So yesterday I broke one of my toes, the middle one. (A quart of paint fell on it.) From the top, it looks fine; from the back, it’s all purple and black. And of course, I’m limping. I’ve broken toes at least a dozen times, but this is the first time I’ve had trouble walking on one.
Sometimes it feels like the universe is conspiring to keep me from walking like a normal person.
UPDATE: The doctor says it appears to be a slight fracture of the metatarsal head and is sending me for an x-ray.
I love this story about how a 22-year-old woman learned how to fix cars by driving a ’72 Beetle across the country. It brought back fond memories of changing the oil and spark plugs on my ’63 Beetle (39 miles per gallon); I even progressed to the point where I could change a clutch cable (thanks to this classic repair guide). Ah, the joys of the air-cooled engine!
“How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual of Step by Step Procedures for the Complete Idiot” was my bible. It included information about how to buy a VW (first of all, go and sit in the car and “feel the vibes”). And I did; After I sold the Little Darlin’, we bought a ’67 Microbus. One time, I was driving home from a Cape Cod camping trip in the bus, when the dashboard um, kind of burst into flames. My friend started freaking, while in my calmest, most soothing voice, I kept saying, “It’ll be fine, don’t worry about it” as I put the tiny flames out with my hands. (I think it was a short in the radio.)
Then I had a ’67, which I used to drive around West Philly with “Tracy Nelson is the Holy Ghost” painted on the door. (My own take on the “Clapton is God” meme.) I finally patched up the rust myself and handpainted it with enamel that I polished to a high gloss. I remember the day it was finally done: July 4th, 1976. I was standing on the roof to see the fireworks, and looked down to see my beautiful little white Bug in the glow of the streetlamp. Ahh.
The next morning, it was gone. Guess I did too good a job, because it was stolen for parts and was found in a chop shop a month later. It was very traumatic to find my little Bug not only stripped of her fenders and tires, but filled with trash and cigarette burns everywhere.
That was my last Bug. If I ever get rich, I’ll buy another one.
Still kind of headache-y, but okay. I did drink a diet Pepsi today because I wanted something sweet SO bad.
Also, I got my flu shot today. Yes, I know not everyone thinks they’re a good idea, but as someone whose flu progressed to pneumonia, I don’t ever want to go through that again. (I got the pneumonia vaccine last year, too.)
Day 3. I came close to cracking late yesterday afternoon, but managed to restrain myself. Boy, the craving is really strong! Fortunately, it was almost dinnertime and that scratched the itch.
It is 12:09. No sugar yet. Arghh.
So for three weeks, I’ve been wearing a brace and babying my Bakers cystic knee, elevating it whenever I could and icing it down. Until Friday, it didn’t feel that much better. Until Friday.
Friday, it felt so much better. I entertained the notion that I could carry a heavy chair upstairs alone, and I did! And nothing hurt.
Until Saturday morning, when I had to get up early and go to a family funeral. My knee, my sciatic nerve, and my hamstring screamed in pain: “NO! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, GET BACK IN BED!!!!”
It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had, and it lasted all day and all night. This morning, I tried to stand up and had to drag my leg along, like Frankenstein’s monster. It hurts SO bad.
I am getting really sick of middle age. I like the wisdom and serenity and all that crap, but you can keep this sort of thing.
I was at a memorial service today for an in-law’s brother. It was very moving – he was a Vietnam-era veteran who’d been an alcoholic living on the streets for years, then finally joined AA and got sober.
I really like AA people. The ones who really follow the program aren’t into small talk; they don’t speak in sarcasm, or passive aggression. They’re some of the best people I know, and I figured this service wouldn’t be your typical boring program. It wasn’t.
I was impressed by the diverse crowd that turned out. You could tell a lot of them were lawyers (the service was held at a church in the county seat) – and a lot of them were not. The ones who got up to speak talked unashamedly about their love for Snake (whose real name was Chuck). They talked about how he’d changed their lives, how open and generous of spirit he was, how hard he worked to be of service to others and how much he taught them.
It doesn’t get much better than than, does it? Everyone should have a sendoff that beautiful and heartfelt. Sometimes you go to funerals where you struggle to think of something nice to say about the deceased, but this wasn’t one of them.
Tonight I’m going to hear some music – oddly enough, to a bar right next to the train station from which I used to commute when I still lived in the Hellmouth. (I recently wrote about how they’ve fixed up the train station.)
Anyway, this bar is supposed to be really nice now. (Craft beer in Croyden? Who knew?) It was a real pit when I used to take the train, and I mean a pit. I used to see these old barflies stumble out into the light and pee against the back of the building.
So anything would be an improvement.
I was in IKEA last night with a friend, looking for these things I don’t know the name of, but I know they have them. They’re these cheap white plastic things you put on the floor, run your computer cables through them and snap them shut, so you don’t walk on them or roll your office chair over them. Since I ruin my cords on a regular basis, this would be a good idea.
But we couldn’t find them, and neither could the employees. I guess I’ll have to look in Staples or something.
Anyway, the place was crawling with Penn students selecting things for their dorm rooms/apartments. I said to my friend, “Imagine having so much money that you can pick what you want from IKEA, instead of what you can afford.”
My friend snickered and said, “Imagine being able to afford new stuff, instead of what people give you.”
So for three nights in a row, the little digital alarm I bought in a Rite Aid maybe eight years ago stopped working. This is a problem, because I have to take my thyroid pills at the same time every day, preferably early in the morning because OTHERWISE THEY KEEP ME UP UNTIL 4 IN THE MORNING.
The first night, I figured I simply forgot to set the alarm. The second night, I was careful to set it and it still didn’t work. The third night, it finally sunk in that I had to get a new alarm clock.
So I went to the thrift store, where I found this little $2 number that you have to plug in. (The other is battery powered.) When I turned it on, I saw that it had a mixture of bright, BRIGHT primary colors (this picture doesn’t begin to show just how eye-searing these colors are). Strange.
I also took the old one apart, checked to see that the batteries were correctly inserted, and set that one, too. Just for the hell of it.
And of course, at 6:30 a.m., they both went off.
