Don't park so close to my car.

I stood about five feet from the back bumper of my Mustang and just stared.

There was an SUV parked next to my car. Cool. It's a parking lot. Cars park next to one another.

This SUV, though, was parked as close as physically possible. Had it been a lower vehicle (or had my Mustang been taller) someone would have lost a side mirror.

So I stood. And stared. And wondered how I'd get into the car on crutches. Because that necessitates opening my door almost all the way.

Because usually in situations like this, as embarrassing as it is, I could climb in from the passenger side. But, oh no. That wasn't an option yesterday. Because (as I've stated before) I can't crawl.

This particular parking lot is at a freaking hospital for crying out loud. In front of the rehabilitation center. The chances of any driver in any one of these cars being somehow disabled is very high.

So how could someone be inconsiderate enough to completely block the entrance to a stranger's vehicle.

I stood. And stared.

A man walked by me. "That's really lame," he said. I agreed.

An older man passed a few moments later. He saw the site and grumbled.

I crutched around to the front of my car. Crutched back. Swayed back and forth and bit my lip as a third man approached. "You're in quite a pickle."

"Sure am."

"People are jerks," he informed me.

"Sure are."

I've never wanted to key a car so badly in my life. I thought about leaving an angry note under the SUV's wiper. But figured that'd do no good. I thought about going ape shit on their windshield with my crutches, but my footing isn't that good. That and I just can't do damage to someone's car. It's totally against everything I stand for.

Don't be a dick to strangers. You never know how bad their days have been.

So I stood there and pondered for minutes. I managed to slink in between the two cars without damaging the paint on either vehicle. And I opened my door. I could fit in the space, but could I do it without dinging the other vehicle and thus chipping my Mustang's own paint? And then could I do it one legged?

I had to try. Who knew how long it would take the SUV driver to show up.

So I gingerly slid my crutches into the Mustang. This took a few tries. After all, crutches are long and they don't bend.

Then, I squeezed all but the bad leg in through the door (by pretty much falling into it, an old tumbling trick).

And then, using my newly acquired arm muscles, I lifted and twisted and spiraled and got the un-bending leg into the space.

I drank wine last night in celebration.

Hey, could you come back with my crutches?

Crutches are really fun for all of two minutes. You hop around really fast and then you're done.

Weeee!

But what people seem to forget while they're dashing away on my crutches is that, well, I'm trapped until they come back.

BECAUSE I CAN'T WALK!

I'm not using these things for fun. Or for attention. Or because they look really cool with my silver earrings.

I use them because one of my legs isn't working right now. I can't even readjust my footing in the shower. Because crutches don't go in the shower.

But I can use them out of the shower. Like right now. I'd really like to take a step sideways. Give my ankle a break.

So I'd really appreciate it if you'd bring my crutches back right now. Because I kind of need to go somewhere else. Like the restroom or back to my office to work.

But I can't. Because my makeshift legs are patrolling the hallways without me. They're doing spins and jumps that I can't do because, well, I'm temporarily handicapped.

Geez. It's been like five minutes. Seriously. Would you mind bring my crutches back? I'm thirsty and I'd love to go sip from the water fountain. I'd get a glass of water, but carrying it is impossible because my arms are functioning as legs.

But right now they aren't functioning as legs. Because you are off chasing people with my makeshift legs.

What's that noise? Is that ... the fire alarm? Crap. And here are all of these people making their way to the exits and I'm going to burn to death because you're trying out the stairs on my crutches. Which I need. To transport myself. Because I can't walk.

Hey, someone, seriously. The sprinklers are going off. I seriously can't walk or crawl. Just help me into a wheely chair. Someone! Hello! Cripple here!

Where are my crutches?

I can't die here. I haven't even walked yet. I haven't healed! I have to experience being normal for just a day! Someone, find my crutches.

Wait, there they are. Way over there. I can't get to them. Could you ... Okay, not you. How about you? No? Crap.

Guess I'll just have to, um, well, I don't know.

The dish ran away with the spoon.

