Category: blog

Tree has been working in the produce department as of late and, yes, he has heard all of the jokes. He has also heard about his rights, so every two hours he takes a ten-minute break.

 

The other day, towards the end of his shift, his store director approached him and asked, “What’s going on with you?” A general question for which Tree could have provided a multitude of answers. Instead, Tree requested clarification and learned the store director had paged him twice to report to his office, all to no avail, because the pages were made when Tree was outside on his (cigarette) break. Tree advised his store director of his whereabouts and the fact that, regardless of how busy the store may be, “I am not not taking my breaks.” The store director then informed Tree that he had sensed a change in him since he was hired.

 

As I listened to the story I knew Tree needed a better Performance Plan. “I’ve got two suggestions for you. One: During your allotted break, take off your work uniform and reveal something Daffyd, the only gay in the village (Little Britain), or Terry Bernadino, the gay roller-skating prostitute (Reno 911!), would wear. Then, after your break, put your work uniform back on and return to the produce department – this would make both Daffyd and Terry proud. A bit more proud if you stayed in their preferred attire, but proud, still. Two: If your store director continues to give you heat, excuse yourself for a minute, go back to the warehouse where you keep the produce and your costumes, and come out that plastic strip door curtain dressed as Dee Snider (Twisted Sister), holding a boombox and blaring, ‘We’re not gonna take it! No, we ain’t gonna take it! We’re not gonna take it anymore!'”

 

“Well, I do like a good performance,” was Tree’s reply.

Two years ago MiniMe went to India, fell off a mountain in the Himalayas, and shattered her foot. For a long time I would tease her, “Been on any good trips lately?” Karma came around and kicked me in the ass (and shoulder). So, this year, when she returned from Europe, Sleepless and I decided to welcome her home like a typical U.S. family – broken.

 

We each donned a hospital gown from my previous visits to medical facilities and, while doing so, discovered a surprise. “Is that blood on your gown?” Sleepless asked. “Yes, it appears that way. Good thing it is my own….hopefully,” I replied, put my sling on, and then helped Sleepless with her gown and sling. We decided to give her outfit an extra touch by adding a crutch.

 

Once at the airport we grabbed the “Welcome Home” sign and anxiously stood at the base of the escalators and baggage claim carousels. To bide the time, Sleepless twirled around on her crutch. A few minutes into us being there we noticed some of the airport staff walking around with two wheelchairs. “I have a feeling they’re looking for us,” I told Sleepless. Sure enough.  “Excuse me, do you need a wheelchair?” they asked us. “No. It would be nice to sit down, but no,” I replied. “They said two people in hospital gowns needed wheelchairs so we assumed it was you two,” they advised. “Makes sense,” Sleepless said, a little less twirly. “Should we keep one for MiniMe?” I asked Sleepless, but by then the two, now irritated, employees had rolled away.

 

Right soon after, MiniMe excitedly came down the escalator and was reunited with her broken family. Reunited and it feels so good, as long as you don’t touch my shoulder.

 

 

 

 

I’ve been hearing a lot of conflicting information about wearing a sling and driving – it’s illegal, it isn’t illegal, insurance won’t pay if an accident ensues, T-Rex drove, etc. Not wanting to risk anything and, quite frankly, not really wanting to drive, I’ve relied on others for rides. When not getting rides, I walk, despite the fact that everything I’ve read about my injury strongly advises against participating in the activity one was doing when the injury occurred. I’ve always been a bit of a rebel, so I walk anyway.

 

Needing a ride from MyFace for an event at Q’s place (which is definitely not within walking distance), MyFace informed me she could give me a ride, but I would need to be on my best behavior because her mother-in-law would be joining us. Ride and game on.

 

I was appropriate the whole way to Q’s and even provided MyFace directions so she wouldn’t get lost. As we approached the front of Q’s house and MyFace continued driving, pulled into the next door neighbor’s driveway, and placed the car in park. “Are you really going to park here?” I asked and quickly realized she didn’t think that was my best behavior. “Yes I am. Why wouldn’t I?” “Because it is the neighbor’s driveway,” I replied. I may be lame, lazy and slightly inappropriate at times, but I know one thing for sure – you never park in the driveway of someone you don’t know, that is not best behavior.

 

 

 

I recently returned home to find a man sitting next to his crotch rocket in front of my neighbor’s house. I didn’t think much of it until three police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance pulled up.

