High drama. HIIIIIGH DRAMAAA!

This morning, as my spouse was looking frantically for his keys in that ‘inna-bout-two-minutes-Ima-be-late” fashion, he yanked up the corner of a pillow that rested on the wicker trunk at the end of the sofa.

Unfortunately, he was so flustered and hurried that he neglected to see/realize that the pillow corner he was yanking three feet upward in a rapid fashion was indeed the end of the BODY PILLOW that my LOVING MOMMA bought for my PERHAPS COMFORT while she was here. Likewise, he did not see/realize that I was indeedly-doo RESTING MY (pitifully smasharooed and painstakingly put back together) LAIG on it at the time.

I howled, his butthole sucked up to his chin (and was visibly reflected in his eyes, I swear) and he froze with a sick look on his face. I said three things in rapid fashion.

“I HATE YOU!” (snarling, through sobs)

“Why did you doooo that?” (whiny, plaintive, now the sobs are hiccuppy, like a little kid)

“GET. OUT.” (still crying, but voice tinged with that echoey, Satan-y feel)

I’ve never, ever –not in our seven years of marriage, not in our eleven years of knowing one another– told my spouse that I hated him. Not once. I felt like about five-feet-ten inches worth of Grade-Ay Prime Asshole. I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know his scope of vision at the time was concentrated on the twelve-inch area he was exploring, and that was it. Maxim is one of the most tender people I have ever known, and I’m the last person on the planet that he’d ever hurt intentionally. So after I heard the door click softly, after I watched him pull out of the drive and down the street, I let go a flood of blubbery emotion.

Frustration. Physical hurt. Boredom. Feeling trapped. Uselessness. Drug hangovers.

The end result was me wailing like a baby for about thirty minutes before sense and reason took hold, saying gruffly and no-nonsensically, “GUH. Get yourself together, whinebag.

“And don’t forget to take a pain pill.”

pee ess…teevee got to the point of making me want to vomit about three and a half days ago. HOWEVER! Twilight Zone marathon today, and thank you JESUS, MARY, AND ALL THE SAINTS THAT INFLUENCE SUCH DELIGHTS! woo!

pee-pee (snicker) ess…don’t forget to enter the Piggly Wiggly tee contest in honor of my friend waistdog! It closes around five pee emm, my time and not yourn, tomorrow.

I, for one, welcome our cybernetic Beth overlords.

I mean, how many evil robo-organic killing machines do you know of that can make such nice little cigar-box purses?

She says she got a metal plate put in her foot, but I know the truth.

It’s just a start. Her program’s active. We’re all about due to face the fist. What fist? Why, the mighty metal fisty rage of Beth’s metal fist. That’s the one. And it’ll probably smell like flowers.

If you think this is funny, go ask that tractor who’s laughing.

That’s what they want you to think.

You can tell just from her name: Beth. It really means “Bionic Evil Tractor Hater.”

B.E.T.H.

Wait ’till she starts speaking in a German accent.

In remembrance

In honor of my friend Rick (some of you knew him as ‘waistdog’), his awesome sense of humor, his love of silliness, his fondness for his OWN shirt and because my memories of him are nearly all cheeky and funny, I’m giving away a PIGGLY WIGGLY TEE-SHIRT!

Waisty would not love the fact that I am in pain and my cute little Saturncar got smooshed all to hell, but I guarandamntee you that he’s hooting and hollering over the fact that I smacked a tractor, for godsakes.

What to do: e-mail me at JettSuperior[the at symbol goes here]gmail[the dot goes here]com with ‘SHIRT’ in the subject line. Then tell me something, anything. It can be funny, it can be sad, it can be a secret. I’ll take entries until this Saturday, then I’ll throw all your names into a hat and one of the Superior heatherns will draw! out! a! winnah!

Here’s to you, waistdog, you cute little Piggly Wiggly shirt wearing bastard you. You are missed.

UPDATE: This is for everyone, not just those of you that knew Rick. And if you have a moment to spare on your own blog, pass the word: THEY’S FREENESS AT JETT’S!

Not studyin’ a title, y’all.

I’ve been camped out on the couch since this whole brouha started (a weeeeek now, can you believe that?), as our bedroom is recessed and also bilevel. Lots of steppin’ at this point is a no-go.

