Bang

The weekend started this way:

I celebrated.  In the middle of this celebration, the POB walks in the Pig with Bird.  I spend a rollicking evening with the two of them (the POB was already 3 sheets gone and telling exaggerated stories of our past).  They talked me into paying homage to Epps at the PrintShop.  This was my first time there since it opened and when I walked in the PhormerPhilandering Irishman did a double-take and was very kind to me.

So was the POB.  Until.

I opened my mouth without thinking, and out spewed one of the POB's "secrets".  It was in context.  Think about it.  You're standing there at the bar, talking to two of your ex-boyfriends friends, people he's known, been drunk with, whose sofas he's lived on for longer than you've known him.  These guys are giving you a ribbing, because you're the ex-girlfriend and suddenly after a lot of years you are around to give ribbing to.  They start making ribald comments about your ex-boyfriend's balls, and in your celebratory (and okay, drunken) stupor (but that's the POB's own fault) you realize that something about that statement isn't right.  "Wait" you say, "What balls?  The POB only has one."  At this point, something tips you off that perhaps these people didn't know this (like, say, one of them saying "Really?").

Well, whoops.  But, you don't know what the big deal is.  The guy is giant-sized.  EVERYwhere (which may have been where the conversation initiated).  He has a kid.  He made you, his ex-girlfriend, cry because of his manhood (and you mean that in more than just a physical way).  So, what's the big deal?  Your tits are not the same size.  In fact, once upon a time, you had one reduced (the one that now, is the smaller of the two).  It doesn't mean anything.

Unfortunately, the POB didn't see things the same way.  Based on his follow-up phone calls (6 of them between 1:59 and 2:08 in the morning) he probably will not darken the doorstep of the Pig and Whistle and ask me to feel his muscles anytime soon (much to the joy of my husband).

So that was Thursday.

The weekend progressed into Saturday.  Saturday night, we went all Fellini on the neighborhood, and rode the scooter to Berkeley's house, where we joined her and the Little Irishman in the pool.  Berkeley lives a block away, but that didn't keep me from wearing the leather beanie helmet that Harley gave me last week.  We were so fucking cool, everyone on my block wanted suddenly to be a fat, white chick with a scooter.

I was so fucking cool, in fact, that when I went inside, all soaking wet and dripping, to find the Little Irishman (who was passed out), I slipped on the short flight of stairs leading to the side door.  The pain was nearly unbearable; much like when I broke my ankle 5 years ago.  I called for Kathy.  I called for Tom.  I simultaneously called for the Little Irishman.  Whatever.  Eventually, I had to limp and crawl back to the pool, where I whined about my injury.  In fact, my foot, at the time, had a weird bruise that looked as if a shark tried to take a bite out of the side.

Sunday morning I could not walk.  Sunday morning I could not execute the stairs.  Sunday morning I felt much like I did Labor Day 2003 only this time the problem was my knee.  Unlike Labor Day 2003, I have a trip scheduled to Key West in 3 weeks.  So, instead of opting immediately for the Emergency Room, I opted for denial.  Unfortunately, denial lost out to paranoia of broken knee things, and so I asked Tom to drive me.

An agonizing 2 hours later, the PA returned to my isolation booth and said only, "Nothing's broken.  But, do you maybe want crutches?"  A few minutes later crutches appeared, but no one else. A half hour later I was about 34.928 seconds (or so) from discharging myself.  Fortunately, I held out for that extra .928 second, because the nurse strolled in with not only a 3-day doctor's note, but a scrip for Vicodin.  "Ooh, package deal," I thought.

I spent Sunday RICE-ing on the back porch, and yesterday, when the pain was still too great in my knee, I took advantage of one of my doctor days, and spent most of the day on the sofa with Tom watching movie after movie after movie, and reading book after book.

Today, I'm back at work; I've already made an executive decision (or gave an executive opinion, anyway) and I'm still as behind as I was last week.  At least it's a four-day week, only.

Posted by: Book on 7/11/2008 4:40:32 PM , 3 comments