Cranky pants

This was not a great couple of days for yours truly.

I mentioned previously that I had injured my knee, complete with amusing side stories of klutziness past.

Well, yesterday, as I was taking the trash and recycling out, I was still favoring the knee and being quite cautious, but still assumed it was getting somewhat better.

In a single moment, that assumption fell to the ground like a lead goose.

As I stepped into the house, placing my right foot on the threshold (about 5 inches off the ground), there was a rifle-like report - CRACK! - I felt bones shifting violently in my leg and the mother @#$%^%&* pain of all pains shot up my leg and throughout my body as the world began to simultaneously spin and go dark.

My first thought was "I will never walk again...", quickly followed by "Damn it - I'm home alone. Where's the goddamned phone?" - as I struggled to stay upright, knowing that I was fair game for the dogs if I was unable to rise again on my own.

But I was able to keep myself upright and stumble to the living room where I sat until Brian returned from work.

Now, I'm semi-laid up. I saw the doctor today, x-rays are tomorrow - depending on what they find, I may have to do physical therapy, which seems weird to me:

"hey - my knee really hurts when I move it."
"Okay - let's exercise it then!!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
(sounds of muffled violence)

If it's anything but a bone or ligament, I'll need an MRI. Whoop dee damn do.

But for now - it's limited mobility, lots of Alleve (or store-brand substitute - I may be a cripple, but I'm thrifty), and a curtailed travel schedule for work.

Of course, the best part of all this is my parents' reaction when I tell them about the knee.

Dad: "Well, you damn dope." (this from a man who is missing one hip, the opposite knee and lives on Percoset in one room of my parents' 4-bedroom house - and who will very likely never get further than 15 miles from home ever again.)

Me: "Still better off than you. Nah."

and...

Mom: (accusatorily) "Well, what did you DO to it?" (like I took my knee out to the back yard and flung it on the ground in retaliation for some perceived slight.)

This is the same woman, who, when I mentioned an impending surgical opportunity concerning a bunion on my left foot (it's magic living with me, folks - truly!), she asked:

"Well how did you GET that?"

"Um...Mom...do you remember Grandma's feet?"

"She had HAMMERTOES!"

"um...it's not that different, Mom. She could strangle small children with her deformed toes...and drive with them. My big toe is starting to look like it's playing chutes and ladders - it's currently diving under its neighbor like a moray eel looking for prey."

"Well, I don't have those kind of troubles."

"Yes. This must be all my fault then. The next time I slice the end of my fingertip off while cutting lemons, I'll give you a call so you can remind me how stupid an act that was. As for the bunion, I'll have them save the bone fragments from that and make a pendant that I can wear to remind me just WHAT A FREAK I AM."

Can you imagine if she didn't love me?

Dear Jesus - then she'd be like her mother. Minus the hideous deformities, of course.