Sling Blade

Time for an update on my recovery from that lil' ole Rotator Cuff surgery I had last week.

Over the past 211 hours (but who's counting) my arm has been held captive by a very tight papoose sling. I have a love/hate relationship with that damn sling.

I hate it 99.99% of the time.

When I'm brave enough to remove the sling for a wardrobe change, my arm feels as if 2 million alien chinchilla are gnawing at it.

My only relief is returning said arm to the sling. Which is when when I love my sling. (The technical term for this phenomenon is "Sling Stockholm Syndrome".)

Speaking of wardrobe, many would consider mine these days to be a fashion "don't".  But it's actually more like a fashion HELL NO, DON'T YOU DARE.
I wear a long sleeved buttoned up PJ shirt under the sling. And pull-up pants.  That don't necessarily have to match.  

I tried, unsuccessfully, to put on jeans but could not pull up the zipper nor fasten them one-handed.

It was quite the scene.  

It should be noted that I have not applied deodorant to my left arm pit for 9 days.  I suspect that is why Dave and Kevin can most often be found seated to my right.  Or in another room.

On a positive note, I have learned how to eat with my right hand.  Typically 82% of the food ends up in my mouth. Four percent lands on my face, 2% in my hair and the rest is, unfortunately, destined for my shirt, and contributes to the need for a wardrobe change.  

I entertain myself during the day by deleting junk mail from my in-box.  The rest of the time I am either reading, binge watching NetFlix, or shopping online.  

Dave thinks this surgery has saved us a fortune in shopping expenses.  Wait till he sees my Discover card bill.  Which brings me to my scathingly brilliant idea for a revision to ObamaCare: allow me to use my Health Savings Account card for surgical recovery shopping. (Feel free to use this idea, Donald.)

Dave and I go on one "special" outing each day.  Yesterday's trip to the Dollar Tree was just too darn short!  Although I am grateful to be getting out of the house, Dave has absolutely no appreciation for the Dollar Tree Customer Experience.

I was barely past the Rudolph Earrings and headed into the musical instrument aisle when I heard him beeping his car horn.

My surgeon, who has a very sick sense humor, prescribed what appeared to be Michael Jackson/Elvis drugs, but were really placebos.  The only impact the meds had on me required additional pills, the first of which I affectionately called S2.   (Stool softener)  The second was Benedryl, to get rid of the rash that covered my torso.   I threw a third into the mix: Chardonnay.   

I can finally sleep through the night.

I have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon tomorrow.  That's when I'll get the scoop about physical therapy.   If he takes my arm out of the sling I cannot be held accountable for his well-being.

That's all the news I have to report.  Except I'm still trying to pull my hair into a pony tail one handed. One of my neighbors did it for me last week.  She said my hair was soft.  

I must have had bananas for breakfast that day.  

I have an idea, but I'll need Dave's cooperation:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzJ7lf8mqBg

The Flopped Rescue

I was minding my own business in the Wendy’s drive through lane when I noticed some movement in the back of the pick-up truck in front of me.

The driver of the truck was paying for his lunch at the window.  His tailgate was open.

I surveyed the truck bed.  It contained buckets and what looked like an old freezer lying on its side, held in place with yellow rope.   

I saw something moving.  What was it?

Then it flopped.  

OMG. It was a fish.  A flopping fish.

I gasped.  What the flip was a fish doing in the back of a pick up truck in Wendy's drive through?

The fish kept flopping.  As if trying to make a get-away.  What should I do???

“There’s a fish flopping in that truck!” I said loudly to nobody.  

Nobody responded.  The fish kept flopping.

“He’s gonna die!” I roared.

Where did he come from?  The bucket?  He was about 6 inches long so he probably wasn’t bait.  Unless they were fishing for really big fish.

I quickly sized up the situation.  I could step out of my car and tell the driver that there was a fish flopping around on his tailgate.  He would probably laugh at me.

Or I could rescue him!  That’s what I should do.  There was a sidewalk between our vehicles.  I could walk past and casually reach in and grab the little guy.

But he needed water.  Badly.  His flops had become less spirited.  All I had was Diet Coke and I was relatively certain no fish could survive long in Diet Coke.  

I had no choice.  I had to tell the driver about the fish.

Except he drove away.  

“Wait!!!” I screamed.  “There’s a fish flopping on your tailgate!”  

I was sick to my stomach.  The poor guy was dead meat.  Make that dead fish.  

I drove up to the window.  The employee said, “$5.19,” without looking at me.

I handed her my credit card and in a shaky voice said, “There was a fish flopping around the back of that truck.”

“Say what?”

“There was a fish flopping around in the tailgate of that truck.  The one you just served.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see no fish.”

I did.  And I wish I hadn’t.

My fish sandwich would have tasted way better.