The dead man's sink

If I am in a boat wreck, I am done for. That's a given. Today, I learned that my rotting carcass won't feed the birds. Even if I just lie on the water, I sink, so I guess fishies will get my toes. Maybe an octopus will eat my eyeballs. Unless, of course, my corpse bloats and provides buoyancy, which would be ironic because who needs to float when dead.

All right, no more grossness.

I did try the dead man's float and I did sink pretty fast. I remember that the dead man's float was about all I could do after my summer of lessons when I was 10. Well, that and going underwater, which I did to hide from JoAnne and the other girls in the next lesson.

In addition to sinking, I sucked in a lot of water. A LOT.

I am not sure why. It was through my nose, and I was saying to myself: DON'T. But I did. I am blaming allergies.

It's Miller Time

I wish beer didn't taste like gutter water because this evening I really wanted to say It''s Miller Time and pop open a cold one.

I got out of my trike and chaise lounge all on my own earlier today. But those acts were just warm-ups for Matt's Independence Day.

The joystick arm on my wheelchair has been bent out of shape for ages. It is a crappy design that encourages bending, I think, although sometimes I am at fault.

One of the times I was to blame was when I yawned and a screw on the arm broke. I had to get the whole apparatus replaced, but I kept the broken one for parts.

In time, the arm became loose and wobbly again, so today, I dismantled the wheelchair arm and put the old one on, using a screw from the new one.

Matt. Doing physical, somewhat coordination-requiring stuff. How about that? Dad helped on the re-assembly but I was the idea man and the dismantler.

My hero

Here is the conversation I imagine one of my office mates had at his dinner table tonight:

"Hi, honey. How was you day?" (Yes, my office mate lives in the 1950s."
"Pretty good, pretty good. The company reported really good earnings." [Appreciative oohs] "Oh, and I helped a naked man back into his wheelchair, so, you know, kudos to me."

In my defense, I wasn't naked. My pants and shorts were just around my ankles.

It was bound to happen really. I have worked there almost 11 years and I have never fallen and been unable to get up except when I have been fully dressed.

Now I have got the monkey off my back, so to speak.

I stood up after using the toilet and fell, not badly or painfully, and I certainly was not worried about getting back up. I should have been, obviously.

I stood up several times and sat back on my chair even, but each time, my chair was just out of reach and I slid down. My right leg is covered with scratches from the metal toilet paper holder. I know it sounds crazy, but at the time of the incident I was glad of the scratches. I thought they might wake my goddamned legs up so they would work. No such luck.

Eventually, I slid to the floor and my legs were sticking out under the stall. No one else was in the bathroom, and I couldn't decide whether that was good or bad. I was sure I would eventually get up, but I was so worn out and I was worried if I really stretched my legs out to rest them I might not be able to get them back to my stall.

I was so noisy, too. If someone was in the bathroom, it would have been an uncomfortable repeat of the "Who does No. 2 work for" scene from Austin Powers.

I was thinking of calling one of my friends at work for help when someone came in. He asked if I needed help, and I told him, "I'm afraid I do."

He said wait a second, then he came over, I opened the stall door and he pulled me up. He offered to pull up my pants but I told him I got them. I was so out of breath. He checked on me once more, said how tired I must be and then left.

If he had mentioned how much I must have wanted to cry, he would have had my feelings down to a T.

Attention must be paid

Several times the past week, I have met this woman at the elevators.

Actually, to say I met her implies that I know her or that she even acknowledged me.

I don't and she didn't. She walked straight past me like I didn't exist.

This wouldn't really bother me, but both times she said animatedly: Hi, Claren.

If you are going to say hi to a service dog, you really ought to at least nod to the person on the other end of the leash. You can even acknowledge me second, but I will not be ignored.

Red (Bath)rum

Finally, Verizon came and fixed the Internet. The modem had gone bad and needed replacing. I say finally because they were due Tuesday morning, and Mom stayed by the phone all morning because if they call and you don't answer, they don't come. When they did not come anyway, Mom called. The vaunted Verizon support team apparently told Mom that they called and got no answer. But Mom told them not to give her that and that she was with the phone all morning. They replied: Oh, we'll come tomorrow.

In other news:

It never ceases to amaze me how much blood my toes hold. For appendages with poor circulation -- at best -- I would think they would be nearly bone dry. Once again, of course, I'd be wrong.

I scraped the top of one of my toes on the door into the bathroom this morning. I pulled the door open, and it swept over my foot until it hit the toe. I really hate doors. Greg Brady was so on to something.

I shrugged it off because I am tough, shaved and went to the bathroom. Only then did I notice the color change to the floor: red.

It wasn't as much as the gusher of blood in The Shining. But it was more than I could clean up.

Mom got it up quickly, although she did say she would have to empty the trash to get rid of the blood-soaked towel before the cleaners come.

P.S. Claren the wonder dog and I got a shout-out in a friend's blog.