Klutz Update

My daily routine has been totally revamped since breaking my leg and becoming dependent upon the kindness of strangers friends.  Stuck in a recliner most of the day, I keep in touch with the world electronically rather than venturing out.  However, being away from my home and my "writing chair", I've found it difficult to keep up with my writing.  I had no idea my chair was so integral to my semi-creative process.  Or maybe it's just the difference between the quiet solitude of my house vs. a house with animals and actual people to talk to throughout the course of the day. 

Rather than lamenting my lack of creativity, though, I've been embracing the opportunity to spend time with these wonderful friends who have taken me into their home and attended to my every need. 
I find I laugh a lot more when around people and that aids in my recovery.

However, I did have a bit of a setback late last week when I visited the doctor for the first time since being discharged from the hospital.  Originally I had been told I'd be off my leg for four to six weeks, so imagine my dismay when they told me it would be another TEN weeks before I could put any weight on my leg.  What the.....?  I'll never get home again at this rate! 

But then, once I took a look at the x-rays, I began to understand.  I had imagined a neat little plate with some delicate screws holding my fibula together.  I had no idea it would actually look like this:

Yeah, there's the plate with the six delicate little screws, but what's with those great big long screws?  Who knew I was going to become the bionic woman?  Now... if only all that hardware actually made me able to leap tall buildings at a single bound...

From Klutz to Bubble Woman

Great news!  My friend, Cherie (of the House of Evil where people who enter break limbs), offered to make me a suit out of bubble wrap to prevent further injuries.  Then I remember something I'd seen that would offer another way to protect myself as a bona fide klutz.....

 

Zorbing!

Perfect!  Definitely the safest mode of ambulation for accident prone people such as myself.

Then again, maybe not....

Damn... it's always something!

Why I'll Never Become a Crash Test Dummy

 It's amazing what you find out about yourself by reading.  While sitting around with my leg propped up, I have plenty of time to catch up on that stack of books I've been meaning to read. 

I just finished Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers last night.  It's probably not something I would have picked up on my own, but my friend Nancy happened to have it when she was in the ER with me last Sunday and it turned out to be quite fascinating.  Basically it tells about the many ways cadavers are  used in science... from anatomy classes, to crash test dummies, to ballistics, to determining causes of plane crashes, to discovering new alternatives to cremation and embalming/burial. 

One of my favorite sections was about the use of cadavers in crash tests.  Seems there are certain things that the typical plastic crash test dummies can't measure.  So, occasionally, they've used actual cadavers or parts thereof in crash tests.  Whoa!  Now that would be a cool way to contribute to scientific inquiry!  Sadly, though, I'll never be able to will my body to be a crash test dummy.  It seems klutzes need not apply.  My broken bones would prevent my cadaver from being any use to the crash test laboratories.  Damn!  That would have been a great way to make a contribution! 

Then there was the chapter on alternatives to burial or cremation.  Strangely, I liked the idea of being flash frozen in liquid nitrogen and then bombarded with ultrasound to be broken up into little bits that could be used as fertilizer.  Cool!  (Literally & figuratively.)  I'd volunteer for that one!

So many things I just hadn't thought about before.  Guess this whole invalid thing is expanding my horizons! 

Now... what to read next?

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Go Out...

After a few weeks of vegetating, I figured it was time to get back to living life to its fullest.  Following a wonderful walk in the woods with Vlad on Sunday afternoon, a friend invited me over for a wine & hot tub evening with a couple of women friends.  Sounded like a plan!  Off I went.

So, with glass of wine in hand I walked out onto the deck beneath the evening stars....

... and promptly missed a step in the dark.

The glass of wine went flying up into the air, I hit the deck (literally), the wine came splashing down on top of me, and I heard something pop... not a good sign.

It didn't look good, either.

So, smelling like a wino, I went for a little ride in the ambulance to the hospital.  I spent the night in the ER, went to x ray three times, was splinted four times before they got it right and was wheeled into surgery around 12 hours after arriving at the ER.