The Dish household was a normal one. There was a Mommy Dish, a Daddy Dish, and a Teenaged Daughter Dish. Like most households, there were slight problems.

The Teenaged Daughter Dish, for example, was a little ungrateful, arrogant, self-centered, and ignorant. But this is nothing out of the ordinary. Teenagers, even those made of clay or china, are hormonal and spontaneous.

So when the Daughter Dish brought over her new boyfriend, the Spoon, her parents freaked a bit.

Here was this dirty, silver-tongued renegade eyeballing their pyrex princess. And they didn't like it at all.

But they dined with the spoon regardless, and sent him on his way making sure he didn't kiss their daughter goodnight.

"Dear," the Mommy Dish said to her daughter, "we don't want you seeing Spoon anymore."

This common statement didn't fly with the youngest of the Dishes. "You don't understand!" she shouted. "I love him! We're going to get married."

"That," replied the Daddy Dish, "will not happen as long as you live under this roof, young lady. We can't have you canoodling with a common scoop."

"He's NOT a SCOOP!" she screamed through tears. "He's stainless steel!" The Daughter Dish ran to her room and slammed the door so hard, the Dishes rattled.

She grabbed her cell phone and furiously texted her ladle lover.

Dish: the rents r so lame. they dont undrstnd.

Spoon: mine either. wut 2 do?

Dish: lets run away!!

(after some time) Spoon: lets du it! we need help

And so the Spoon and the Daughter Dish conspired to run away together with the help of some friends.

The next night at dinner, a raucous was heard.

"Do you hear that? Is that a fiddle?" the Daddy Dish asked.

Sure enough, the family went to the window to see a cat playing with a fiddle in their front yard.

The Mommy Dish ran outside to shoo the cat away, but she had to leap aside to avoid the charging cow who then leaped up so high, he cleared the moon!

While the Daddy Dish was coming to his wife's aid, a little dog ran between them and rolled onto his back laughing.

And amidst all of the commotion, they failed to see their daughter, the Teenage Dish, run away with the Spoon.

Rip Van Winkle didn't just fall asleep.

Rip Van Winkle putted about his garden one midnight.

He gardened when he couldn't sleep. Which, unfortunately, was often.

As he sifted dirt and pruned roses, he heard through the window the light, airy breathing of his sleeping daughter.

"Lucky," Rip thought as a rose bud fell to the ground.

After half an hour in the garden, Rip went back into his cottage and again tried to sleep.

He tossed. He turned. He drank warm milk.

Nothing. Not a Z was to be found.

So Rip lay in his bed not sleeping until the rooster crowed.

***

Come morning (come most mornings, actually) Rip was so exhausted from his insomnia, that he couldn't function. The town folk perceived him as lazy. His daughter thought him irritable, cranky and, old.

Rip would've cared about this bad reputation, but he was too tired to really understand it.

Then one day, as he funneled coffee into his gullet, Rip came across an article in the local paper.

"Moon Too Bright? Stars Twinkling Too Loudly? Sleep Hiding From You?" the headline shouted in bold type.

Rip continued reading.

"Then quiet the cosmos and find sleep with Lunerestra!"

Rip longingly looked at the picture of the crescent moon in its nightcap, fast asleep in a puffy bed of clouds.

"Lunerestra, eh?" he muttered. "Could it help me?"

Then Rip saw the burst in the top corner of the ad. "Ask your doctor TODAY!!!"

And that was all the convincing he needed. Rip Van Winkle felt a jolt of energy that lasted until he knocked on his local apothecary's door. There, he fell into a crumpled heap.

The apothecary opened his door and noticed the shaggy lump at his feet. "May I help you? CAN I help you?"

"I can't sleep," Rip weeped. "I want to try Lunerestra."

"Well," the apothecary said while tugging on his beard, "that's new medicine. But you seem very fatigued, so I'll get you a bottle to try."

And so Rip Van Winkle left with a brand new bottle of the latest sleep aid. He decided to try it out for an afternoon nap.

He found a cozy tree to lean up against. He got himself all situated and read the instructions on the bottle: Make sure you have 8 hours to devote to sleep before taking Lunerestra. Only take one pill per 24 hour period."

