makin' the phone call.....

Sometimes I really do.

Seriously. Pick up that phone and dial that number.
Like now.

Especially after yesterday.

A page from the story of my life right now : It started with me trying to get dressed with my limited selection of clean wardrobe items. (I can’t get up and down the stairs to do my laundry and don’t trust the hub to do it for me.) So I pull a pair of jeans out of the pile and attempt to put them on. Except I couldn’t button them because between the infusions, epidural steroid injections and cortisone over the last month, my fingers are (uncooperative) sausage stubs, I can’t see over my puffy cheeks, and my belly could be switched out with Buddha’s right about now and no one would notice.

So I get all frustrated and cranky and try to get them off, except the pain medication I’m on amps my internal (resting no less) body temperature to (roughly) 173.8 degrees Fahrenheit, and any activity makes it worse, so the jeans were sticking to my sweaty legs and wouldn’t let go.

It got ugly from there.

And no, it doesn’t take rocket science to figure out I AM NOT A HAPPY PERSON, nor am I having a whole lot of fun these days.

I’m pretty much cranky and irritable most of the time.
Prone to hissy fits (as my grandmother used to call them) and full on temper tantrums.

But all alone in the house with no-one to help me, I FINALLY get the jeans off and put on what has (for the most part) become my new uniform – a roomy “mumuesque” sundress that slips over the head, grab my crutches (yea – they’re back) and head out to the kitchen for a dish half gallon of (my new “cool me down” comfort food) - Spumoni ice cream.

I don’t know whether it was my huge cat laying in the middle of the floor; refusing to move or the hem of my sundress getting caught up in the rubber tip of my crutches, but the end result was that I lost my balance and tripped into my crutches, jamming my foot, falling over sideways - twisting my back and (as I would later learn) breaking a toe on (what was up until then) my good (walking) side foot.

(muffled scream)

Being all alone in the house, I was feeling like the old lady in the commercial crying out, “help me - I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

But I finally did get up and then….THEN……finally getting into the kitchen, and now needing my Spumoni more than ever, I find that the big pig my husband has scarfed down the last of my Spumoni without telling me OR replacing it. The freezer shelf is empty.

I see red. Start screaming (screaming) at him like I’m a crazy woman and he’s there. Imagine myself in a courtroom saying, “And that, your honor is when I decided he had to die a slow agonizing death and I beat him with my crutches.”

The only thing that saved both of us was that he wasn’t home.

Anyhoodles……so here I am today. Scowling and pouting with my arms across my chest, grousing (at every opportunity) about my pitiful lot in life. The ice cream thief hub (who conveniently stays just out of range of where my crutches can reach) won’t let me out of the recliner where I sit still somewhat plotting my revenge held hostage with heat packs wedged against my lower back, an ice pack taped to my bruised and swollen foot with the broken toe, and enough muscle relaxant in me to keep me immobile and somewhat harmless (to myself and others) while he tries to redeem himself by playing Florence Nightengale.

Which is (all things considered) probably a good thing.
I don't think I'd look good in a prison orange jumpsuit.  Even with a crown.
Just sayin y'all…….
Just sayin.....