These Stupid Crutches Are Going To Be The Death Of Me!

These Stupid Crutches

These Stupid Crutches!

These stupid crutches have changed my entire routine.

Everything is now an enormous pain in the butt.

I’ve started holing up in my home office with some snacks so that I don’t have to leave the room all day.

There’s a bathroom next door, so my need to lurch around the house on crutches is limited.

Today, however, I was home alone.

And I kept hearing weird noises.

The dog was going in and out of the doggy door.

Again and again and again.

What the heck was she up to?

I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.

I crutched my way to the other end of the house.

Blue was nowhere in sight.

There were no signs of doggy destruction.

I called to her, but she didn’t come.

She was probably destroying something around the side of the house.

There was nothing I could do.

I peg-legged myself back to my office.

Again, I heard the doggy door flapping.

“Oh for **** sake!” I muttered and hobbled back to the other end of the house.

Again, Blue was nowhere to be found.

Unwilling to make the perilous journey all the way across the house yet again, I plopped myself into a chair to wait for her to make that noise again.

And then I heard it.

Oh no!

It wasn’t the doggy door after all.

I had accidentally shut her in the bedroom.

Blue had been scratching on the door.

She was so excited when I freed her that I had to hold onto the door frame for dear life.

Poor girl.

Poor me.

She was about to knock me right off my only good leg.

I had to stomp my crutches to get her to calm down.

She doesn’t like those things.

To be fair, neither do I.

I hop-stepped over to the couch to cuddle an apology to her.

But she was still very excited, and I was afraid that she was going to jump on my bad knee.

I had to stomp the crutches again.

But all’s well that ends well.

She spent the rest of the day napping on the rug in my office.

Blue and I will both be glad to be done with these stupid crutches.


I Am a Tidy Freak. I’m Freaking Out About Tidiness Right Now.

A Tidy Freak

I’m a Tidy Freak.

I am a tidy freak, I have realized, since I have been confined to crutches.

Not a neat freak.

A tidy freak.

Back in the day, before I had kids, I was a downright slob.

I quickly learned to rein that in.

I’ve taken to constantly tidying up.

It’s because I’m basically lazy.

It is a far easier thing to keep the house tidy than to actually clean it.

I’m sitting here with my flat-tire knee elevated, noticing all the dust and clutter that has started to accumulate.

My brain is about to explode.

My knee has already exploded.

My hands aren’t doing so well either.

I have carpal tunnel, and the crutches are killing my wrists.

I will be very, very, very glad when this is all over.

But enough whining.

I need to plan my get-well party.

The first thing I’ll do is to tidy my house.

And then – celebrate!


I Flew Home Solo With My Funky Knee and Some Whacky Wheelchair Service

I flew home solo with my funky knee

Whacky Wheelchair Service At The Airport

I flew home solo with my funky knee.

The wheelchair service at the airport met me at the curbside, wheeled me through security, and settled me at the gate.

However, when the gate workers arrived to prepare for the flight, they were furious.

Five wheelchairs were waiting to board.

“FIVE wheelchairs?” one of the workers bellowed, “We’ll never get this plane boarded on time.”

Ouch, I’ve been shamed.

“Can you walk at all?” she demanded of each of us.

To board this particular plane, you had to go outside and walk up a steep, three-level ramp.

No way could I do that on crutches.

The airport lady was furious.

My condition is temporary, but the gentleman next to me was elderly and perhaps permanently confined to a wheelchair.

I felt bad for him.

He did not deserve that kind of disrespect.

At any rate, we boarded the plane.

They stored my crutches in the overhead bin.

I spent the entire flight terrified.

If there’s any kind of emergency, I will have no access to my crutches.

I anxiously imagined every kind of horrifying situation possible.

I’m never watching Air Disasters again.

We landed without incident.

Until, that is, it was time to get off the plane.

There were no wheelchairs to meet us.

They were supposed to be there.

The flight attendants couldn’t leave the plane until all the passengers were off.

They were freaking out.

They had other flights to catch.

One of them was certain she was going to get fired because this same thing happened recently, and she missed her next flight.

One wheelchair finally showed up.

For five of us.

The other four people had connecting flights, so I let them go first.

Finally a wheelchair showed up for me, and I was eventually deposited securely into my waiting ride home.

Whew, I flew home safely.

I sincerely hope I never have to do that again.


How To Turn a Disaster Into A Magnificent Story

How to turn a disaster into a magnificent story

I Wrecked My Knee, and I’m In Need Of A Magnificent Story

A magnificent story is necessary at a time like this.

I wrecked my knee.


On my vacation.

I’m trying out all kinds of stories to see which one resonates.

The one that gets the best reaction is this:

Bob gave me a brake check.

I was on the back of his motorcycle.

He was going really, really, really fast.

Suddenly, he hit the brakes.

I flew off the back of the bike.

And destroyed my knee.

“Really?” people gasp, shocked that Bob would do such a thing.

“No,” I respond, “none of it is true.”

The brake-check story is far more entertaining than the truth.