My upper body and left leg are wicked sore from the oft-repeated series of moves that it takes me to heave myself from the cushions and into the wheelchair. I only ask for assistance when I am way beyond fatigued or in such pain that moving myself might cause me to slip and fall. I am a stubborn cuss; that coupled with the knowledge that momma and daddy have to leave tomorrow and I’ll have to do it on my own for eight hours a day while the kids are at school makes me determined to come up with solutions to obstacles.

This morning when I awoke and had to go pee, there sat my daddy on the loveseat, already working on the morning’s coffee and talknews fare. Knowing that I really, really need to give certain muscles a day’s rest so that they will be effective later, I set about getting off the sofa and into the wheelchair in a new fashion. Dad has been encouraging my gaining independence throughout this whole process, sort of in a quiet observer (SO out of character for him!) fashion.

So he watched out of the corner of his eye this morning, sipping his coffee, as I scooched hurriedly to one end of the sofa (GOTTA PEEEEE!) and quickly assessed the facts and trajectories and the basic physics of it all. Then, carefully, I maneuvered myself so that I was on hands and knees, face toward the back of the couch, ass-end toward the wide bank of windows facing the street. I then put my left foot to the floor and raised myself to a standing position. I let out a victory cry, and as I lowered my butt into the wheelchair’s seat, observed my dad laughing so hard that he shook and tears rolled down his face.

“ATTA WAY TO DO IT, GIRL! MOM, COME SEE HOW CLEVER YOUR DAUGHTER IS!”

This afternoon Maxim helped me down three steps and into the tiny slip of a bathroom at the back of the house. The showers in the middle and upstairs baths are not working to capacity yet; that’s one of the renovations we’d decided to take on bit by bit. Who knew, right?

So, through careful machinations and a few inches at a time, I made it back there and onto a shower stool left behind by last year’s deceased grandmother (I will never again curse my mom-in-law’s failure to get rid of things in a timely manner). For twenty minutes I was in heaven, scrubbing my scalp and shaving my pits and –let’s all chant along– looFAH! looFAH! looFAH! I felt pukey from the exertion afterward, but more human and well-put-together overall. The girls, inspired, painted my toenails a lovely shade of summer peach afterward.

This evening, listening to the sounds of three generations of Superior laughing and loving and enjoying one another float up to me from the wide expanse of dining room, I sat and thanked God. I thanked Him for my life, for all you people He has gifted me with, I thanked Him for quiet moments of happiness even amidst pain.

The realization that I am still here –still really and truly here, in this brutish, wonderful world– hit me for the first time since the accident happened, and I thanked Him with such gratitude and relief that before I knew it I was openly weeping and confessing aloud how very blessed a person I am.

Skillzy again.

Behold, the previously lost* wish list.

I’ve got dibs on sex bombs, so just back off. Everything else is fair game, she’s gonna need lots of books.

*OK it wasn’t actually lost, I just needed the secret incantation required to summon it forth.

HI! (<--see that? I am NOT that perky.)

This post had ambitions of being corresponding top five positives and top five negatives lists. Now, though, since I’ve gotten up, gotten in the wheelchair, maneuvered across the room, arranged the leg on pillows in a rolly chair, logged on, checked my e-mail and logged into Blogger….well, this post has lost its ambition.

My mother and father are presently watching Regis and Kelly. Help me Jesus! Two weeks of forced immobility, drugs and television will relieve me of all intellect, I’m sure of it.

It must be said, however, that swiping a washcloth over your dirty ass, along with some honey-scented soap, makes you feel almost human after five days of not being able to bathe.

It’s all about the small blessings. Must go vomit now.

*Friday Evening Update*

Skillzy again. I got a call from Mister Maxim a little while ago, Jett told him to tell me to tell y’all that she made it through surgery without any problems. They’ve put a plate in her ankle, and they’ve reattached all the stuff that got detached in the accident. She’s spending tonight in the hospital, and going home tomorrow.

Keep praying, next update whenever I hear from her (or she posts on here).

Oh, one more thing:

Currently this is linked to my Amazon account and I’ll forward the donations, hopefully once Jett is up and around she can make one that goes straight to her. Give till it hurts!