Luckily, my friend Nanodance followed the ambulance and kept me company for awhile.  She also left me with perfect reading for the hospital:

My friend Ann broke into my house, (setting off the alarm and having a lovely chat with the security people,) and raided my domicile for the necessities of life... clean underwear, toothbrush and computer.

My friends Heather, Emma and Cherie brought me contraband DP (the perfect thing for getting those important bodily functions moving again.)

So, here's the wrap-up of my fun evening out...

Diagnosis:  broken fibula and dislocated tibia.
Treatment:  plate and screws in fibula, yanking, pulling and splinting for tibia.
Length of hospital stay: 3 nights.
Recovery time:  4-6 weeks without putting any pressure on the leg, then physical therapy.
Fun Drugs: Vicodin and a blood thinner that I get to inject into my stomach every night for the next four weeks. EWWW!  (I'll need the Vicodin to get up the nerve to do that.)
Means of transportation:  old lady walker, using my leg with the torn ACL & MCL to try to hop around the home.  (Ann also went out and bought me a new leg brace and a raised toilet seat... just to make things easier... and to make me feel even more like an old lady.)
Recovery Location:  My dear friend Shamra's house. (Remember the chickens?) 

Good times!  Good times!  So glad I went back out amongst the living!

But, seriously... don't I have the most awesome friends ever?

No, I Did NOT Slit My Wrists Just Because I Didn't Get a Valentine...

Despite all my moaning and groaning because my dog was the only one in the house who got a valentine this year, I ended up having a lovely Valentine's Day.  Vlad came home from college and we went out for a delightful meal, stopping for a cup of tea on the way home. 

In typical CatLady fashion, though, the day was not without incident.  I happened to be watching a friend's dog for a couple of days... a teacup chihuahua weighing in at about 4 pounds, compared to the Wonder Dog's 120 pounds.  It was kind of fun having a lap dog around for a change of pace.  She wasn't too thrilled about sharing the house with a big lump of a dog, though.  There were a few snarls before everyone got settled down.

 

Little Dog

 

Big Dog*

When Vlad arrived, he was delighted to see Ariel the Rat Dog, (as her owners lovingly call her.)  So while he was busy saying hello to her, I decided to take the opportunity to let the Wonder Dog out to do his thing.  Unfortunately, in my excitement to see my child, I wasn't paying close enough attention to what I was doing with my dog.

My knee slipped out of joint... (remember me falling down the stairs at Thanksgiving?)... and I fell forward down the two steps leading to the back door.  Putting out my hand to stop my fall, I managed to put my hand through the glass of the door...

Crash!  Bang!

OOOPS!

Fortunately it did not necessitate yet another trip to the emergency room... but it came close.  Another smidgen deeper and I'm afraid I would have sliced open something rather important.

But even though I avoided the hospital this time, I have to tell you... people look at you very suspiciously when you walk around with your wrist all bandaged up.   Especially on Valentine's Day.

I wonder why these things happen to me on holiday weekends?  I'm beginning to think I need a keeper.  

Meanwhile, St. Patrick's Day is only a month away.  Uh oh...   I'll keep you posted!

*One of these days I'll have to clue you in to why my dog looks like he's wearing a bad toupee. 

I Get By...

How apropos that this week's Theme Thursday topic is..

Friend

My friends have come out of the woodwork this week to help out after my fall. I have awesome friends both locally and in the more global online world. One thing about blogging is that no matter what the hour of the day or night, you can always feel in touch with somebody. When I wake up in the middle of the night and can't sleep, I know I can reach out and connect with a fellow blogger. Reading about what's going on with somebody else, getting a chuckle or guffaw, being inspired by some nuggets of wisdom or reading a response to something you wrote makes you remember how connected you are in the world. And that's what having friends is all about. To connect to other people is to be alive.

I can think of no better way to say "Thank You!" than to share an oldie, but goody.

Love to you all!

Now, please share the love and check out the other Theme Thursday participants by clicking on this link:

More Theme Thursday Friends

It Helps Having Friends in High Places!

In the continuing saga of my pitiful existence...

It turns out I have friends in high places! Always handy! That's one of the advantages of living long enough to have accumulated a variety of acquaintances in a variety of professions. My physician friend had his office call up the orthopedist's office and got me an appointment for this afternoon. Yay!