Rip took one pill but then reasoned that he'd missed so much sleep, perhaps he should take a few more pills.

A few turned into ten. Which turned into twenty. Which turned into the whole bottle.

Rip slumped against the tree and began to snore.

And there he snored until the grass grew over him. And the dust settled on his legs so thickly that flowers grew.

And his beard extended below his shoulders and got entwined with twigs and creepy crawly things.

Rip Van Winkle caught up on his Zs, alright. He caught up on 20 years worth of Zs.

Leave the Scientologists alone.

A good number of churches need to change the signs out front. Instead of Methodist or Baptist, Catholic or non-denominational, they just need to chisel into the wood "HYPOCRITE."

The hot thing to do right now seems to be attacking the Scientologists. Because they're crazy and they ask for money and they practice a "religion" that was created by a Sci-Fi writer.

Stop it. Just stop it. They aren't hurting you. They aren't doing anything any different than the Christians and Muslims and whatever other religion has done over the course of time. And everyone is acting like they're red-tailed devils roaming the streets.

So someone created Scientology. Big whoop. The man has a name. L. Ron Hubbard. For fuck's sake, at least Scientologists know who created their belief system. Do you really have any idea who Luke, John, Peter, Matthew, Mark and Corinthians are? Think about it for a second. Christianity is old. And it's changed over time, in case you weren't aware. So the religion you practice today is very different than the same-named religion your great great great grandparents practiced. I don't believe Luke, John, Peter, Matthew, Mark and Corinthians rewrote the Bible recently. Or did I not get that memo?

And there are daily reports of celebs giving this many millions to the Church of Scientology. And this always sparks controversy. How is this any different from churches passing out collection plates every Sunday? Wealthy individuals have been writing large checks to religious institutions for eons. Televangelists sell out stadiums and collect and collect and collect. If John Travolta had written a check to the First Baptist Church of Los Angeles, no one would bat an eyelash.

Your religion, your belief structure, isn't the best. It might be the best for you, but it's certainly not the best for everyone. Get over it.

Stop trying to control other people. Stop trying to save people who don't need your saving. Stop judging total strangers for not kneeling as deeply as you do.

Stop being a hypocrite.

Allow others to practice (or not practice) what they want and need to. Otherwise, this hate is never going to end. And no god is happy with that.

Let's do the alphabet! Part 2

Allison bravely called down, "'Ello?"

Frantically, getting her items, jumping, kicking, leaping mountains nobody oughtta.

Possible questions resurfaced. "Someone told us, 'Vanish.'"

Wait. Xenu?

Yes. 'Zactly.

There is something more offensive than the Ugg Boot out there.

I've ranted before about Ugg Boots before. About how they're an abomination to everything decent about having functioning eyes. About how the makers of Uggs are laughing in their factories at the idiot sheep who wear the so-called "fashionable foot ware." And about how they're unnecessary in environments such as Dallas, because it rarely gets below fifty degrees F here.

But the other day, I saw something that kicked the Uggly ass off of Uggs. In fact, I don't even know what to call these boots. Space Uggs?

They looked like Uggs. Big, fluffy, clunky, laced. But these were metallic silver. I think I saw a video of some guy wearing them on the moon. He wore them for their stepping and leaping purposes.

But these boots, oh these boots and the bleached out, daisy duke wearing, leather-faced girl in them actually offended me.

The fact that these boots were concepted for normal, everyday wear and not for mining in icy silver mines offended me. The fact that multiple people thought they were a good enough idea to be prototyped offended me. The fact that after the prototype was created, somebody invested a shit ton of money to mass produce them really offended me.

And the fact that some dippy 19 year old was prancing through MY Nordstrom with her poor boyfriend in tow in these repugnant, plasticky blocks OFFENDED ME.

If I wasn't seated and sipping a tea at the time, I would have chased her down and beaten her and her silver boots with my silver crutches.

Why? Why would someone wear wool-lined space boots to the mall? Why? I'm honestly asking. Does anyone understand the appeal these things? They're so horrible?

