Life is a Banquet

Quid Pro Quo and Question

In case you care about such things as blogrolls, I've just spent some time cleaning mine up. I went from 193 feeds to 114 feeds, and I'm still paring. If you read me, and I'm not reading you, please leave a comment.

I want to keep an ongoing dialogue with my readers, but I HAVE to deal with my out-of-control internet addiction. The blogs I have cut are all great blogs, but they are ones with whom I don't feel that ongoing connection. My new criteria, as I cut back, is to keep blogs with whom I have or can establish a sense of dialogue--of a two way street.  There are so many GREAT blogs out there, that I often feel overwhelmed--like I can never read enough or like I need to read so much more.  So blogs who read me, and blogs with a dialogue.  It's a start.  And STILL I feel guilty for cutting.

Which leads me to my next question:
How do you deal with YOUR internet addiction? How do you limit how much time you spend on blogs? Do you have any tips for cutting back or limiting the time sucking factor? Any tips at all?

P.S. Don't forget to answer my last question about living far away from family if you get a chance!

Grown Up Child

Clanna left to return home today. I'm missing her so desperately right now, that I wonder why anyone chooses to live so far from all family, or more specifically, what possessed me to do so.  I don't miss the Midwest at all, but I miss my family with an intensity that surprises me, that continues to blow harsh winds of depression through major holidays and personal crisis.  I thought being here would be enough to counterbalance them being there.  In the three years that I've been here, I've nurtured a silly little fantasy that my mother would come, and fall madly in love with Oregon, running Julie Andrew's style down the mountain. She was not impressed. She was however, impressed with my house, our life, and it felt like for the first time, we were true equals--her being a guest in my house tipped the balance of power in a new way that allowed us to establish healthier ways of interacting as adults. It was over far too quickly, as most visits are.  As she left today, I was struck with crushing waves of sadness as the slim likelihood of her moving here, me moving there (no chance), and us seeing each other more than twice in three years converged to leave me a weepy mess.  I wish it were easier, this being a grown-up child business. 

Others who live far from family, tell me your tricks.  Does it get any easier?

What do you mean Life Sucks?

Cozy Chair
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

Dear Cattie,

I broke my foot, and life sucks. I don't start PT until October 4th. What should I do to better cope?

Signed,

Will This Ever End

Dear WTEE,

I'm not seeing the problem here. You have an extra human to wait on you. You have a stack of books to read. You get to play with those fun sticks and string all day. Plus, you have the best seat in the house. Buck up, WTEE, Life is pretty darn good.

Signed,

Cattie

If you see us coming . . .

Clanna and I should never be unleashed on the average retail environment at the same time. Clanna arrived on Tuesday.  Having my mom here feels strangely natural, like she's both always and never been here at the same time.  It's also like traveling back in time at light speed to our marathon Wal-mart sprees growing up, to the endless bargain chase we pick up and resume from store to store, year to year.  Being house-bound for the last week, being out in the world again felt slightly overwhelming.  I crashed out at TJ Maxx, scoring only a new collection of brightly colored socks to accent the cast of doom.

Today, though we hit our stride.  We tackled Target like a pair of sniper shooters. We were prepared, we ate beforehand, we made our list, and we were armed with $50 gift card to burn.  Our scores included:

Fabulous Ginormous Striped Towel (destined for craft project): 6 dollars (was $15)
Middle Eastern Inspired PJs to accomodate cast of doom: 12 dollars (Was $25)
Planner for Time Challenged Brother: 2 dollars (was  $7)
Bronze Reading Lamp for my Residency on the couch: 22 dollars (was $90!!!!!!!)
Bones for best doggie in the world: $4 (was $8)
Big cushy socks $5 for 4 pairs (was $9)
Doormat $4 (was $12)
Travel mug $4 (was $9)

The best part though was once we graduated from small teeny hand basket (riding on my lap) to regular cart. Clanna had the brilliant idea that I could rest my legs on the cart, and steer from the chair while she pushed me, saving my arms. We were this train of overflowing cart, wheelchair, and two manic, bargain driven women, narrowly missing small children and bewildered shoppers. The cashier had to contain her laughter at our arrival as we sorted out our purchases.

But, hey, we spaved more than we spent! It was a good day. 

Ugliest Cast in the World

Ugliest Cast in the World
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

This is my new cast. Yes, I waited a week to see the Orthopedic Surgeon to get the S&M fantasy cast. Seriously, Darth Vader would love this cast. The surgeon, in all his wisdom, thinks that 6-8 weeks of fashion torture + PT should cure my foot. No Surgery. No Pin. I will however, be left with a slight lump on the top of my foot, but it should be painless as new bone will fill in the space.

I'm not sure whether to be happy about no surgery. I was kind of hoping for a gleaming white plaster cast that I would then decorate. Yes, apparently I was living in Curious George Breaks His Arm land, but that was what I was planning on. Instead I get 6-8 weeks with the boot of doom. The boot. It sounds like something you slap the Gimp in when she misbehaves.

Oh and my pretty cast cover does not work with the boot of doom. On the plus side, the doctor said I can start walking on the boot, which is supposed to be good for the foot, but which hurts like a new kind of hell. I was kind of used to the previous hell of bouncing like a pogo stick through the house.