Of course, the orthopedist was looking at me funny and I know what he was probably thinking... "Stuck up bitch made me open up a spot for her when she had a perfectly good appointment for next week!" He kinda looked like this:

House has Zombie eyes! Run!

But not quite as scary as House. I'm sure House would have just called me a "whiny butt" to my face and walked away after knocking my crutches out from under me with his cane. But this guy was more polite. He didn't say a thing. Maybe it was his way of protecting his self esteem by not admitting my friends were more important than his friends. Whatever...

But, to be fair, he was very nice and told me he thought I had been managing very well in the last 5 years since I tore my ACL & MCL. He said I could get rid of the immobilizer, but that I had to keep the crutches. GRRRRR. I hate crutches. But since the immobilizer was causing a rash on my leg, I suppose the crutches are the better choice.

And, I get to go back to physical therapy for a few visits to strengthen what muscles I have left in my knee. Physical therapy is kind of like torture as far as I'm concerned.


Wikipedia photo of torture
rack in the Tower of London.
I remember seeing this the
last time I had PT.

Seriously, this is probably what I have to look forward to.

I'll most likely be attached to all sorts of implements of torture over the next few weeks. Damn!

Plus the doctor gave me a note so I could go back to work. He actually asked how soon I wanted to go back. While it would have been nice to have a "get out of work free" card, it's also good to make some money to pay for all the medical expenses I'll be incurring, what with the emergency room visit and PT and such. So I'll be heading back in tomorrow after PT.

Besides, left to my own devices, I'd probably just fall down the stairs again at home anyway from complacency and sheer boredom. Going back to work will keep me out of trouble.

Now My House is Trying to Kill Me!

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that Thanksgiving weekend 2009 was like a roller coaster ride in which the ride going up was great and the part where you spiral down out of control kinda sucked.


Thanksgiving itself was pretty good. Much better than last year when a former co-worker of my ex turned up at the same dinner and proceeded to spend the evening asking me about my ex and his new sweet young thaing spouse and her daughter. (Like I freakin' care? Hell, at that point, I didn't even know what their last name was and hadn't a clue what her daughter's first name was!) Happily, this year we had dinner with some of our oldest and dearest friends who provided great food and plenty of levity. A lovely contrast!

Friday, Vlad and I escaped the shopping hoards of Black Friday to watch the Zombie hoards chase our heroes and heroines in Zombieland.

Anyway, I was fine until Saturday, when I discovered I only had $24 in my checking account to last until next Friday. So I decided to throw myself a major pity party. (Apologies for the total downer post on Saturday... I couldn't help myself.)

Late Saturday night I started cheering myself up by fleshing out my "Let's Go to Prison for Retirement" plan. (Getting back to my usual irreverent brand of humor.) And boy, have I gotten a lot of great suggestions for how to make that work! I can taste that prison food on my tongue already. Sure hope they have Dr Pepper at the prison store to wash it all down with. (Or maybe Quirky could bake a couple of cans into a cake for me when she comes to visit.) But I have yet to reconcile myself to the fact that there's no beer in prison... that might be a deal breaker.

Which brings us up to Sunday. Considering I still have to work until I come up with the perfect victimless crime, I decided to do a little planning for the wee ones. Which meant going up into the scary attic to look for some supplies. And there was some great swag to be found up there. All sorts of gems in the costume department, fabulous picture books galore, great fabric for making tents and my army surplus parachute for who knows what. I'd hit the Pre-Kindergarten mother lode! So, I loaded up my arms with as much booty as I could carry and started down the attic stairs.

That's when a book slipped from atop the pile and planted itself beneath my feet. At which point I fell to my knees on the steps, hurtling forward until I slammed my head against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

Not good.
Now I'm convinced my house is trying to kill me!

Okay! Okay! So it wasn't really the house's fault, but in my present mood, I was ready to blame anyone or anything, including the four year old imps who provided the reason to go to the attic in the first place. Thank the goddess Vlad was home for the weekend and heard the crash and thud. And for once I actually threw off the mantle of the Midwest Martyr and said, "Take me to the Emergency Room". (The fact that my head was bleeding and my pupils were varying sizes kinda sealed that deal.)

