my feet, they hurt...

OMG, I worked 12 hours on Saturday. In new shoes. My old ones--which I've been wearing to work for three years--are at the shoe-repair getting new soles. Yes, they're so comfy, I'm paying to fix them. And honestly? The uppers are still in really good shape considering the odometer reading on them. But for the last three shifts, I've been forced to wear a new pair I bought--same brand, different style, and just...ow. And I was still stuck in those torture devices yesterday.

And last night, well, it being Father's Day, we got hit with a late rush. My manager (much though I adore him) was shortsighted enough to send the hostess home at 5 because it was dead, and then we got slammed at 6. The parking lot was full, and between two servers we did $1800 in sales, about 3/4 of it between 6 and 8.

On the bright side, my awesome manager (whom I have dubbed "Superguy") cleans tables, runs food, fetches drinks, seats people, takes payment, and generally does whatever it takes to help us out. And afterward, he took a few minutes to tell me how much he likes the way I work--said he really likes that even when it's busy I don't show my stress to the customers, I'm always still smiling and joking with them.

And when my last table--an old lady and her handicapped son (who were admittedly a major PITA), got up to leave, he told me she ALWAY complains and demands a discount every time because she's unhappy with the food or the service or SOMETHING.

I said, "well, she was a pain, but she didn't complain about anything to ME." He laughed and said, "Hah, you can take payment, you'll see," and hid in the kitchen (the bastage). The other server bursts out laughing and says, "Yeah, you take payment, haha," and hurries off to pretend to be busy elsewhere. And the old lady just hands me the bill and her money, says, "Hey, lovely lady, thanks for everything. It was wonderful," and leaves.

Apparently, that's the first time she hasn't had a laundry list of grievances when she gets up to the till. Hah! Take that! Superguy was stunned. The other waitress just stood there and gaped.

Of course, now this means Superguy is probably going to seat all the problem customers in my section, sigh. But bring it on. I can take it.

Is it bleeding?

Hehe, there I am enjoying my first coffee of the day, and the front door bangs open. Howling skirls up the stairs as Blammo charges inside and starts wailing "Mom, I hurt myself!" I turn in my chair to see him coming up the stairs, the entire front half of his hair saturated and bright red, blood covering half his face and dripping from his chin and nose.

"What did you do?" I ask as I usher him into the kitchen and grab a tea towel to soak with cold water and press it onto his...whatever is bleeding.

"I slipped at the park," he wails, "and hit my head on a rock!"

My buddy is hopping from one foot to the other, looking panicky, then decides she'll deal with the trail of blood on the floor and stairs.

"You're okay, dude," I tell Blammo, pressing the towel hard onto his head.

"Is it bleeding?" he asks.

The kid is literally covered in blood and he asks if it's bleeding. Um, okaaaay. "Yeah, dude, it's bleeding quite a bit, but it's probably just a little owie. Scalp wounds tend to bleed a lot, even if they're small."

After ten minutes of swabbing and trying to see through his trademark Saell thick hair, I still can't see the wound clearly, so I get him into the bathroom and get a tub running. "Hey, dude, you need to hold the towel so I can get your shirt off." I look at the blood all over his shirt, the size of the neck-hole and the size of his head, and decide, "I'm going to cut it off."

"CUT WHAT OFF??!!" he howls.

"Your shirt, dude," I laugh.

"Oh."

After about five minutes of pouring water over his head, I see an abraded patch about an inch in diameter, and two tiny perforations maybe a millimeter long. Through which, he bled a half a gallon of blood. And it's still seeping a bit. Stupid scalp wounds. But he won't need stitches. He's now playing World of Warcraft with a teatowel pinned turban-style around his crown, with a baggie of frozen corn tucked inside.

And the little bugger has been milking it for all it's worth--"Mom, I want some juice. Mom, I want some Dibbs. Mom, I can't reach my grapes. Mom, can you help me sit up? Mom, I wanted my salami rolled up, not flat." Oy.

Oh well. He's fine, if a bit whiny. But that was my morning. Wheeee!

:)

Howsh it goin, you guysh?

I am stoned.

My injured neck and shoulder finally sent me to the doctor yesterday, and after commenting that he'd never seen two shoulders quite so uneven (my left has been riding about two inches higher than my right for the last week), and prodding my strained muscles and tendons, he told me to take two weeks off work and gave me a blammo prescription for cyclobenzaprine. He also recommended I see the chiropractor--we have a guy who comes to town once a week, and the first six visits are covered by medical.

Of course, there's no way I can afford to take two weeks off work, but I am taking a couple of days. Carrying trays of drinks and heavy plates of food in my left hand had me in agony over the last five shifts, to the point that after three or four hours my shoulder and my ear were trying to make sweet, savage love with each other. Even on Robaxacet, within ten minutes of starting a shift, I was lurching around like Quasimodo, complete with pained grimace and inarticulate grunts.

The cyclobenzaprine works much better than the Robax, but holy crapweasels, does it ever knock me on my ass. I took my first one last night at 5, and by 7 I was zonked on the couch, a puddle of drool forming on my pillow. I'm hoping that the side-effects will calm down between now and Friday, since my boss is stuck covering for me at work and I can't imagine he'll be having fun working a Friday night by himself.

