I've been remiss in my blogging responsibilities. But it's not my fault...
Okay, maybe it is my fault. But I hurt my leg and I had to work and spend quality time with Kwachie. And here's how that looks:
The other day, I took a step. A normal left-footed step. Something in my calf made a popping sound and it was so painful I could barely stand to put my foot on the floor. Yesterday, I nobly limped off to work, shuffled around the lab all night, and limped out with the rosy glow of someone who made way more money than she deserves for sitting around flirting with her coworkers and watching YouTube videos. The ER was dead, so we had extra time to speculate on the sexual orientation of every hospital employee, and which ones might be ripe for flipping in the right hands.
As usual, fun was had. Every day is Fun at Work Day if you ignore those pesky standards for polite workplace behavior.
My reward for sitting around for eight hours (with weekend diff!) was...BEER! I stopped for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale at the AJ Onestop on my way home. I bought the beer, walked out the door, and stepped down on my left foot. The thing in my calf popped again. It was so blindingly painful that I think I made the Edward Munch "The Scream" face. I got the door open, crawled into the car, and sat there in stunned disbelief, whimpering and clutching at the steering wheel. At one point, I happened to glance over at the car next to me. Three teenage boys were staring at me with that sort of appalled look that teenagers get when their parents misbehave in public, so I started the car and left.
It's about a mile to my house from the Onestop, and I think I drove the whole way making this sort of keening "aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh" noise that might have sounded vaguely sexual in other circumstances. Better circumstances. Like, if I were having sex instead of rupturing a calf muscle.
I dragged myself into the house, opened all six beers at once, poured them in a bowl, and plunged my face into it. I was trying to drown myself like the Coach on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman". Any posthumous embarrassment would be offset by the admiration for my creative demise.
No...not really. I considered it, though. Six beers and maybe a bottle of whiskey and a bullet to bite on. And then maybe a drunken home leg amputation and a stylish peg leg made from aged cypress wood and turned by me, balancing on one foot, on my new Christmas lathe.
Instead...I went to bed. With my collection of cats. And Kwachie.
And that's why I didn't blog.
See? Not my fault.