But let's not get too carried away. I had Vlad drop me at the ER door and sent him on his merry way to study for the afternoon. I'd be "fine... just fine" by myself. Poor Vlad... later I found out he thought I was mad at him for tripping over the shit on the stairs... he thought it was his shit I tripped over. In all fairness, it's the house that's evil... and to be honest, we both contributed to the detritus placed there.

Of course, if you're going to go to the ER, I suggest going on the Sunday afternoon after Thanksgiving. By that time all the people who got food poisoning from undercooked turkey or stabbed in the hand by their cousin because they were trying to take the last dinner roll have all been discharged. I've gotta say I was a little disappointed, though, when I wasn't greeted by these guys....


No dishy Doug Ross or Peter Benton to hold my hand while I got a CT scan of my head and multiple x-rays of my knee? I feel so cheated. I would have settled for Neela or Abby, (both hot chicks.) Even NGIP got to meet Anthony Edwards earlier this fall and she didn't have a head injury or anything. No fair!

The good news is I have no brain bleed, but I'm supposed to take it easy for a couple of days... and have someone check in with me every four hours to make sure I'm lucid. Since I live alone, I'll just have to set my alarm clock and wake myself up... I can always write the questions I need to ask myself on a post-it note next to the bed.

The bad news is I have an avulsion fracture on my knee... don't know if it's new or a remnant from when I tore my ACL and MCL about five years ago. They sent me home with another "immobilizer" and crutches... then it's back to see the orthopedist later in the week. Oh joy, oh rapture! (But, seriously... do you think this immobilizer makes my leg look fat?)

Yes, that's a pizza box next to my foot... since I was incapacitated Vlad went on a pizza run so I wouldn't starve.

Looking at the sunny side... maybe this will prompt them to do something to alleviate the chronic pain I have in my knee. Maybe my house isn't trying to kill me after all... maybe it's just trying to tell me something.

WTF Wednesday #2: Hooked on Fishing

When I posted those 10 secrets that were required for the Honest Scrap Award, one dealt with having skewered myself with a fish hook.  If that's not a reason to say WTF, I don't know what is.*

It started out simply enough... my brother Waldo and I decided to go fishing at the local park about three blocks from our house.  Not yet devotees of Izaak Walton, we had very simple equipment... a rod and reel, a bamboo pole, some fishing line, a couple of hooks and some worms we dug up in the backyard.

We figured we knew what we were doing.  Waldo even caught a few fish.  I wasn't having any luck... the fish just ate the worms off my hook.  WTF?

At one point during the outing, my bamboo pole was laying on the ground as I squeamishly impaled yet another worm onto the hook.  (I didn't like that part, but Waldo refused to do it for me.)  About the same time, Waldo decided to switch spots and walked around me on the path. Tripping over my bamboo pole, he went flying.  With no spinning reel to let out some slack, the line tightened, forcing the hook, worm and all, into my finger.

WTF is this fish hook doing in my finger?

WTF is it with this worm still wriggling around on the hook?

WTF... I think I'm dying!

Meanwhile, Waldo was yelling at me for leaving my pole around where it could trip him.  WTF? Here I am dying, and he's blaming me for tripping him?  WTF?

Once he realized I had the barb firmly embedded in my finger, Waldo began to feel a little bit sorry for me.  He even had the wherewithal to detach the worm from the hook that was now permanently attached to my anatomy.  Meanwhile, I clung to my finger, cutting off all the circulation so that the worm germs didn't get into my bloodstream.  My life was passing before my eyes... all 9 years of it.  WTF?  To be brought down in my prime by blood poisoning!

I grew even more faint when we got to the doctor's office and learned that the only way to remove the hook was to push it the rest of the way through my finger, cut off the barb and then pull it back out the other way.  WTF?  Even with novocaine, I was convinced I felt everything.  A tetanus shot later and it was all over.

So the next time you're sitting there thinking, "WTF is that fish hook doing in my finger?", here are some instructions for what to do.  I personally like the last part of Step #9.  I mean, WTF... shouldn't a 9-year-old be given a shot of whiskey in that situation?  I think I deserved it!  

