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Archive for June, 2005

|| June 18, 2005 || 5:27 am || Comments (0) ||


I am shopping for a new car.*

Bring on the cake.

*Before I had, like, a million kids this was lots more fun and nowhere NEAR as stressful!

|| June 16, 2005 || 9:43 pm || Comments (0) ||


I sing of words misspelled the unpunctuated clause the unspaced line that runs like ancient Latin on and on…


I sing the sting of spelling bee’s the impending doom of great beginnings the stub of chalk that will not talk it’s way across the waiting slate the whispered slights behind the back the D that stands for dummy hotter then Hester’s shameful letter blushing red upon the cheek


I sing of eyes that stutter slow across the page that snag upon the shoal of silent E’s the inside joke of X that sounds like Z unsounded letters that lurk like waiting sharks below the inky waves of papers bone white sea


I sing of childhood taunts the mock we took for granted of quiet boys chose last for teams that grow up into men, who laugh too loud while pointing out their flaws before others have a chance to see.


I sing of mouths that move the silent word to sound amplifying every vowel as we read

The heroic failures, we Who bravely try again to ply the pen to page breaking every law as we go down spelling the world the way it ought to sound writing out our lives phonetically the way we did before old Webster bade us sing like he!

~Dane O’Hara

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.

|| June 12, 2005 || 12:43 pm || Comments (12) ||

Okay, um, shhhhh (and holy, holy SHIT!).

My eyes are darting about all cagey as I type this, but I’ve got to find a way to get to the store furtively. GOT TO.

…so I can purchase a pregnancy test.

All the tell-tale signs are there: I have extremely hurty boobs, things ‘feel different’, you know, down there, I can smell stuff like the carpet (petrochemicals, whee!) and the oil on my husband’s scalp. Plus, for three days I’ve thought obsessively ‘I’MPREGNANTI’MPREGNANTI’M SO, SO VERY PREGNANT, OOH!’ All of the previously mentioned things are consistent with each and every pregnancy thus far.

Last night, when I was comtemplating whether or not to discuss all this with Maxim, we got a call from my mom-in-law asking if we could babysit a two-month-old eedle girdle. We’ve not had a baby in this house since Mathias was a wee one.

Ha ha Cosmos, very fucking funny.

|| June 9, 2005 || 8:00 pm || Comments (4) ||


So, Maxim was mowing the lawn on Saturday. He always tends to get a little randy after yardwork, because the first time we, erm, traded fluids was after a hearty afternoon of him mowing and me hauling clippings as well as the various yard detritus that falls by the wayside when you are sprucing up the outdoors a wee bit. There you have it, folks; we crossed the line from best friends to sack shakers because he mowed my yard in the course of Just Being A Good Guy.

Fresh grass cuttings: aphrodisiac. You didn’t know?

On Saturday he came inside, spied me lounging across the bed reading a novel, then grinned at me lewdly.

MAXIM: Show me what made you famous, girl.

JETT: Welp, I can’t unzip my skull, so I guess I’ll unzip my pants.

I worried only minimally about the leg-throbby end to the whole Climbing All Over One Another Thing: I am a risk-taker, I have loads of pain medication left, and I was horny as all-hell from the forced abstinence and ginger bed-movement that my injuries have required (meaning, I guess, that were I able to jump on the bed, I wouldn’t have been so keyed up…whatever).

Now, you folks, I’m happy to report that the whole getting-my-eyeballs-jostled-for-a-couple-hours thing went delightfully well, and the sex life of the Superiors what’s in charge is back on its delicious track.

Just so you weren’t left wondering.

|| June 7, 2005 || 10:21 pm || Comments (3) ||

Because no tacky is too tacky.

My GOD, how I wish I had a billiards room!

|| June 7, 2005 || 4:10 pm || Comments (1) ||

Oh hell, how I love them.

I didn’t realize how much the simple act of recuperating takes out of you. Last week I had a staff meeting and two pressing meetings (shhh, don’t tell my doctor) with GALs. My friend and coworker Julie came to fetch me and bring me home; all in all it took six hours tops. I was home by three and at three-thirty, I was on the couch, physically exhausted. Me! The person who blinked in shock and wonder in the past if you told me that I actually could sleep more than six hours on any given night.

So yeah, that whole part of this thing is surprising to me. Somewhere in me, a little recovery factory is busy-busy-busy knitting together various bits and pieces necessary to my locomotion. And somehow, magically, even though I’m mostly just sitting here, it is taxing the fuck out of me. That concept is just blowing me away.

That, and the fact that the exposed skin on my foot and toes is crackling in an eerie and glassine fashion. It’s like someone has taken the sharpest of X-acto knives and carefully filleted my skin in a series of diagonal, graceful cuts as I slept last night.

Sort of creepy, but if crazing doesn’t bother pottery collecters, I’m not gonna let it faze me.

My family is really, really trying to lighten the load and make the best of things while I’m recuperating. Like right now, for instance.

Thirteen-year-old Sam is back there in the kitchen, dancing his heart out, making chili for dinner, and playing ‘We Are The Champions’ on an orange kazoo. Because crafting a culinary masterpiece of beef, tomato paste and cayenne pepper is a challenge before the whole human race he ain’t gonna lose.