As Alice Walker said, you can’t keep a good woman down. And make no mistake, I am indeed a good woman.
Currently wearing: cropped jeans, (which on me aren’t all that cropped), sheer purply long-sleeved shirt with a fuscia tank underneath, new ergonomic phone headset, and on my right arm: kinesiotape, compression gauntlet, and highly stylish thumb stabilizer.
Currently reading: Candy Freak by Steve Almond.
Currently listening to: Simple Things – Zero Seven.
Currently enjoying: new ergonomic trackball mouse.
Currently fantasizing about: Getting my right arm back.
My need to write and document my daily life is exceeding the pain which doing so inflicts, so here I am. In the spirit of efficiency, I’ll do a bullety-listy thing.
First, you must know that I love this song. It’s track #3, “Destiny,” from the Zero Seven CD I’m listening to. The beat is slow and sexy, the lyrics are sweet and moving. If you can get your hands on a copy, I highly recommend it.
I met Mavis! I met her! She was dear and engaging and funny and darling and it was such a good time. I wish we could have had a sleep over in my Baltimore hotel room, talking and snacking and laughing all night. It’s rare that I feel so comfortable with someone so fast. Of course, as we kept pointing out, we have known each other for three years, just not in person. So what a delight it was to see her sweet face. She is a treasure.
Old Navy’s plus sizes kind of suck, what with horrid fabrics and all of two differing styles (a button-down 3/4 sleeve blouse and a unendurably boxy tee), but I’m finding more larger sizes throughout the “normal people” styles – though, of course, not in the sexier items. That is because retailers FEAR THE SEXINESS OF THE PLUS-SIZED WOMAN! And who doesn’t, really? We make men cower.
Corn Flake and The Biscuit are great, thanks for asking.
A sad coda to the very enlightening FatGirl Retreat in late July was the loss of our digital camera. I’m not sure how it happened, and I am still grieving deeply. I suppose I’m stuck in the disbelief stage. Without visual documentation of my life, I feel sort of lost.
I have been to physical therapy (PT) four times. It’s not all bad. I get to meet new people, like my two therapists: Reticent Merril and Groovy Wiccan Debbie. I’ve read excellent articles on Aaron Macgruder while sticking my arm in a machine which blows hot air and ground corn husks all over and around my aching limb, providing dry heat massage and a funkadelic sensation. I’m learning my way around the huge hospital and the retro-looking basement, where the PT area is hidden, and I think that to celebrate my patient-ness and this time of pain and fun, I just might linger after my next Thursday appointment and have breakfast in the cafeteria. In other words, I’m making the best of it.
Did I tell you that we went to California and ate in the wacky restaurant at LAX? After that, we drove out to the Mojave desert and witnessed a space flight too. But that was two months ago, so maybe I already told you.
Work is work. Pretty bad in spots; better in others.
Big fat birthday is coming up. Leaving my twenties behind. How fun to get older!
This has taken me nearly twenty-four hours to complete. The cats are asking me to please be kind to my injury, and as Groovy Wiccan Debbie puts it “give my arm a vacation.” So vacate, I will.