Hey!  They forgot to give me the shot of whiskey!  WTF?

How-to-Pull-a-Fish-Hook-from-Your-Finger

(blatantly stolen from http://www.wikihow.com)

Steps

1. Carefully push the hook through your finger, toe, etc. until it pushes through the other side, unless the barb is not in. It hurts, but it's better than ripping it out the way it came.

2. Take a pair of pliers with wire cutters on them, and cut the barb off the hook.

3. Pull what's left of the hook out. This should hurt a little more, but still way better than ripping the hook out.

4. If bleeding is severe, apply pressure to both sides of the wound until the bleeding slows down and apply a bandage.

5. Get a tetanus shot, just in case the hook is rusty.

6. There is an alternate method for removing a fish hook when it is stuck in deep tissue.

7. Take a foot long piece of fishing string and make a loop around the bend of the hook.

8. Hold string in one hand, and push down on the eye of the hook with the other hand.

9. Distract the patient, then yank the string. Pushing down on the eye of the hook keeps the barb from ripping a much larger hole on the way out.  Apply a band aid and a shot of whiskey if needed.

*(Although at the time it happened, I had no idea what the F word was, let alone WTF.  I'm just sayin'.) 

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to Get More Coffee...

Speaking of funny things... Lynn over at Funny Girl Goes Blog sent me a little present this week.

Seems I tickle her funny bone every once in while... either that or she just wants to get some good dirt on me. You see, she divulged some really good dirt about herself and now she wants me to do the same.

If I share my honest, innermost secrets with all of you, I get to have the Honest Scrap Award that Chrissy over at I Shoulda Been a Stripper passed on to Lynn.

But wait! Maybe "Honest Scrap" refers to all the scrap crap I have laying around the house. Maybe Funny Girl is really coveting some of my Connoisseur's Crap and wants me to share some of that! I could probably come up with more of that to share than I could secret dirt.

What do you think? Here are the rules for the award:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!

(I can do that... I'm good at sharing.)

2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.

(Do they really have to be true? It would be much more interesting if I made something up.)

3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.

(Oh, yeah! I love giving presents!)

4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.

(If they're still speaking to me after I share my 10 secrets, I guess they'll find out.)

5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

(Which means MY responsibility is to link back to Funny Girl... done and done.)

If I do all those things, I get to have this....


So, now for the honest crap/truth about me.... (Please be sure to read to the end... they start out kinda slow, but I build to a great finish, if I do say so myself.)

1. I broke my first bone when I was 42... playing on the playground at school... klutz!

2. I'm totally uncoordinated. (Hence #1.) I'm not sure that counts as a secret, though.

3. Speaking of uncoordinated, I once got a fishhook stuck in my finger, which had to be pushed all the way through! Ouch! Gross! The worst part was that I did it while I was putting a worm on the hook, so both the worm and I were impaled together. (Seriously #2)

4. I know how to walk on stilts... my dad made us some when we were kids and we used to walk all over the neighborhood on them. (Despite #2.)

5. I have a scar under my nose that makes me look like my nose is running... constantly. (Thanks, mom & dad, for not asking for a plastic surgeon.) The result of falling face first into a gravel road while I was learning how to ride a bike... (Again, refer to #2.)

6. My early years were spent in rural Iowa, where my dad was a minister... my siblings and I played "baby Jesus" with the manger and shepherd's crooks that were stored in our barn. (Which could have been the precursor to developing a somewhat irreverent attitude toward formal religion later in life... sorry if that offends anyone's delicate sensibilities... I know, I'm definitely going to hell.)

7. I've been in jail... twice! (If you want more details on these youthful indiscretions, you'll have to become a CatLady follower.) Shocked? You should be!

8. Despite having been in jail, I've never had a traffic ticket in 40 years of driving... not even a parking ticket. (Which means I've probably just jinxed myself by telling you that and will now get several tickets in the next week.)

