Monthly Archives: August 2011

Apparently broken feet make you stupid.

The thing about having two broken feet and being in a wheelchair is – aside from the depression, random bitchiness and crying jags – is that random things come into your head, and you somehow momentarily forget the whole broken feet thing, and think “yeah, I gotta do that, like right now.”

There is the obvious stuff.  Like “that pile of crap is pissing me off, I’m going to clean it up.”  Because I’m sitting on my ass all the freaking time so I have a lot of time to look at things and get annoyed by them.  Normally piles of clutter aren’t a problem for me, because I have a million things that seem more interesting than cleaning it up. But when I don’t have anything to distract me, now they are irritating

And we have a new lounge for the deck.  Which totally needs to be oiled.  And I keep seeing it out the window, and thinking, ‘oh, I should go take care of that.”

In my defense, I don’t sit in the wheelchair during the day.  It’s a transportation thing, not furniture. So I have these thoughts when sitting on the sofa, or a chair, or in bed.

Other thoughts are totally random.  Like marshmallow fluff. My grandmother’s fudge recipe uses it, but we have an organic kitchen, and it shouldn’t be surprising that the local organic shop (“local” right, I shop at Whole Foods.  But it is local to me…) doesn’t carry this fine culinary product.  So I found a recipe, and thought, hey, I’ve got to order me some organic powdered egg whites and make some.  So I can make fudge.

And I was about to order some online, when I realized – Duh!  Doesn’t matter if I have all the ingredients, I can’t reach the counter.  For probably another month.

Just one other thing to add to the ever growing list of stuff I want to do and can’t wait till I’m able to.

Of course the number one thing on the list… Walking!!

I blame the marshmallow whip on the peanut butter and fluff sandwich that made a guest appearance on Rizzoli and Isles. I had never thought of such a thing...

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Boundaries people.

Random fact: when you are sitting in a wheelchair, talking to people who are standing up, it dramatically increases the chances of them catching a glimpse of your bra. Related fact: I've been wearing nicer bras the last few weeks. Not that I'm the kind of gal that wants people taking a peek at the undies. But if they are, I want to look stylin'.

So I’m at a party last night, when a woman I’ve never met before says hi, and then leans down and pulls back my hair by my left ear.  I think she’s checking out my earing.  But no, she has pulled back my hair to check out my necklace.  That’s ok.

But then she complements my necklace, my lace bra, and my boobs.

Um.  Weird social moment.  Miss Manners doesn’t seem to cover this.

So I say the first thing that comes into my head.  “Thanks.  I grew them myself.”

Being in a wheelchair is weird.

The Current Score Is…

The score since last I regularly blogged:

Number of feet broken: 2

Number of men I used to date and thought I was going to marry who died: 1

Number of toddlers my sister saved from drowning in a jacuzzi in San Diego: 1

Number of times I’ve ripped out the bag I’m knitting because I’ve messed it up: 6

Nephew’s international rankings in Pokemon:  100

Nephew’s ranking in Sweden: 2

Days till deck is finished: 0

Number of months deck was under construction: 4

Number of times I’ve been able to get on the new deck: 0

Number of friends who have brought me food while I’m unable to drive:  2

Number of friends who have brought me food more than once while I’m unable to drive: 2

Number of friends who have taken me and my wheelchair out so I can stop going stir crazy: 1

Number of days till I’m able to walk again:  way way to many.

My house is not ADA compliant

 

So here is the thing – I feel fine and normal as long as I’m not trying to… do anything.

Like now, I’m happily surfing the web, and have gone from how we are all doomed from climate change (really), to more hopeful bike blogs, where I find all these things I want to be doing with my bike (which I don’t own yet, because the day I was going to SF to buy my beloved future Oma from My Dutch Bike in SF was the day I found out that foot one was broken) to a blog about painting a picture of a dog a day (and thinking, hey, I could be doing a drawing a day.  If I did it everyday, I would probably at some point be able to draw well enough that someone else could tell what I was drawing)

But then suddenly, I think, hey, I have to go to the bathroom.  And then my lack of mobility becomes a huge thing.  1) crawl to edge of bed  2) get onto walker, which I shouldn’t be using, but the wheelchair won’t fit in either the bedroom or the bathroom 3) sit on the walker bench and scoot along to the bathroom door 4) walk four steps because even the walker won’t fit in the bathroom (really, no one in 1952 ever broke their feet? what is up with that?)  5)do the quick mental calculation of where to put my feet so when I fall back onto the toilet seat I actually land on it and not on my ass on the ground (TMI?)

And at that point I remember how very not fine it is to have broken feet.