I'm Lazy. That's Why.

Here's the thing - one might assume that because I am confined to the house, I have all the time in the world to write things.  One must not assume.

One must instead realize that Heather is a lazy, lazy, cripple who is more interested in finding creative ways to bathe than worry about updating this blog.

Also, I really love to sleep.  Really, really love it.

But in all honesty, one of my jobs kept me on payroll since I don't have to be on campus in order to get the work done.  The other?  Shit-canned me within hours of me emailing them. Nutsacks.

(Best part of it was that it was a temp job, so I literally had no rights.  THANKS, ASSHOLES.)

But you know what else? That job was depressing and annoying, and the new boss? She can fuck the fuck off.  

Good job that likes me allowed me to do all this awesome fun research at the campus archives. And while that might sound painful to most, I was in my element. As a history major, researching in archives is like, I don't know... Christmas morning? But really, it's awesome. FOR EXAMPLE. In grad school, I did research at the National Archives, and I found a letter from Sigmund Freud to his grandson. Who was briefly imprisoned on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien after fleeing Austria after the Anschluss. What the holy crap is that??!?!

Right, so what I mean is that I continued working, even when hopped up on vicodin, because my wonderful father took me to and from the kickass library every few days and I was able to do research.

So that's one reason that I have been AWOL here. The other is the above mentioned laziness. And lastly, I was very busy coming up with creative ideas for bathing.

RELATED TRANSITION.

I had a stress fracture on the top of my left foot once.  It was my first semester of college, and I had a cast put on over break. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS. I had to get this cast condom thing that protected my cast from getting wet and soggy, which would thereby ruin my life EVEN MORE.

So I ordered one on Amazon, it arrived within days, and I used it a few times before the fucking thing broke. IT FUCKING BROKE.

But all of my swearing is now unfounded, because it broke on the morning of my follow-up appointment, and the cast was removed. So it served its purpose.

Oh my God, do you see what happens when I try to write again after a while? HORRIBLENESS.

I apologize.

OMINOUS WHEELCHAIRS

Because I live in a condo with two levels, I am lucky enough to have two wheelchairs at my disposal.  Kelly brought one over from her workplace, and my mom brought over my grandma's old chair.

This is significant because, well - have you ever used crutches?  They are a MASSIVE pain.  In the armpits, mostly, but also because even the very coordinated can end up on their asses.  I was constantly worried that I was going to do more harm to my ankle than I already had because I was always finding myself off balance.

Also, crutches are exhausting.  I found myself out of breath going from my couch to the kitchen.  Of course, that could possibly also have something to do with the fact that I've practically been living on my couch since May 4, but that's just conjecture.

The wheelchair on the lower level is getting a good amount of use.  When I get my lazy ass out of bed, that is.  I've gotten pretty adept at wheeling around the living room and kitchen, and it's really given me the freedom that I thought I'd lost.  After a while, I've even been able to cook and clean.

Well, I might be taking liberties with the definition of "cleaning," but at the very least, I am happy to tell you that the house doesn't look like a complete mess.

Upstairs, the wheelchair is pretty much imperative.  For the first week after I broke my ankle, I was either scooting around on my butt upstairs, or hopping on my one good leg.  It got dangerous when I almost fell down the stairs at one point.  And again, exhausting.  I think that I've taken a good amount of paint off of the door jambs, but I'll get around to fixing that eventually.

But wherever I am, the wheelchairs look like they are laying in wait.  Waiting to get me.  Look at it there at the bottom of the stairs.  It's all, "Yeah, come on down. I'll take you wherever you need to go.  If where you need to go IS HELL. BWAH HA HA!" DUN DUN DUN!

I have yet another appointment on June 5, and I'm hoping to get the cast off at that point.  I am NOT looking forward to seeing what my leg looks like under the cast, however.  This is what it looked like five days after the surgery (warning: IT'S GROSS):

LOVELY.

(Also, there are more pictures, but the bruising and the disgustingness is just too much, trust me.)

But then! I got this pretty cast:

It's been three weeks since my misstep, and let me just tell you, I am so fucking sick of this fucking cast.  I'm lucky that it wasn't worse, yes, but not being able to do much of anything is getting really, really old.

And I don't know when I am going to be allowed to drive again.

Broken Ankle = EXTREME BOREDOM

So as I sit here, bored out of my skull and waiting out my mandatory three-week recovery sentence, I can't help but feel like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.  

Of course, I can't see a damn thing from my windows, let alone MURDER.  The house faces woodlands, which is awesome, obviously, but there is no one to spy on. What is a crippled girl to do?

I can, however, see what food items my neighbors throw to the raccoons each day.  

Today?  Watermelon.

The other day?  Honest to God, they threw spaghetti. I wish I had a picture to show you, because I swear, you cannot make up that shit.  It was all over the sidewalk because - and I'm just guessing here - the arc at which the watermelon soared through the air was bigger than that of the cooked spaghetti noodles, and they barely even cleared the grass.

(That's calculus, and I've tried everything in my power to forget calculus, so I'm sure that it made absolutely no sense.)

So basically, it's quickly becoming less "feeding raccoons," and more, "let's just throw our garbage off of the balcony. Fun!"

It's getting to the point where I could create an entirely new blog entitled, "Things My Asshole Neighbors Throw Off Their Balcony."

There's Always a Silver Lining

I was falling in slow motion.  I heard the bones snap as I lowered myself to the ground.  I knew that my foot was stuck in something, and I knew that the outcome wasn't going to be pleasant, but I really didn't think that my simple misstep was going to result in this:

I was hoping that it was just twisted.  That it could be popped back into place. (Spoiler: it couldn't.)

I don't completely remember what I sounded like during the incident, but I imagine that it was something like this:

Yeah, that sounds about right. 

I tried to be optimistic, but I knew that it was broken. I heard the bone snap.

Going to the ER was a much better experience than my last two visits.  I was not left to my own defenses in a bed in a hallway, and I did not have to get stitches in my skull.

This time, I was practically the only person there, things happened quickly, and before I knew it, I had in IV in my hand and I blacked out.

Thank goodness, because I missed the part where the orthopedic surgeon rearranged my fucking foot. And when I awoke, I was too high to feel anything. 

Surgery is scheduled for May 13, and shit's gonna get real - they're putting in a metal plate and some screws and Lord knows what else.  So I've set up my "Recuperation Station" in the living room:

Yes, that is a bag of bottlecaps under the HGTV magazines.

So you might be wondering about this supposed "silver lining" referenced in the title.  There are several.  Here they are, in no particular order:

--Mike isn't traveling as much, so he's home taking care of me. This is awesome because I hate it when he's gone. Sometimes there is Taco Bell. 

--Kari comes to visit and brings the baby and we get lunch and Biggby and it's pretty much awesome.

--My parents come over and take me shopping and to the library and cook food for me and clean the house and do the laundry.  It's incredible.

--Kelly got me a wheelchair from her work and I am able to get my peg-leg self around SO MUCH FASTER than I was.  Because I was using crutches and also just scooting around on my ass.  Which is still how I go up and down the stairs, by the way.

--I can't drive or go to work for three weeks.  When I can't drive, I can't take myself places to spend money. Which is good because I am not working.

--Arrested Development Season 4 is going to be released on Netflix IN FULL on May 26 and I am going to binge-watch ALL OF THE SHOW without worrying about staying up too late.

So those are the things that make all of this bearable.  The vicodin helps, too.