The verdict? The boot of doom is a major fashion don't AND it hurts. And the Orthopedic Surgeon who saw us for maybe 5 minutes? Huge don't. Should I get a second opinion? Anyone else who has broken a limb want to chime in if boot + PT with new x-rays in two weeks sounds reasonable?

Updates and Books! Books!

I've finally updated the book list with some of my recent reads, for those of you who keep track of such things. 

Also, I was one of the lucky winners of Chicago Mama's  recent book give-a-way.  Books, right when I needed more reading material.  Janet Evanovich in hardcover! Score! Chicago Mama rocks.  More bloggy types should clean out their basements.  :) :) Also, fellow RWA member Lisa is bringing me some books tonight, and Clanna is arriving, which means more books.  I'm in Wavybrain's heaven.  Now, if only it were easier to knit AND read at the same time.  Preferrably while sleeping.  :) :) 

Small Pleasures

One of things that depression robs from my normally optimistic self is the ability to see and appreciate the little joys in life.  I'm thinking I may market broken bones as a depression cure soon.  I will come, bash in a minor bone, or toss you off a garage step--and Walah! Cure.  Oh. Well. Yes, perhaps, just PERHAPS, the medication I started two weeks ago is having a slight effect.  Still, the broken foot is a powerful force in enabling me to appreciate some small pleasures in life:

View from the top

View from the top
Originally uploaded by wavybrains.

When life gives you tangles, knit.

Thanks to everyone for their good wishes--it means more than I express.

Better lurks somewhere nearby right?

I have some deep Anna Quindlen-esque post in me about the things that truly matter when you are in pain.  However, that post will have to wait.  Right now, the suckage that is crutches is not getting any better, but I am having a wheelchair (the horror in my gut at the thought notwithstanding) delivered to make getting around the main floor slightly better.  Slightly.  Clanna (my mother) is arriving next week.  We still don't know when surgery will be, recovery, prognosis, etc.  which leads me to the last suckage which is:

I just resigned from my job.  There were a lot of factors at play, but health benefits do not exist for adjunct instructors.  Nonexistent.  I had to think of my student's best interests as well.   I wish I could say more on the magnitude of this suckage, but alas, I cannot. 

I do however need a hug.  Badly.  Chocolate would also be welcomed.  All of your good wishes yesterday meant an awful lot.  Thank you.   

Sticks and Stones, Broken Bones

There is something worse than depression.  And, that, my friends, is called a broken foot.  Yesterday, Freak and I were supposed to have an informal meeting with an adoption coordinator @ 6 p.m., so I came back after the morning session of classes, instead of hanging around grading for 5 hours like I normally do, since I was not teaching my usual set of night classes.  Caylis was beside herself with joy to see me at 2 p.m. and threw in some ext ra full body wags for me. I was distracted by her, the prospect of a nap, and a crushing blue mood.  Somehow, I missed the step between our house and the garage. A step I have taken probably 5,000 times in 2 and a half years, several times each day.  One instant.  One instant and I was eating concrete.

Clumsy person that I am, I'm no stranger to face plants, stumbles, turned ankles, and whoopsie-daisy close calls.  I knew in that instant that this was different. The crushing pain was like nothing I've felt before.  "It's just a really bad sprain," I told my hypochondriac brain which was screaming "break!" over and over.  Nurse Doggie danced over me, delighted with this new game, licking, growling, cajoling.  Cell phone. I needed my phone.  I also felt some strange compulsion to test my injury before I went crying wolf to Freak at work, creating another crisis out of thin air.

I was still convinced that pain might be a reflection of the crushing depression of Monday and Tuesday.  I was wrong.  I used Caylis's collar to pull myself up.  I don't remember the trip from the garage floor to the living room couch.  I grabbed a bag of frozen broccoli on the way.  After a short delay, Freak was reached. His boss drove him home, sparing him the 20 minute bike ride.  Nurse MIL was called.  We went to urgent care where I was seen within 15 minutes, putting ER waiting times to shame. 

My foot looked like rising bread dough--double it's size, but not menacing or bleeding.  Still apparently, I was exciting enough to warrant a wheelchair, a room, and a quick visit from the doctor on duty.  The rest of the afternoon is a blur of large needles full of nice pain medications, nice ladies, painful x-rays, prodding.  "Most ankle injuries aren't breaks," the doctor said.  "Maybe some torn ligaments."  I took this to heart once the pain meds kicked in, and in my jovial state, I started taking bets on negative x-rays and still making our appointment that evening. 

Freak says he knew the result of the x-rays when this efficient nurse bustled into the room and started measuring my leg.  Measuring = cast.  Cast? Orthopedic surgeon? Rest of the week, maybe more off? Broken navicular bone? A pin? Reeling.  I spent the rest of the night in denial.

Now, I'm deep in the anger stage.  I hate the crutches.  I hate the orthopedic specialist who doesn't have the x-rays yet.  I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate the crutches.  I hate the temporary cast.  I hate our guest room where I am lodged, because I hate the stairs more.  I hate adjunct teaching which gives you no income if you don't teach, and I hate the fact that I wanted to take this adoption meeting enough to come home early.  If I hadn't come early, if I hadn't been depressed . . .if, if.  Maybe the bargaining stage is beginning.   Anyhoo, I've got nothing but pathetic whining from Navicular Nation.