9. Chrissy will be interested to know that I really was a stripper (of sorts) in high school. My stage name was Boom-Boom Larew and I performed with my future (now ex) sister-in-law, Patti-Poo-Foo. We were pom pom girls together and during halftime at football games, the band would play "The Stripper" and Miss Poo-Foo and I would dance to the music, tossing out our pom poms, hats, gloves and vests to the crowd. (Hey, Phillipia... want me to perform at one of the G-man's games?)

10. I used to make regular stops at the morgue following Sunday dinner. (Again, if you want to find out more, you'll just have to become a follower! Aren't you intrigued?)

Were those secret enough?

Now, on to people I really need to get some dirt on:

1. Miss Stinglash... it's no secret she's responsible for the birth of my blog, so I share every scrap of crap I own with her.

2. IndigoWrath... because he's a man of mystery and probably has lots of good secrets.

3. Jewel at The Raconteur's Apprentice... because I want to compare what I think I know about her with what's really true.

4. Eolist Petite... because there's no way she's a pompous, windy bore.

5. Mr. London Street... because he's surely picked up a lot of good dirt while street walking.

6. Maelstrom... because he shops at Wegman's and I think there really is something to see there.

7. That chick who's Happy to Be From Iowa... because she's my newest fellow expat friend.

8. Summer... because her life's a real circus, so she must have some good dirt to share.

9. Madame DeFarge... again, because I'm just nosy and want to learn more about her.

10. Flubtastic Doofalo... beacuse I'm afraid if I don't share with him he might send somebody to sneak up behind me with a scary needle.


So.... That should give you all some interesting new bloggers to check out and satisfy the requirements for the Honest Scrap Award.

Thanks, Funny Girl!

And happy reading!

It Was An Accident! Honest!

I have a brother (we'll call him Waldo) who's 13 months younger than I am.  Because of our closeness in age and because my older sister thought we were total pests and refused to have anything to do with us, we used to hang out together a lot.  And it was usually my brother who came up with the good ideas for things to do.

When he was in about sixth grade  Waldo got a paper route.  He'd go out every day to deliver the daily news to the neighborhood... almost like the old fashioned town crier.  I was in awe of the great wealth he amassed from this gainful employment.  As a man of wealth, Waldo got to buy all sorts of swell stuff.  

Now, being children of the 50's, our heros had always been cowboys.  After playing "Cowboys and Indians" with pearl handled cap guns and suction cup bows & arrows for so many years, Waldo was finally able to buy a real live bow and arrow set!  

I still remember the day he brought it home.  We marveled at the sleek bow, which had to be carefully bent with a powerful arm to attach the string.  And the arrows! Wonderful pointy ends, the shaft fletched with real feathers.  So cool!

Not wanting to miss out on a moment of fun, Waldo ran outside to set things up.  The neighbor kids were also excited.  So much so, that one offered to hold the target for him.  

That would be the paper target.  

That he held between his two grubby little hands.

And he stood steady on as my brother notched the arrow onto the string.

And pulled back.

Whish!  Away the arrow flew!  How graceful!  How dramatic!  It arched upward into the air, sailing, sailing, until it found it's target!  

Lucky for the neighbor kid, Waldo had not yet perfected his aim.  He missed the bulls-eye.

No, it's not what you're thinking!  GEEZ!  How crazy do you think we are?  

Waldo only managed to wing him in the hand.  Seven stitches later, we had all learned our lesson.  

Or, so we thought!

In the attempt to avoid further accidents (and lawsuits) my parents started taking the entire family to a nearby indoor archery range.  It was really cool.  The targets were on conveyor belts so that when you were done shooting, you could simply push a button and the target would come to you so you could retrieve your arrows from the bulls-eye... or surrounding area.

One day, as we were enjoying the range, I was poised in the lane next to my older, more refined sister.  (She actually condescended to join us on this family outing and got dressed up for the occasion.  She was wearing a skirt, sweater and hosiery to impress the young men at the range... I'm sure she was looking really hot.)  This time it was I who notched the arrow, drew the string back to my ear and aimed at the target.  

As they say, always keep your eye on the target.

Just as I was about to let go of the arrow, someone said something to me and I got kinda distracted.  My fingers slipped and the arrow went flying.