I saw some the other day that looked like, I don't know, a 1980s spray paint artist went back to BC and did some decorating for a cave family living in the Alaskan tundra. They were just ... neon and pink and green and yellow and plain wrong.

I've seen them in all colors and textures. I've seen everything except for the logic. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE!

Seriously. Apparently my email was down and I didn't get the memo. Someone, anyone, fill me in. Please? Or I'm going to start clubbing people caveman style.

There are 100 postings of blog on the wall.

100 postings of blog on the wall.
100 postings of blog.
You write one down.
Slap on a crown.
The Queen of Awesome has written it all.

Not really. There are thousands of topics and stories yet to be written. But not tonight. Tonight we celebrate 100 pieces of literary existence.

Not all are bad, either.

Some are even fantastic.

So I can't help but be a little, teensy bit proud. After all, I started this thing so I'd have a reason to be creative. I needed an outlet. I needed to force myself to write.

And it hasn't always been easy. Sometimes, I dreaded sitting with my laptop and trying to concept something. Anything. I'd get frustrated and angry and in the last minute, eek out a handful of words or a half coherent thought.

Other times, my fingers danced on the keyboard to music my brain pumped into my bones. I'd have paragraphs written before I'd even go back to reread.

Tonight, though, tonight I'm relaxing and enjoying the fact that I've kept this up for as long as I have.

I'm not claiming that this is a super huge accomplishment. There are thousands and thousands of people who have daily blogs. Even hourly blogs. But I'm not those people. I'm a self-absorbed twenty-something who thinks the world owes her pretzels and endless sunshine (for the record, I love pretzels) because she eeked out 100 blogs.

Mmm. Speaking of pretzels, gotta run. See you at 101.

These haikus are autobiographical.

I wear a leg brace.
And little kids stare at me.
"Is she a robot?"


People feel for me.
"Look at that little gimp girl.
She has a nice rack."


Have you ever thought
That someday you just might need
Handicap parking?


Crutches have magic.
They attract all of the men.
Help me, manly men!


Laptop doused in tea.
How could I be so clumsy!
My mouse clicker sticks.


My hair is dirty.
Not as dirty as sister's.
She is a gross freak!


I love you, Jackie.
Even if you don't shower.
You Cali hippie.


Haikus are copouts.
I can write them in a pinch.
Even when tired.


I work from home now.
Because I am on crutches.
Two more weeks to go.


Food Network is on.
And it's about breakfast food.
I want an omelette!


It is time for bed.
Thank you for reading my blog.
Part of me loves you.


Unless you're a dick.
Then part of me might hate you.
Nah, I can't hate you!

I want my foot back.

I knew this surgery thing wouldn't be a cakewalk. (Yes, I'm still huffing and puffing about my recovery. I might be doing it for some time.) But it's affecting other parts of my body than the operated on part.

My ribs and inner biceps? Sore from the crutches. My right hip? Tired and achy from being angled while hobbling. My ass? Shrinking on the left side since the left leg is nothing but dead weight.

My foot? My foot has been replaced by a horror movie prop. It's fat and purple and completely unlike my other foot.

So I'm wondering, who stole my foot? While I was under, did some evil, crazy-eyed mad scientist lob off my left foot and replace it with this silicone imitation? Because I know what my left foot looks like. This ... thing isn't my left foot. It's something you'd see floating in a lake on a low-budget, Sci Fi Network flick. It's something you'd put in your little sister's backpack so she'd freak out when retrieving her math book. It's something you'd see in a Halloween store in September.

It's not MY foot. That's for damn sure.

I about passed out tonight in the bathtub. Because I reached over to wash my achy foot. And with all of the pure, white light in the bathroom, I saw it. I really saw it. I saw the deep purple splotches. And the green around that. And the yellow around that. My entire heel looks like a kindergartner's crayon-wax-paper-ironed nightmare. And the top of my foot? Let's just say I got stepped on by a horse once, and it was nothing compared to this. At least I still have my toes. I'm not keeping my hopes up, though. They're bound to fall off any day now.