 

With my Gladys Kravitz (that’s Bewitched lingo for nosy neighbor) in full force, I took a seat on my stoop and watched the incident unfold – light activity in a sling at it’s finest. Within a few minutes, the man’s friends arrived to retrieve him, however, it appeared the first responders did not want them to approach the scene. I picked up on this when they told them, “Stand back.” As I watched the first responders wrap his hands in gauze (is that a HIPAA violation?) I realized he wouldn’t be driving his crotch rocket anywhere anytime soon so I approached his friends and offered my back 40 as a place to temporarily store it. It was about this time that the first responders began leaving the scene and I retreated indoors – Ellen was about to start and I didn’t want to miss any of it.

 

I stood up to refresh my drink when I noticed one police officer/car was still on scene and the injured man was helping his friend try to jimmy the lock of the car. I snapped a picture, posted it on Instagram, and then stepped outside to get the scoop. Turns out they locked their keys in the car. With only a month left of my not yet used AAA lockout assistance, I offered it to them. In exchange, I learned the facts.

 

“What happened?” I asked. “You are not cop so I tell you truth.” Turns out he was trying to go a little faster, accidentally popped a wheelie, and the bike landed on him. “He has bucket list to do before marrying girl. He wants to ride motorcycle for one month. He ride four times and crash,” his friend informed me and laughed. “You may need to revise your bucket list,” I advised.

 

It was about this time, and as they were relaxing on my rock wall and enjoying the glasses of ice water I provided them, when Ice Cream Man drove up to retrieve me for happy hour with Sleepless. Ice Cream Man joined me on the stoop and we learned a little more – he has not yet met the girl he is going to marry. Within minutes of learning this, AAA arrived, quickly gained access to their vehicle and the injured man and his friends promised me Eastern European food and huka for my kindness. I handed them a list of local clinics, emergency care facilities, and contact information for my orthopedic surgeon.

 

I may not be a cop, but thanks to my mad Gladys Kravitz skills I can solve a case in less time than Frank Drebin (Google it, if you must), all the while still obeying doctor’s orders – light activity in a sling.

During a follow-up visit with my orthopedic surgeon I informed him I did not have any pain the day of my surgery and I slept very well that night. “I don’t feel bad for you for that,” he replied and then began to talk to me about the next step: physical therapy. He wasn’t lying – he did not feel bad for me.

 

He advised me to place my fingers on the wall and then “crawl the wall,” stopping only when I feel the stretch in my arm and holding it in that position for a second. I tried with my lame left arm and then asked, “Can I do what I do at the gym and just do the heavy work with my dominant and able arm?” “No,” he replied and added, “You definitely do not want to hear it snap or pop.”  No I do not – I’ll leave the snapping and popping to my Rice Crispies.

 

He then instructed me to do another exercise in which I held the doorknob with my left hand and walked out, Vanna style. I tried and was, unfortunately, unsuccessful. Not one to give up right away, I tried again and failed. “Back away from the door,” he advised. I did, he again showed me the exercise, and I gave it another go. I may have to outsource this one.

My neighbor stopped by to check on me the other day and invited me to join her on a walk with her dogs. I was in my lame limb uniform – a tube top dress – and grabbed my uniform shoes – flats. “Oh, we’re going to the foothills, you’ll want to change.” “Shoes and dress?” I asked. “No, just shoes.” So I grabbed my sneakers from the way back of my closet and we went for a short jaunt.

 

While we walked we caught up on neighborhood matters (I’m witnessing a lot since I’m home all of the time), one of which was the status of a neighbor’s relationship – dissolved. “Do people ever ask you why you’re not in a relationship?” she asked me. “Some do, but they’re usually acquaintances, people who don’t really know me. Do they ask you?” I replied. “Yes,” she said. “It’s funny because I don’t really define myself based on whether or not I am dating. I mean, who I date may reflect on me, but it doesn’t define me, just as being single or in a relationship doesn’t define me.” “I agree. Some people have to be in a relationship and when they are they distance themselves from their friends,” she stated. “Hmmm. I remember someone once asking me if I wanted to settle down, slow down, stop having parties and gatherings at my house. I, of course said I did not want that and hoped to find someone who felt the same.” “I think you being in a relationship would be hardest on your friends….and your stoop. Your stoop might suffer, ” she advised. The suffering stoop – that would be terrible.

My brother from anotha motha (and fatha) has decided to move to Los Angeles so I decided we needed to get together for one more cup of coffee. Being that I can’t drive, I suggested we meet at a nearby coffee shop. Being that he is a gentleman, he offered me a ride on his motorcycle. Being a broken bag of bones, I respectfully declined.