No worries, though... it was headed in the right direction.... almost.

It only went slightly off course, making contact with a steel beam strategically placed between the lanes.  (Shit!  Who put that there?)  

Was it my fault the sucker ricocheted off the post, causing it to come flying back in the opposite direction and hit my refined, well dressed older sibling in the leg.  I mean big deal!  

You'd think I'd done it on purpose, the way she went on, screaming and yelling at me and shit!  I mean, it hardly even bled or anything... it didn't even stick in her leg for more than a fraction of a second!  And she didn't need any stitches like the neighbor kid did.  What a whiner! I think she just hated me and wanted to get me into trouble because it ran her nylons.

Anyway, neither Waldo nor I ever made it as Olympic archers.  Our interest in archery began to wane soon after that incident.  But it's not like the experience was all for nought.  I simply added this to my store of cautionary tales to share with the kidlets at school.  They all think I'm very wise... if somewhat accident prone.

Curious, how that happened...

It's now been 5 years since I ripped out my knee.  Curious, how that happened....  

Scenario #1:  I was in Minnesota for a month, vacationing at the family cabin.  One night there was a huge thunderstorm which blew a tree against the cabin.  The next morning, I noticed there was a nest of baby birds in the tree, but the nest was dangling precariously as the wee ones called out to their lost mother.  Tweet!  Tweet!  I had to rescue them!  (Or at least take them some worms.) Climbing up the tree, I slipped on one of the still wet branches, plummeting to the ground.  Unable to move, with my leg mangled beneath me, I looked up... just as the nest dropped... and caught the sweet tweets in my hands.  My ACL and MCL were gone... but the wee birdies were saved!

Scenario #2:  I was in Minnesota for a month, vacationing at the family cabin.  It was a clear, sunny day, perfect for water skiing.  None of this tubing stuff!  Being an expert skier, I scoffed at the idea of using two skis.  I jumped off the side of the boat, into the water, positioning myself for take-off.  Just as I popped up out of the water, a loon flew into my path.  It was me or him. Being the nature lover I am, I leapt over the wake to avoid him, only to land on a stump, which sent me tumbling across the surface of the water.  My ACL and MCL were gone... but the loon was safe!

Scenario #3:  I was in Minnesota for a month, vacationing at the family cabin.  I had just completed my rigorous daily workout, floating in an inflatable raft, reading a cheesy novel and guzzling Dr. Pepper.  At the end of the workout, I tied the raft securely to the dock and proceeded to step off the dock into the water for a quick dip.  Imagine my surprise when I landed on my ass, leg beneath me in a very awkward position.  My ACL and MCL were gone. 

So... which account do you think is the most dramatic?  Which is the most suspenseful?  Which would you choose to explain a torn ACL and MCL?  (And please, do chime in if you have a more creative explanation!) 

The cabin was 60 some steps up a steep hill and there was no one around.  I had to pull myself back up onto the dock and then butt-up the steps, one by painful one.  After a trip to the local hospital, I spent my last two weeks at the lake on crutches with my leg in an "immobilizer." Sadly, the Vicodin I got only served medicinal purposes... and not very well, at that.  Then there was the 1,000 mile drive back to New York.  Then months of physical therapy.  Some of us are just lucky, I guess.

Good times, good times! 

Be a Good Camper, Henry!

Have you ever noticed how the majority of campers are either young families or retired people? The young families tend to be tent campers and the retirees trailer campers. Probably because for the young family it’s an economical vacation, while the retirees can afford the camping trailer with all the amenities, essentially taking all the comforts of home with them as they tour the world. The people in between can’t yet afford the trailer, but have gotten too used to comfort to enjoy the tent. (As a slightly-past-middle-aged tent camper, I am an aberration. Even more so, since I enjoy camping by myself as much as I enjoy camping with others.)

Anyway, if you really want to test the solidity of your family unit, try camping together... in a tent... during the rainy season. If you can survive that, you can survive almost anything.

Take, for example, the young family next to me on my most recent camping trip. It was obvious that it was young Henry’s first camping trip. His older sister and cousin were well versed in camping etiquette. Not so, Henry. Henry was all of about three years old. That alone should have been a clue that it could be a challenging outing.