This will also stall my writing for a bit--despite the perfect ergonomics of my La-Z-Boy/laptop setup, doing between 1 and 3k a day for the last little while hasn't been helping me get better. So I'm just going to take it easy and try to keep it under 1k a day. Although I refuse to take a total hiatus--I'm on a roll and could lapse into writer's block at any moment, so I have to forge ahead while I can.

The annoying thing is, I didn't even do anything to deserve this. Just about everyone has asked (with mandatory eyebrow waggle) what exactly I was doing when I threw my neck out.

Um, sleeping. Alone. I went to bed fine last Tuesday night, and Wednesday morning I couldn't turn my head. Which really, really sucks. I mean, if I'm going to injure myself in bed, I'd at least like to have earned it. But no, apparently sleeping is a high-risk physical activity for me.

Jeez, I feel old.

Ooooh, Lookit What I Got!

Normally when the doorbell rings, it's the local Jehovah's Witness out to save my soul, or the obnoxious neighbor kid who won't go away until you apply your hint with a sledgehammer and a barrage of rotten produce, or a kindly passing pedestrian letting me know that my brake lights are stuck on again. But this morning, it was the Purolator lady with a basket of goodies for me. Yay!

As she handed over the box, she grinned and asked, "More books?" How's that for living in a small town--everyone knows everybody else's business, and they're often just as excited as you are when awesome things arrive.

Have to say, I'm as stoked as I was the first time. I'm wondering if it's ever something you get used to--holding your own book in your hands. As much as I love ebooks, as much as I hold to the belief that they're just as "real" as print books, there's something very...tangible about paper and ink. And the knowledge that now my work is accessible to the 90+% of the population that prefers print to digital doesn't hurt, either.

I will, of course, be putting one or two signed copies up for grabs as release day nears, and will think of something suitably mortifying for you all to do to qualify. I'm sure you won't disappoint me, either.

Just so you know, I haven't sniffed these books yet. I've been on muscle relaxants all week since I put my neck out on Tuesday, and I'm worried the fumes from the ink will interact with the drugs. Best to play it safe. :)

Kill me now...

After a week of barfalicious togetherness, I was all set to send my herd of brats to school today. Because no matter how much I love them, a week of whining, moaning, vomiting, hacking, nose-blowing, feverish quality time is enough for any mother.

The alarm went off at 7:30, I lurched up the stairs. Looked at my coffee-maker. Looked at it some more. Poured myself some iced tea and washed down a handful of pills. Then I stumbled back downstairs and crawled back into bed.

I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Fever, joint and muscle aches, chills. Only good thing is my cough seems to have improved and I'm not walking around with a wadded kleenex shoved up each nostril. But holy crapping damn, my body HURTS all over. No way could I have stayed upright long enough to get my monsters to school. Driving? Not a freaking chance. Only reason my fingers are obeying me so I can type this is because I've just had another handful of T-1s.

Does this make me a bad mom? I don't care. One more day off school will not doom them to failure come report card time.

For me, I'm just gonna go lie in the middle of the street and hope some kindly passing motorist runs me over. Blurgh.

This Pain in My Knee is a Pain in the Ass

Just got back from the doctor, and the x-rays were fucking normal. The verdict: Patellofemural Pain Syndrome.

Ugh.

Why do I say "ugh"? Because it means they can't fix it with surgery, won't go in with a scope to see what's under the kneecap, won't spring for more effective imaging than an x-ray, and pretty much the only treatments available are the ones I've already been using with less than spectacular results. Those treatments--taking painkillers, walking to relieve the discomfort, and applying ice--are either inconvenient or of questionable effectiveness.

How much does it hurt? Well, speaking as someone who has given birth to an 11+ lb baby the natural way, this latest flare-up--at its worst--hurt as much as early to mid-stage labor. Only you don't get that couple of minutes between each wave of pain--it just hurts all. The. Time. And it isn't dull or throbbing, either. It's like someone is jamming a knife under your kneecap.

All. The. Time.

The swelling is disturbing. The heat of the inflamed tissues, even immediately after you take the ice pack off, is alarming. Advil (even twice the maximum recommended dose) does not touch this pain. Codeine is its bitch. The only things that have worked for me is walking, and ice. Unfortunately, I can't even use this as an excuse to take time off work--being a waitress means my job is like physiotherapy.

Not being somnambulatory, I am left with one option at night. Every three hours or so, my knee wakes me up to let me know my ice pack needs changing. The walk to the freezer is a welcome relief, and by the time I return to bed, I can usually almost stand it. Sometimes, I need to walk circles in the living room for five or ten minutes before I can lie back down.

Of course, this flare-up could not have happened at a worse time. Sitting hurts. Driving is excruciating. Driving six hours so I could sit through my cousin's wedding ceremony and reception dinner was agony, even with an inexhaustible supply of ice from a cute bartender at the reception, and enough codeine to drop a bull elephant. In spite of all that, I managed to have a wonderful time. My cousin was handsome and charming, his bride beautiful and gracious. The ceremony was short and sweet, the venue stunning, the weather glorious, the food delectable and--most importantly--the bar open. Wild horses stamping violently on my bad knee couldn't have dragged me away.

That was more than a week ago. The pain and swelling have mostly subsided now, but the doctor gave me a prescription for naproxen sodium to take the next time it acts up. Of course, after looking at the list of side-effects in the product monograph, ice is looking better all the time. Generally, ice doesn't give you intestinal bleeding, heart attack or stroke.

But ask me again during the next flare-up. I'm notoriously fickle when I'm in agony.