 

As we were finalizing plans via instant messaging he said, “I’ve never made it with someone wearing a cast before. Want to be my first?” I advised him it was a sling, not a cast. “A sling is better than nothing,” he replied. We went on to discuss the time and our work schedules when I informed I was unable to work – doctor’s orders. “So sex is out then?” he asked. “Sling with light activity,” I replied. Sleepless knows, she heard him say it. “I can be ‘light’,” was his response which he later followed up with, “I’ve never made it with one of my ‘sisters’ either. A sling and a sister? That would be Joe Dirt hot.”

 

I eventually told him I was heading to bed. He said he was too and advised, “Dream about my rock hard abs.” I told him I would and said, “Dream about my lame arm.”

 

As I approached the coffee shop I received another message from him, “I am looking for the sexy sling I dreamt about last night.” I assured him the gimp was only blocks away and, once there, I assure him a sequel to The Sessions was not in my future.

Being that I have nothing but time and bruising on my hands (literally on my left hand), I’ve decided to catch up on all of the daily TV shows, sitcoms (most of which have been canceled and I can only get from the library), and movies I’ve never seen.

 

While watching, I decided I needed to do more than just sit (in three-five days this will be much easier when the mini stationary cycle I ordered rrives), thus, I’ve started a new product line: Made With Love With One Arm. I did a focus group with Sleepless and got some really valuable feedback: It might be too long of a name. We tried shortening it, MWLWOA, but didn’t like it, so we tried other names – Made With One Arm – but wondered, “Where is the Love?” So, I’m sticking with Made With Love With One Arm.

 

So far, I’ve made two items, both gifts, and I’m working on a third. Each item has taken me a several days and hours of  TV, sitcom and movie watching to make. Perhaps I should reconsider my product name: Made With Love With One Arm Over The Course Of Several Days While Watching Hours Of Mindless Madness. No, I don’t like the work ‘mindless.’ I think I’ll stick to my original plan. At this rate, I should be churning out one item a week. As they say, love is work (literally) and, clearly, takes time.

T-Rex is known for a couple of things: being old and having tiny arms. In addition to the arms being small, the range of motion was minimal and they appeared to come directly out of their chest. Sounds a lot like my arm.

 

While in the sling, all people can see (besides my incision and intense upper arm bruising) is my hand, which is essentially coming out of my chest due to the manner in which my arm/sling is elevated. Unlike T-Rex, I don’t use it to hang on to my prey, I just move it around occasionally to ensure blood flow and attempt to wave hello and goodbye with it.

 

Sleepless and I were running errands the other day when, at the liquor store, they failed to ID us. Sleepless was quite offended and mentioned it to me when we got to the car. “You are with a girl with grey roots and a sling. No way they’re IDing me. Plus, if you look 35 and older they don’t ID,” I advised. “That is just rude,” she replied.

 

It is rude, but it also rude that T-Rex came about just before dinosaurs  became extinct. Hopefully, I won’t be extinct soon. I mean, I know I am t-wrecked, but I’m no T-Rex. For starters, I hate running…..

 

 

 

 

My surgeon warned me that, due to my inability to move my arm, my underarm might get a little musky. Who he really should have warned was anyone who spends time with me. Smeller may be the feller, but we never think we smell as good or as bad as we actually do so I do not ignore my surgeon’s warning. I try to stay on top of my stank by performing sniff tests and, subsequently, sticking (and sometimes leaving for a while) disposable cleansing wipes under my arm. Without doing this, I’m pretty sure that, if I could raise my arm, I could wake the dead.

 

The other day, I took a bath, scrubbed my armpit as good as I could, then attempted to blow it dry with the hair dryer. After that, I shook some baby powder on a bath towel and held the towel under my arm for a bit and thought, “Genius.” I then walked to the store and by the time I walked home I thought, “Stinky.” So, I pulled out the disposable cleansing wipes. It’s not easy being me.

 

I probably would have just let the musky scent permeate if I was staying home alone, but my neighbor had offered to take me to a movie so I thought I should return her kindness with good hygiene.  After the movie, she asked if I had time to visit her friend who just had surgery. I, of course, did.

 

Her friend’s husband opened the door, invited us in, and told us she was home, but in the bathroom. A few seconds later the bathroom door opened and she walked out with her right arm casted and a large piece of yellow styrofoam with a couple of air holes surrounding it. We commiserated together until her daughter walked in the door and started laughing at the sight of the two of us together – her standing in front of  me with her right wing broken and me standing behind her with my broken left wing. Two musky tiers.