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Saturday, June 15, 2002

Brief self-centered update to previous self-centered entry: the foot is much, much better. Went to doctor, got x-rays (no fracture), got crutches but hardly need them now, am hobbling around like Hopalong Cassidy on speed. [edited: of course I don't mean Hopalong Cassidy, I mean whatshisname, the sidekick guy to whoever it was, who used to hobble around. Garrrgh. No brain.] Much affectionate gratitude to all the good folks who sent along get-better wishes and sound medical advice; you people are the greatest ::sniffle::

Thanks to this rapid recovery, I've decided to go ahead with the original plan for the weekend, which is that P. and I are going to jump in the car, drive down to Austin, MN, and take in the glory that is --

Spam Jam!

Yes, it's the Official Grand Opening of the Spam Museum! There will be ceremonies! There will be the Spam Medallion Treasure Hunt! The Spam Kid's Mask Contest! ("The mask must depict SPAM® luncheon meat in a creative, fun, and tasteful manner.") The Spamettes singing group! There will be Barbara Billingsley and Marion Ross ("from Happy Days"!) signing autographs and presenting their favorite Spam recipies! Booker T and the MGs on the Main Stage! Fireworks!

How could a person let a mere sore foot get in the way of these revelries, I ask you?

In other gladdening news, two of my favorite people in fandom have started blogs: that crazy kid Kormantic, and the gloriously cranky and articulate AnneZo. Since the former has not linked her marvelous fiction off her blog page, I shall refrain from doing so here; but I will tell the world that if you have not yet read AnneZo's work, go here and rectify your error immediately. And then write and tell her how much she rocks. AnneZo exhibits perhaps the largest gap between actual-excellence-of-work and vehemence-with-which-she-disparages-said-work of anyone I know in fandom, and I know some champion self-deprecators. She seems to be of the opinion (as stated in her blog) that she has four readers. I think it's up to us to prove to her just how wrong she is about that ‹evil cackle›.

Whoa. I just glanced to one side and saw an enormous raccoon, about the size of a fox terrier, ambling around on my back deck. Shooed him (her?) away, and s/he is now investigating my neighbor's compost bin. I know we have a lot of raccoons in the neighborhood, but one seldom sees them roaming around during the day.

OK, enough babble. I should go try to catch up on way-overdue e-mail, and wash a few crusty dishes, and get ready for the Adventure in Spam.

Posted @ 07:47 AM CST [Link]6 comments

Thursday, June 13, 2002

I've lived alone for twelve years now, and almost all the time I love it -- as Kinsey Millhone once remarked, it's almost as good as being rich.

One of the few times that living alone sucks is when one has managed to do oneself an orthopedic injury of some kind -- as, for example, today, when, in a bit of burlesque occasioned by trying to avoid a deranged bicyclist, I either badly sprained or broke my left foot. Unfortunately, I was on my way to a meeting where I had to stand and do presentations for two hours, and there really wasn't anyone who could sub for me. And it didn't hurt too badly at the time, and I have a big Macho Gland that kicks in when I'm injured (quick flashback to the time I got hit by a car in San Francisco, ripped up one knee, sprained the other ankle, and insisted on staying at work until it became clear I couldn't walk at all). So I carried on, did the meeting, then rode my bike home (in the rain), initiated the familiar old rest-ice-compression-elevation routine ... and found about an hour later that I couldn't put any weight on the foot. Like, at all.

It's really hard to describe how massively inconvenient this is when one has no one around whom one can ask to, say, fetch a tissue, or replenish the ice, or get some ibuprofen, or help one to the bathroom, or whatever. Or say that one wants to get a sandwich and some milk, and sit on the sofa to eat them (so one can keep the foot elevated/iced and watch TV); not only does this entail hopping into the kitchen and standing one-footed to make the sandwich, one then realizes there's no earthly way to carry the food back sofa-wards, due to spillage potential and the need to lean heavily on furniture/tabletops/countertops with both hands to propel oneself along. (Solution: put sandwich in baggie, put milk in empty mayo jar with lid screwed on tight, put both in plastic grocery bag, hang bag from wrist. Voila.)

I can deal with pain, I don't mind injury per se, but I detest being hobbled in the basic activities of everyday life, and I hate hate HATE calling people up and asking them for help. I still remember some of the miracles of ingenuity I contrived to deal with life tasks back when I had my big knee surgery so I wouldn't have to depend on others. There's a hell of a lot I take for granted about being able-bodied.

Anyway, the ibuprofen's kicked in, and I've gotten settled at the computer with ice, Ace bandage, snacks and Irish whisky. Since I have a firm rule about not smoking in the house, I'm feeling rather nicotine-deprived and cranky, but god knows that doesn't really constitute a problem, and I can always hop my way out to the back deck if I'm desperate. There's a wonderful sort of steely comfort to be found in self-reliance, and I'm currently enjoying it.

If/when I hit the day that I can't manage that any more, things will get more unpleasant. I fear that I'm really going to be a terrible old woman. Especially if I don't start taking better care of myself, like, soon. Grrrrr.

Posted @ 08:43 PM CST [Link]16 comments