Now, I happen to love 3-year-olds… especially when I don’t have to take them home with me. The entire world revolves around the 3-year-old... they're totally egocentric. And the 3-year-old is so gosh darned curious about the entire world. They have these cute little voices and they ask questions… constantly! Which is what Henry was doing, much to the chagrin of his family. And 3-year-olds definitely do not understand about sitting still and communing with nature. So, over the course of three very rainy days, I kept hearing the following:

“Don’t run, Henry!”

“Don’t play in the fire, Henry!”

“Don’t go in the water, Henry!”

"Stop annoying the ducks, Henry!"

"Sit in your chair, Henry!"

“Don’t fling flaming marshmallows in your sister’s hair, Henry!”

"Don't leave food out for the bears, Henry!"

“Stay in the tent, Henry!”

"Be quiet, Henry!"

“No, Henry, you may not bring your sleeping bag out by the fire!”

“Go to sleep, Henry!”

Mind you, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Henry. He wasn’t being at all naughty. He was simply acting his age.

“If you come out of that tent, Henry, I’m going to hurt you!”

AAACK! That last one had me fearing for Henry's life. In fact, the next morning they told Henry he was going home because he didn't know how to camp.  What?  Is camping supposed to be inbred or something?  Poor Henry... a failure at age 3.   The entire family left for about eight hours and when they returned, I didn't see or hear anything 0f Henry. I thought maybe they'd sold him to the gypsy's or something. 

It wasn't until the third morning that I heard Henry's name invoked again..

"Henry, if you eat all the graham crackers for breakfast, there won't be any left for s'mores tonight!"

Whew! Henry was back! He was still alive and well and might even live to see four.

And then there was that final, exasperated plea…

“Try to be a good camper, Henry!”

(Insert stifled guffaw from me here.)  For a 3-year-old, being a good camper is not at all the same thing as being a happy camper.  

Henry was undaunted, though. Not once did he cry or whine. Only his parents did that.

Henry is a Happy Camper.

I adore Henry.

(Please note, I would have provided an actual picture of Henry, but his parents probably would have had me arrested. Same with trying to find an actual on-line photo of a little kid camping. Guess they think you might be a pedophile or something if you download that type of thing. Hence, the cheesy clip art depiction of little Henry.)

What? Me Worry?

So, I'm back from the wilds of the Adirondacks.  It wasn't nearly as harrowing as one might imagine.  After all, IT IS CAR CAMPING, PEOPLE!  It's not like I was backpacking out in the wild or anything. 

Plus, I do take all necessary precautions.  

For example, I spent a full hour standing in front of this sign, (posted strategically outside the shower house,) faithfully memorizing each item on the list:

(You will note that they forgot one important admonition... to leave your BenGay at home.)

I took my responsibility as a camper very seriously and followed all the guidelines.  Obviously, I spent the next three days parking my car (containing all clothing, food items and garbage) a mile away from my campsite.  It was a mad dash from the car to the tent, what with being all naked and everything.  No worries!  Although, it might have been easier just to sleep in the car. 

Even worse than being mauled by a bear, however, would have been to be "directed to leave the campground" for bear baiting.  How could one ever live down that humiliation? The rest of the campers would probably line up and make you run the gauntlet as they threw all sorts of vile epithets at you.  Just imagine the shame of it all.

But as I said, no worries.  I had everything in order.

The truth is, I have a new secret weapon against bears.  I've heard tell that bears don't mess around with moose.  Would you?  Those suckers are huge!  So, while I was in the little gift shop near the campground, I discovered a new super duper weapon to protect me from bears.  Damn the cost, I had to have it!  And now it's mine, all mine!  From now on, I can sleep soundly in my tent knowing that a bear will never, ever accost me in the dark of night.   

See for yourself if this doesn't strike fear into the hearts of bears everywhere:

P.S.  Since the sign says it's a list of "Bears & Camper Guidelines", what I really want to know is... what are the bears' responsibilities for campground use? Will they be directed to leave the campground if they are caught camper baiting?  I'm just askin'.