The truth is just a standard, boring, slip and fall injury.

I’ve always felt that any major injury deserves a magnificent story.

My left knee deserves that great story.

Even if it does throw poor Bob under the bus.

Or the motorcycle.


The bottom line is that I wrecked my knee.

And I’m in need of a magnificent story.


It’s Her Happy Heavenly Birthday Today – Miss You Mom!

Happy Heavenly Birthday to my Mama!

Happy Heavenly Birthday!

Today is my mom’s heavenly birthday.

It also happens to be National Awkward Moments Day.

She would not have appreciated that.

It’s a good thing we never knew this holiday existed.

Her birthday dinners might have been, well, awkward.

Luckily, it is also National Lacy Oatmeal Cookie Day.

That’s a holiday she would have liked.

I’m making chicken tetrazzini for dinner, which I do every year for her birthday.

Maybe I will make some lacy oatmeal cookies too.

She would like that.

Happy birthday, heavenly Mom.


The Grammar Police is Watching!

The Grammar Police Is Watching!

The Grammar Police is Watching!

I hate the grammar police.

I know, I’m an editor.

I’m supposed to correct grammar.

But I don’t.

Unless I’m working.

Correcting other people is obnoxious.

Especially on social media because it’s so easy to make a typo.

I do it myself often enough.

I try to be very forgiving.

But sometimes

I saw a St. Patrick’s Day post from a public service agency.

It urged the public to “Drink Responsively.”


That post caused me physical pain.

Responsive drinking is just another name for peer pressure.

It means the exact opposite of what they were trying to say.

Responsibly is the right word.

Drink Responsibly is what that post should have said.

OK, I got that out of my system.

I need a green St. Patrick’s Day beer.

I’ll drink it responsibly.


An Oldie But Goodie

An Oldie but Goodie

Today is a good day to revisit this particular story.

An oldie but goodie. I’m busy taking a class, and I haven’t had time to write new posts. Today is a good day to revisit this particular story.

An Oldie But Goodie

This morning I came downstairs to discover that Bob had made coffee with a paper towel as a filter.

Apparently, we are out of coffee filters.

How can that be?

I just bought a package of filters.

I suspect that they disappeared into some sort of motorcycle repair project.

That’s where all our missing household supplies end up.

I wondered if the coffee might be poisoned by the toxic, non-food-grade paper towel.


I drank it anyway.

Beware the Ides of March.

If it’s not a stabbing, it’s a poisoning.

Et tu, Bob?


I Have Only One Question

I have only one question.

I have only one question. Why didn’t the dog bark?

I have only one question about this entire episode.

The other night, the Grown Son’s car broke down.

Bob and the other Grown Son set out on a rescue mission.

They had everything under control.

I went to bed.

I had developed, over the evening, a sore throat.

I took a dose of Nyquil and went to sleep, hoping to wake up well and refreshed.

But that’s not what happened.

I’m not sure what finally woke me up.

But my phone was ringing, and there were dozens and dozens and dozens of calls and texts.

The guys had been trying to reach me, but I was zonked out on cold medicine.

They didn’t know that.

They were freaked that I wasn’t answering the phone.

Bob called the neighbor to come and ring the doorbell.

I still didn’t wake up.

Bob gave the neighbor the keypad code to come in through the garage.

“Seriously?” I asked Bob, “He was in the house? That’s how people get shot!”

Which is exactly what the neighbor was thinking.

He was hollering at me from the garage door, and when he finally heard me on the phone, he got the heck out of the house.

Oops, sorry.

I didn’t mean to scare anyone.

Next time I take Nyquil I’ll post an alert.

I have only one question.

Why didn’t the dog bark at the intruder?


It Makes No Sense But She’s The Best Dog Ever

It makes no sense but she's the best dog ever

It Makes No Sense, But She’s The Best Dog Ever

Blue has been with us for several months now.

She’s such a good girl.

We have decided that she is the Best Dog Ever.

It makes no sense.

Wrigley was the Best Dog Ever.

No dog could ever take Wrigley’s place.

How can Blue be the Best Dog Ever if Wrigley is already the Best Dog Ever?

It must be Dog Logic.

That’s the only possible explanation.

It makes perfect sense to me.


It’s National Dog Biscuit Day! Who Wants to Celebrate?

National Dog Biscuit Day

Is This Really a Worthy Celebration?

It’s National Dog Biscuit Day.

Who thinks of these things?

I mean, I’m glad that there are dog biscuits.

Blue certainly likes them.

In Wrigley’s last days, when she wasn’t eating much, she still loved her treats.

But a national day of celebration?

Is that going too far?

Do we even know if they are good?

I do recall that my brother, when he was 5 or 6, ate a dog biscuit.

Or maybe it was dog food.

I could ask him if he thinks this holiday is worthy.

He’ll probably deny that he ever ate such a disgusting thing.

But I remember.

At any rate, Blue has started obedience training, and the treats are sure coming in handy.

I guess that’s as good a reason as any to celebrate.

Happy National Dog Biscuit Day!