing in them yet.)
Monday, March 9, 2009
My favorite thing to do!
In case you never noticed, Houston is a bigggggggggggggg freaking city. Sure, I find it a collection of small towns all crammed together, because there are at least two dozen cities within the city that I can name, but really, it covers a lot of real estate. Something like 6,000 square miles, given the suburbs that the middle class lives in. So yeah, driving around this town takes a whole lot of patience, and a good sense of direction.
And that's exactly what I didn't have today, when Chucklehead sent me haring off all over town to try and find a part for his refrigerator. Which led to me driving around trying to call people on phones that they were too busy to answer. F*cking a, answer the damned phone if you want me to go to some place you think is off of some street near some other street. Because those kind of directions are just going to piss me off.
So here's a list of things that piss me off faster than someone stealing my drink on a hot day:
1. Tell me to meet you somewhere you can't remember the name of
2. Make sure you don't know have the address of where you want me to go
3. Take the only copy of the directions, with the address on it, with you, and tell me to meet you there
4. Give me the wrong name of where I need to go, so that when I try to map it, I can't
5. Call me and ask me to do an errand, and that you'll call me back with directions.... and then never do.
Because I just looooooooooooooooove driving around this city randomly searching for something or someone to get you something from somewhere.
Traffic here sucks. Even when it's moving, it sucks. No, it does.
I love Houston, really, I do. I missed it the entire time I was gone. But the driving here is insane. I'm still not up to the proper aggressive level I need to maintain for driving here. It would help if the jeep would quit randomly, mysteriously stalling out, but since that isn't really going to happen any time soon, I would prefer not to run any errands for you without having proper effing directions!
And once I get all pissed off about any of those things above, it just continues until I'm finally back in my comfort zone, okay, so I do NOT appreciate you Mister Police Officer stopping in the middle lane of a 3 lane underpass to pull someone over in the right lane. At 4:30 in the afternoon. With the roads stacked with traffic and people trying to get home. Asshole. Could have let the SUV drive a sixteenth of a mile up the road to get out of the underpass and pulled her over on the side of the road, but that would have been too damned easy. Instead, you can put your little black cowboy hat on your head, straighten your little clip on tie, and then strut into traffic as you exit your car.
Yeah, driving around with crappy directions is my favorite thing to do....
And that's exactly what I didn't have today, when Chucklehead sent me haring off all over town to try and find a part for his refrigerator. Which led to me driving around trying to call people on phones that they were too busy to answer. F*cking a, answer the damned phone if you want me to go to some place you think is off of some street near some other street. Because those kind of directions are just going to piss me off.
So here's a list of things that piss me off faster than someone stealing my drink on a hot day:
1. Tell me to meet you somewhere you can't remember the name of
2. Make sure you don't know have the address of where you want me to go
3. Take the only copy of the directions, with the address on it, with you, and tell me to meet you there
4. Give me the wrong name of where I need to go, so that when I try to map it, I can't
5. Call me and ask me to do an errand, and that you'll call me back with directions.... and then never do.
Because I just looooooooooooooooove driving around this city randomly searching for something or someone to get you something from somewhere.
Traffic here sucks. Even when it's moving, it sucks. No, it does.
I love Houston, really, I do. I missed it the entire time I was gone. But the driving here is insane. I'm still not up to the proper aggressive level I need to maintain for driving here. It would help if the jeep would quit randomly, mysteriously stalling out, but since that isn't really going to happen any time soon, I would prefer not to run any errands for you without having proper effing directions!
And once I get all pissed off about any of those things above, it just continues until I'm finally back in my comfort zone, okay, so I do NOT appreciate you Mister Police Officer stopping in the middle lane of a 3 lane underpass to pull someone over in the right lane. At 4:30 in the afternoon. With the roads stacked with traffic and people trying to get home. Asshole. Could have let the SUV drive a sixteenth of a mile up the road to get out of the underpass and pulled her over on the side of the road, but that would have been too damned easy. Instead, you can put your little black cowboy hat on your head, straighten your little clip on tie, and then strut into traffic as you exit your car.
Yeah, driving around with crappy directions is my favorite thing to do....
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The garden, oh the garden....
So my friend OhioT, who hasn't been feeling well lately due to some spinal problems, usually
plants a garden. This summer it looks like that is out, unless some of you are going to be near
Cincinnati and have an afternoon to till a garden for me. (Seriously. Let me know. He's a good
man and needs a little help.) His lack of gardening turned into my half-assed, "we could put in
a garden" comment.
And then the party began.
Damn those half-assed comments anyway.
