I sleep late. I sit in the fog and drink coffee. I go to work. I stay at work. I debate whether I should bother to stop and buy eggs on the way home.
When my life flashes before my eyes in the moment just before I die, I bet I skip over this day entirely.
The wrist is pinned, and post-anesthesia hiccups--a most cruel affliction--have subsided. I am wiped out even without the benefit of having had my arm opened up and rummaged around in and having Percocet thrust at me like M&Ms, so I can only guess how Eric is feeling now. Next week should be better.
Eric will have surgery to pin the part of his wrist bone that's floating around in there to the rest of his skeleton on Thursday. He'll have a much smaller cast after that and should be back on the bike and engaging in other such activities in a month. No word if he's still going to say howdy to the security guard on his way to work anymore.
I feel like I've been run over by a tractor today, but not necessarily in a bad way.
I cried this morning. Several times. I may cry again, in fact.
An unexceptional weekend. Eric is a being a trouper, but he's a trouper who's in a lot of pain with one functioning hand. I helped him out as much as he would let me. I also did a lot of work in the yard, but none of it is visually interesting. Just a bunch of trimming, turning, and shoring so we can maybe have photogenic things out there later.
Some friends came over last night to keep Eric company, and we ended up watching the We Are One inauguration special on HBO so JLowe could see Stevie Wonder. I suppose it was what you would call a well-done, classy affair, but somehow people like Samuel L. Jackson and George Lopez are just not that inspiring, no matter how soaring the phrases on the teleprompters. The only truly notable thing about it was how strange middle-aged men like Tom Hanks and John Cougar Mellencamp look with craggy, age-appropriate jowels and unlined, Botoxed foreheads, especially when they appear one after the other.
Also, I thought it was interesting that there was only one performer that every one of my friends hated. I defended James Taylor, Kristy defended Garth Brooks, several people copped to liking that one Sheryl Crow song. But Bono, everyone agreed, is a giant self-aggrandizing tool. That made me happy because I got to tell one of my favorite jokes ever: Q: What's the difference between God and Bono? A: God doesn't think he's Bono. I wish the inauguration committee had invited me to perform. I would have brought the house down and helped to usher in a new era of uplifting rhetoric and true democracy.
I will let Eric tell you the story of how he ended up in the emergency room this evening.
As he was in what they call conscious sedation at the time and remembers none of it, though, it's up to me to tell you that the modern method of resetting a dislocated wrist seems positively medieval. It involves finger traps and an orthopedic tech holding the arm steady while the doctor repeatedly yanks the wristbone down with all his weight and strength, causing the patient to moan and writhe around on the bed. I have never seen a doctor sweat that much on the job.
Luckily the sling is effective, the Vicodin is strong, and Eric is ambidextrous. Poor boy. We'll know more after a visit to the orthopedist tomorrow.
Recently I discovered that if I drive on a certain section of the I-35 upper deck when there's not much traffic I can hit the expansion joints in time to the music on the radio. You have to be going just the right speed and goose it a little when necessary, but when it works it's like an automotive version of Rock Band and is totally fun.
I suggest trying this to a song with a moderate tempo. Anything too frenetic or slow could get you a ticket or a middle finger.
I am on hold with the bank, waiting to straighten out a small matter. I do not mind the music so much. It is reminiscent of The Weather Channel, so that's okay, even though TWC is dead to me now. Doot doot doodle...I have not had nearly enough coffee...doodle doot doot...what I do hate are the chirpy little PSAs they keep interrupting my jazzy slow jam with..."Did you know that if you log on to our website at doubleyou double you doubleyou..." Well, of course I have already tried to resolve my problem online and could not, you dingles, what do you think I am, an idiot who likes sitting on the phone listening to hold music?...Bana ba baaaa doot doot...Oh! It's ringing! Bye!
I am pleased to report all goals for this weekend were met and exceeded. The birthday parties were each fun in very different ways; one involved booze and the other had pizza and go-carts. (I suck a wiener at laser tag, in case you were wondering.)
Then we planted the redbud tree.
It seems like a nice tree. I hope it likes its new digs. (Get it? Digs? Ahahahahahahahashutupjoolie.)
After all that labor--digging holes is hard!--it was time for some fried chicken. The recipe I linked to the other day is really good. It's not easy, exactly, because setting up, disposing of, and cleaning up the spatters from a giant vat of boiling oil is a bit of work, and it takes about 20 minutes a batch. But the technique is fairly simple and produces consistently tasty, non-greasy results.