At least my knee looks better. Hell, it'll be fantastic when it's working again. But then again, without a foot, what's a knee?

I'm an advocate of Valentines Day.

Some people call it a Hallmark Holiday. They think Valentines is one of those worthless holidays created by chocolatiers and card companies.

So?

When you get through all of the commercialism, there's still a very important meaning to this anti-singles day. Love.

Yes. Love. Cynical Veronica is a advocate of love.

Valentines Day isn't just about the love of couple. It's the love your parents have for you. And you for them. It's about expressing affection to your friends. It's just a day to remind us that we've got people who care.

It's nice, no?

If you're one of those who are like me, one of those who forget to tell loved ones that they're loved, then take advantage of each and every Valentines Day. Because it's too often that the people we care for get plucked from this planet before they know their importance.

Tell someone, tell anyone, "I love you."

As for you bitter, single people who protest this pink and red and lacy day, sit back and relax. No one is trying to offend you. They're just trying to love you.

And make you buy candy. There's no harm in that when you really think about it. Right?

This is a short blog.

Dear Blog,

Jackpot!

This blog is brought to you by the letter J. And the number 1.

J is for Joy. Which just so happens to be a noun. A noun is a person, place or thing. Nouns can be either tangible or something untouchable like an idea. Joy is a state of elation and is usually the result of something very good. For example, when you've been taking Hydrocodone for a week, you feel joy.

J is also for jalapeño. In this word, J makes an H sound.
Jalapeños hot green or orange-red peppers. They're also in the fruit family. Capsicum annuum is the scientific nomenclature of the jalapeño. They're very spicy and can actually bring tears to your eyes. If you get jalapeño juice on your fingers and touch your eye, you will not feel joy for a long time.

The number 1 is considered the first number, unless you consider 0. But some don't, because 0 is the visual representation of nothing. Therefore, it's not a number like 1. 1 is also considered the loneliest number according to the band Three Dog Night.

The number 1 is a very important number. It's the last number in a countdown before 0. So if you've done something really bad like taken your sister's doll and your mom is counting down from 3 to allow you time to give it back, you've got until one to throw it at her head. Otherwise, you're getting popped in the face.

If you have 1 jalapeño, you have more jalapeños than someone who doesn't have any jalapeños. If you get jalapeño juice in 1 eye, you'll still have 1 eye to help you get to the nearest sink so you can rinse your face forever.

Was I naked?

A good friend of mine (who so happens to be a nurse) told me something horrifying today.

He said that when you get surgery, when you're laying on the table anesthetized and damn-near euthanized, when you're at your at your next-to-most vulnerable ...

... oh, man. I can't even say it.

He said that when you're in that room unaware of what's going on, the doctors (for the sake of sterility) make you one step closer to total vulnerable.

They take ...

... breath, Veronica ...

They remove ...

... think happy thoughts ...

Your underwear comes off.

When you're lying there asleep and doped up, the creepy doctors remove your only remaining undergarment.

And I find this more horrifying than the actual surgery.

A room full of dudes in scrubs saw my goody basket.

Not many people have been allowed to see the goody basket. In fact, a very select group has been granted access to the Land of Good and Plenty. This is sacred territory down here! This is the Mecca. The Holy Land*. Nirvanna. Shangra La Di Da.

Why would they take off your underwear? Do surgeons really do this? I mean ... Why? It's bad enough being nearly dead and on a table in some sterile room with some stranger digging around in your skeleton. But to be NAKED on that table, nearly dead with some stranger digging around in your skeleton takes it to a whole new level of eerie.

Someone, please tell me this isn't true. I can't go on knowing that there were six strangers who saw my bits and pieces while my dad was only rooms away playing on his iPhone.

Geez. At least the Garden of Eden had been properly pruned. I've got that going for me.


*Almost spelled it "holey" for comedic effect.

Do you want to find out who your friends are?

If you want to find out how many really good friends you have, I suggest you get some type of surgery.

Seriously.