One of these days I'm going to realize that my glib remarks are getting me involved in things I
don't particularly feel like doing, simply because they seem easy enough at the time. You wanna go out and close down the bar with a dozen of your firefighter friends? Bring it on. (I can't even begin to tell you how hard it is to find a car wash that is open at 3 am, to get the puke off the jeep.) You think a family vacation to Disney with all of us in the same house will work out? OK. (That one pretty much did, because everyone stayed on eggshells.) And now, how much work can a container garden be?
Oh hell.
But no, really, I'm game. I can grow stuff. My house plants flourished and thrived until I went
to Iraq, and then they came here, where they had to learn to suck humidity out of the air if they
wanted to get watered at all. I did some research with OhioT, who had nothing but good stuff to
say about putting in a square foot garden. I found some construction plans I could work with,
and then I called Chucklehead, because he drives an Expedition and so he got to go to the Home Depot for me. I'm up for an adventure, but it seemed a hell of a lot easier to let him haul the lumber home than me trying to cram it into the jeep.
Anyway, pre shopping trip, we reconnoitered. We both agreed the plans I had for building the
raised beds looked sound, and easy enough. And made a shopping list. He went, he shopped, he
delivered. I really like that no-nonsense approach of his.
I measured off the boards, because some cuts were going to need to be made, and then couldn't find the circular saw on Friday. Dad was gone, and it's his saw, so I just waited until Saturday. Biggggggggggg mistake. Because that's when a 2 hour project that a blind amputee could have done turned into a circus.
Family, friends of family, and the 80 year old neighbor who lives across the street came by and got in on the action! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And Mom cooked bacon. She cooked bacon for hours. I dunno. I don't ask. It's just easier. But really, five pounds of bacon?! I called Chucklehead in a plea for help because that's when Dad, the friends, and the 80 year old neighbor, who will henceforth be called Squishy, talked about going to the hardware store. Apparently I wasn't doing that shit right. And they had a better idea of how to do it while inside, on the couch, watching some basketball.
The boxes are built. They're hanging out in the side yard, so we can make sure they get juuuuuust the right amount of sunlight before the gardening soil gets here and is shoveled in. And all those parts that were bought by the guys at Home Depot on Saturday are going right back to the store, because this chick knows what the hell she's doing. Squishy said if he ever needs anything done that he's going to call me, because it will be done right!
Now, if I can just survive getting the garden into the ground, without it turning into another circus. If it does though, I'm totally going inside and putting on a clown face.
plants a garden. This summer it looks like that is out, unless some of you are going to be near
Cincinnati and have an afternoon to till a garden for me. (Seriously. Let me know. He's a good
man and needs a little help.) His lack of gardening turned into my half-assed, "we could put in
a garden" comment.
And then the party began.
Damn those half-assed comments anyway.
One of these days I'm going to realize that my glib remarks are getting me involved in things I
don't particularly feel like doing, simply because they seem easy enough at the time. You wanna go out and close down the bar with a dozen of your firefighter friends? Bring it on. (I can't even begin to tell you how hard it is to find a car wash that is open at 3 am, to get the puke off the jeep.) You think a family vacation to Disney with all of us in the same house will work out? OK. (That one pretty much did, because everyone stayed on eggshells.) And now, how much work can a container garden be?
Oh hell.
But no, really, I'm game. I can grow stuff. My house plants flourished and thrived until I went
to Iraq, and then they came here, where they had to learn to suck humidity out of the air if they
wanted to get watered at all. I did some research with OhioT, who had nothing but good stuff to
say about putting in a square foot garden. I found some construction plans I could work with,
and then I called Chucklehead, because he drives an Expedition and so he got to go to the Home Depot for me. I'm up for an adventure, but it seemed a hell of a lot easier to let him haul the lumber home than me trying to cram it into the jeep.
Anyway, pre shopping trip, we reconnoitered. We both agreed the plans I had for building the
raised beds looked sound, and easy enough. And made a shopping list. He went, he shopped, he
delivered. I really like that no-nonsense approach of his.
I measured off the boards, because some cuts were going to need to be made, and then couldn't find the circular saw on Friday. Dad was gone, and it's his saw, so I just waited until Saturday. Biggggggggggg mistake. Because that's when a 2 hour project that a blind amputee could have done turned into a circus.
Family, friends of family, and the 80 year old neighbor who lives across the street came by and got in on the action! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And Mom cooked bacon. She cooked bacon for hours. I dunno. I don't ask. It's just easier. But really, five pounds of bacon?! I called Chucklehead in a plea for help because that's when Dad, the friends, and the 80 year old neighbor, who will henceforth be called Squishy, talked about going to the hardware store. Apparently I wasn't doing that shit right. And they had a better idea of how to do it while inside, on the couch, watching some basketball.
The boxes are built. They're hanging out in the side yard, so we can make sure they get juuuuuust the right amount of sunlight before the gardening soil gets here and is shoveled in. And all those parts that were bought by the guys at Home Depot on Saturday are going right back to the store, because this chick knows what the hell she's doing. Squishy said if he ever needs anything done that he's going to call me, because it will be done right!
