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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 15, 2005 || 12:29 pm

Hey, how many screwdriver-waving fools does it take to repair a wheelchair?

Dear Santy Claus,

I want to thank you very much for coming to visit me, even though it’s only June. I realize it’s unseasonably hot already for us, so the trip must’ve killed you.

The walking cast was just what I wanted, and as predicted, I did indeed overdo it for the first couple of days. Therefore, I’m lying about just a bit today so that I can overdo it for a couple more.

This is what we Type A folks call ‘making progress’. But you knew that. You’re omniscient and shit.

Yes, I’m very, very thankful for the ability to gad clump about, but could you take away the crazy cast-related dreams that came along with the ability to get up and go? That’d be awesomely sporting of you, old chap.

Ever a believer,

Jett Superior

pee ess…sorry I said ’shit’ in my letter to you; it slipped. Please don’t put me on the Naughty List.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Punknurse was happy to see me! I will bake her cookies on my next (hopefully last) visit. At one point, when she left the room, Maxim conveyed his amazement at her hair and make-up. I explained to him how she’d toned it down from my last visit.

I made her and Boneman hold off on the application of my walking cast so that I could shave and moisturize my leg. Boneman rewarded my excellent eye toward grooming by announcing to me that I was healing so well that he’d cut me out of my cast in THREE weeks, and not the four to five he’d originally estimated.

In other words: Roundabout July, day fifth, my ass will be in a bath the entire fucking day, soaking until my flesh looks like, welllll, whatever six hours-worth of water-soaked flesh looks like.

Monday was our anniversary (SEVEN YEARS AND NOT ONLY DO I LOVE YOU, MAXIM, I STILL LIKE YOU AS WELL, HIPPIE!), so Maxim and I planned to spend the day in Huntsville while we were there to see Boneman. I needed to pick up a couple things prior to my appointment; when I was in the wheelchair in his presence, Maxim always insisted on pushing me everywhere. On the way back to the car, he played Wheelchair Speedway with me across the parking lot and had me laughing so hard as I was buzzing along that people stopped to stare, slack-jawed, at The Spectacle That Is Superior.

About five feet from the car, we threw a tire and I was nearly slung from the chair. Thank God for plastic footpedals, for they art thine salvation when the rubber separates from your teeny wheelchair tire while going twelve miles an hour.

I got seated in the car, and Maxim began what turned out to be twenty minutes of cursing and sweating and Just Generally Being Pissed Off while I whimpered, “You’re gonna STAB me with that screwdriver, Maxim!” and he responded, “Oh hell, I am NOT.” every single time. He was, of course, trying to lever this thick ring of barely-pliable rubber onto its hard plastic rim with said screwdriver while I (finger quoties here) ‘held part of it in place’.

So now both you, astute and amazing reader, and Maxim know that my fierceness does indeed have an Achilles Heel: I am not the woman you select to hold something slippy-like stable while you attempt to coax it into place with something stabby. Protect you from a chemically wired knife-wielding stranger, yes. Hapless attempts at wheelchair repair, no.

After the requisite twenty minutes of combination whimpering, swearing, slipping, sweating and Just Generally Being Ineffectual, I happened upon an idea of some brilliance, as I am wont to do. No really, I am. I AM, I SAID!

I was steady laughing throughout this whole process (between bouts of being whimpertastic, that is), but Maxim had lost his customary good humor. Matter of fact, it was less like he’d lost it and more like he’d flung it far, far away from his person. It was surprising, let me tell you. But I kept laughing and that apparently kept the channels for brainstorming excellent ideas open.

“Load it up, my good man!” I exclaimed, “There is a tire place three blocks yon!”

So Maxim got to take my wheelchair for emergency repair while I sat in the car hooting so hard that I formed tears. He later commented that yes, he was horribly embarrassed upon his arrival there, but that chagrin was salved by the fact that it took no less than four burly tire men to fix a fucking six-inch wheel. After that, his sense of humor suddenly reappeared.

Our lives are filled to the brim with magic.

6 worked it out »

  1. Lothregast 6.16.2005

    Madame,

    Just a question… or two. Did you actually see the four burly men? We males have a tendency toward exaggeration, especially when our pride is on the line. I mean, how do you know it wasn’t just one pimply faced teenager? Just kidding really. Nothing against M.

    And by the way, have we any idea as to what is your current condition in the new mouth department? Just curious. really… I’m not like DYING to know or anything… honest. Seriously. Fine then, don’t believe me.

    Yours,

    Lothregast

     
  2. Jettomatika 6.16.2005

    Boobs still hurt. Emotions up and down. Crazy-ass dreams (moreso than usual). No monthly yet, although I won’t technically be ‘late’ until the weekend.

    Now that I have the walking cast on, it will be easier for a pal to come retrieve me and sport me away to get a pee test.

    You readers will be the third through hundredth to know!

     
  3. Jettomatika 6.16.2005

    And yes. They were burly. And there were four. Which heightened my glee by roughly eighty percent.

     
  4. redclay 6.16.2005

    what’s wrong with your old mouth, honey?

     
  5. Jettomatika 6.16.2005

    Whaaa?

     
  6. redclay 6.17.2005

    “And by the way, have we any idea as to what is your current condition in the new mouth department?”

    sounds like he knows something i don’t.

     

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