The pain and the panic of an operation are worth it when you discover how many people are willing to donate their time and muscles to helping you recover.

Over the last week, I've had friends:

- Aid me while, er, well, I vomited. And we're not talking hold-your-hair-while-you're-drunk vomiting. No. We're talking coming-out-of-anesthesia-and-sitting-on-the-couch-and-holding-a-bowl vomit clean up. That is friendship.

- Wash my hair. I wasn't allowed to get in the bath tub. I couldn't take a shower. I was woozy and nauseous and my hair was dirty. So a friend washed my hair in the sink for me. I've never felt more helpless nor have I felt more cared for.

- Run to get ice in the middle of the night. To keep the swelling down, I needed to constantly ice this knee. And since I was (and still am for the record) on crutches, carrying things while walking was impossible. So my friends would run out into the creepy night and get ice for me. People usually don't do that unless a case of beer is involved.

- Spend the night on work nights. And then take care of me in the morning. For the first few days, I was literally helpless. I couldn't do anything without pain. So a friend stayed with me. Gave me water, medicine, food. Put me to bed, kept me from falling, cleaned up my apartment.

- Bring me flowers. Before work. And get more damn ice. Did I mention flowers? First thing in the morning. So awesome.

- Skip a doctor's appointment so I wouldn't be alone. Even thought I'd be basically out of it, incoherent and sleepy, my friend skipped a doctor's appointment and drove an hour just to be here. Dammit, I could cry right now.

And there's so much more. I just can't believe how fantastic all of my friends are. This isn't even counting the iTunes I've received, the toenails painted, the magazines given and the other buckets of ice poured.

Nothing is worse than feeling pathetic and helpless. But with such giving and wonderful people around, it's hard to feel sorry for yourself.

Thanks, everyone. Seriously. You have no idea.

I'm so sleepy.

I swear, as soon as I'm off of these pain meds, the blogs will flow like wine again.

But until then, I'm fighting to stay awakkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

I am helpless.

I pride myself on being independent and strong.

And now I'm helpless and weak.

And it's killing me.

I have a rotation of caretakers who help me get food and move things around my apartment.

Because I can't even get myself a glass of water.

And now I'm in pain. I'm helpless, useless and in pain.

This'll all be worth it, right?

I had a bit of surgery today.

And it went well.

Won't get into the gory details. But just know that I'll be hobbling around on crutches for a bit. (Boo!)

But eating lots of tasty things like pudding. (Yea!)

And trying not to get sick again from my pain meds. (Boo!)

But healing. (Yea!)

I'm going to pass out now. It helps with the recovery, I hear.

Creativity comes from anguish.

Bring on the surgery.

Ten hours and twenty-four minutes until my life changes for the better.

I'm going to enjoy my Mustang while I can.

As most know, I'm getting a bit o' knee surgery this week.

And the worst part isn't necessarily the pain or the swelling or the possibility of crutches.

No. The worst part about having my leg operated on is that I won't be able to drive Eleanor Rigby for at least a week.

So I'm going to enjoy her while the enjoying is good.

I baby my car. It's pathetic, actually. I don't rag the motor. I let her warmup before putting her into gear. I park her in the back of parking lots. I usually drive below the speed limit. Blah bla bla.

A coworker told me not too long ago, "Grandma, this car is wasted on you."

Well, wasted no more! This weekend, I replaced my blood with testosterone. I got aggressive. And I drove that car like I was running from the law.

I was like a 16 year old boy in a Ferrari. And it was fucking fun.

The best part, I think Eleanor Rigby liked it, too.

Saturday morning, I drove with the windows down and the stereo up (I know, not that big a deal). Saturday night, I took turns too quickly and really gave my automatic traction control a run for its money. Sunday morning, I got her up to 100. For the first time.

And as the needle slid closer and closer to the triple digits, I realized that I had been wasting this car.

Not that I'm going to turn into one of those asshole drivers. Not that I'm going to go 80 all of the time. Not that I'm going to race cops and squeal my tires at every light. But I am going to make a point of having a little more fun behind the wheel.

Just put it on my list of things to do after recovery.