Everyone liked the chicken so much we started grabbing anything that was handy, dredging it in egg and flour, and deep frying it all. We fried artichokes, bacon (which was so much better than the last time we tried it), and bacon-wrapped chicken. We fried french fries and then dredged and fried them again. Everything turned out crisp, chicken-y, and delicious.
The best thing of all, maybe the best thing ever, was the half-eaten breakfast taco I'd saved from this morning.
The #0 from Mi Madre's is one of the best foods on this planet already, but man, I can't even describe how good it tasted when ensconced in a hot, crisp, nicely seasoned crust. We should all storm Mi Madre's and demand deep-fried versions of everything on their menu. Seriously, I feel like a better, nicer person for having eaten that.
So! I am giving this weekend a solid 'A', with only a few points off for insufficient lounging and coffee drinking. No promises, but maybe next weekend I can improve in those areas.
Here is our new redbud tree, which we will plant on Sunday. Its name is, of course, Buddy. The guy at Shoal Creek Nursery was very informative and gave us lots of good tree-planting tips, including what kind of compost to use to ensure redder buds. Trees are 25 percent off there this week if you feel like you'll want one anytime soon.
Enjoy the beard while it lasts! It goes away on January 20. I have to say I will miss it, but I am looking forward to seeing Eric's chin again. I wish women could change the way their faces look that dramatically. Instead we must make do with stupid subtle shit like blusher and Botox.
Update, 10:19 p.m.: See, isn't this dramatic? Which do you prefer?
My only goal this weekend is to plant a redbud tree. I didn't know this, but winter is the best time to plant trees here so they can get established before the heat of summer tries to murder them.
I am not totally in love with redbuds when they're just leafy trees, but having a pink cloud in the yard for three weeks out of the year will be more than worth having a so-so looking tree the rest of the time. I mean, they're fine. They just tend to be a little spindly and are not my very favorite.
I think I can do all these things plus spend some quality time sitting on my ass drinking coffee if I am very, very diligent.
Actually they look a little frowsy and dazed in this picture, but, see, they're all friends now, which is notable.
Except not really. They were never exactly not friends. But they weren't that close either.
Well, whatever. It's a picture of cats. I like it. Take it for what it's worth.
Will someone leave me a comment so I can see if this damn thing works properly? Anyone? (Sniff. I'm so lonely.)
I am very excited because Typepad frigging finally offers threaded comments. You have to sign up through yet another one of their weird services that is supposed to integrate your interactive online blogging web-based social media internet experience thingy but actually just creates another damn thing to log into as far as I can tell, but that's fine. I've been wanting threaded comments for years and was always very irritated that I had to covet any aspect of the LiveJournal platform whatsoever.
Anyway, now I have them, so you can be all like:
You suck, Joolie
and I will be able to respond directly to you, like:
You suck, Joolie
Felch a dog, Jerko.
and then other people can jump into the fray too, like:
You suck, Joolie
Felch a dog, Jerko.
You tell 'im, Joolie! I love you you are greatxoxoxoxoxooxoxo!!!!111!!!
And so on.
Please feel free to use the comments section to discuss this new development; the ugly comment icons; the weather; how you already knew how threaded comments work and didn't really need a demonstration, thanks. Or whatever! I will reply to each and every one of your comments because I can!
That's right, if you want threadless, you're going to have to go here from now on.
Update, 11:01 p.m.: It's broken! Where did all my comments go? The highest highs, the lowest lows, etc., etc.
11:38 p.m.: Still broken. I put in a help request. This sucks.
When my friend/coworker Bryan invited me to try the worst candy ever this afternoon, I just had to know. It's candy, I thought, and it's got a cute monkey on the package; how bad can it be?
I invited him to photograph my reaction and took a bite. I had been warned, but I wasn't prepared for the cosmic awfulness of Bananko. It tasted like bananas, dirt, and suffering. I hate all those things in candy form.
I gagged and spat most of it into the trashcan, to Bryan's great and loud amusement. Unfortunately it was sticky and grabby and took a long time to completely remove from my molars. And it had been such a nice day otherwise.
Bananko is a product of Croatia, which makes me sad. Haven't they been through enough?