Now, if I can just survive getting the garden into the ground, without it turning into another circus. If it does though, I'm totally going inside and putting on a clown face.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Alright Already!
I get it, I get it. Story Hour. Fine.
But you do realize that up until last year, I've been cranking out Story Hour for well over
ten years, and it has been getting a bit tedious to recount all those bad dates, crazy Houston
drivers, and of course, eighteen months in Iraq. I'm not even going to get into the sheer misery
that was my last year, when I chose to exile myself to North Carolina for a job that looked
great and turned out to be full of backstabbing ineptitude that made it unbearable to continue
being there for another second.
The long and the short of it is, I figured I was done writing and y'all were done reading. But
the outcry, nay, the freaking demand, and you people are pretty demanding, has told me
otherwise. You want more. You gluttons for punishment.
See, it was fine when Story Hour was a small, intimate group to which I could bitch and
whine without mercy. I pretty much didn't have a limit on what I could say, and really, I still
don't, but I find it bad form to bite the hand that feeds me. In other words I don't really want
to complain about my family in SH when they're reading SH. And sure, I'm going to complain
about them. I'm going to roll my eyes, bite my tongue and rant and rave to people who aren't
tied to me by blood. Because that's what families do.
They're readers though. (Waves. Hey y'all.) And it seems mean to be griping about them.
Sure, I have no shame and will crucify a guy I went out with here, because chances are
realllllllllly good he's never going to know about it, and it's also wicked entertaining.
After a Keira project turned into a family project today though, and I was contemplating
running away from home, something came up at dinner. (Tex Mex, incidentally, leaves me
too bloated with cheese and beans and yummy goodness, to run away from home. Remind
me of that in the future, mmkay?) The Mom told me I should write about today in Story
Hour. Then the Mom and the Brother, Chucklehead, got into a discussion about who had and
hadn't been allowed to read SH in the past, and I said I couldn't gripe about the family in it.
They said I could. So it's on like donkey kong, from here on out.
Because right now, I live with my family. The Mom says I'm never allowed to move out
again, because I give her massage therapy at least 2-3 times a week. The Dad just watches
me. A lot. I dunno why. And they all get confused why I tend to hang out in my room.
I like my room, it's where all my stuff is, and whatever project I do is mine. Unlike the
garden boxes which got out of hand today.
I think carne asada and cheese enchiladas are going to be my new meditation point.
Ohhhhhmmm
But you do realize that up until last year, I've been cranking out Story Hour for well over
ten years, and it has been getting a bit tedious to recount all those bad dates, crazy Houston
drivers, and of course, eighteen months in Iraq. I'm not even going to get into the sheer misery
that was my last year, when I chose to exile myself to North Carolina for a job that looked
great and turned out to be full of backstabbing ineptitude that made it unbearable to continue
being there for another second.
The long and the short of it is, I figured I was done writing and y'all were done reading. But
the outcry, nay, the freaking demand, and you people are pretty demanding, has told me
otherwise. You want more. You gluttons for punishment.
See, it was fine when Story Hour was a small, intimate group to which I could bitch and
whine without mercy. I pretty much didn't have a limit on what I could say, and really, I still
don't, but I find it bad form to bite the hand that feeds me. In other words I don't really want
to complain about my family in SH when they're reading SH. And sure, I'm going to complain
about them. I'm going to roll my eyes, bite my tongue and rant and rave to people who aren't
tied to me by blood. Because that's what families do.
They're readers though. (Waves. Hey y'all.) And it seems mean to be griping about them.
Sure, I have no shame and will crucify a guy I went out with here, because chances are
realllllllllly good he's never going to know about it, and it's also wicked entertaining.
After a Keira project turned into a family project today though, and I was contemplating
running away from home, something came up at dinner. (Tex Mex, incidentally, leaves me
too bloated with cheese and beans and yummy goodness, to run away from home. Remind
me of that in the future, mmkay?) The Mom told me I should write about today in Story
Hour. Then the Mom and the Brother, Chucklehead, got into a discussion about who had and
hadn't been allowed to read SH in the past, and I said I couldn't gripe about the family in it.
They said I could. So it's on like donkey kong, from here on out.
Because right now, I live with my family. The Mom says I'm never allowed to move out
again, because I give her massage therapy at least 2-3 times a week. The Dad just watches
me. A lot. I dunno why. And they all get confused why I tend to hang out in my room.
I like my room, it's where all my stuff is, and whatever project I do is mine. Unlike the
garden boxes which got out of hand today.
I think carne asada and cheese enchiladas are going to be my new meditation point.
Ohhhhhmmm
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