So the PT wasn't as bad as I feared. I actually have more mobility and strength than is the norm- probably because I am such a cussed nasty-natured thing, and get all pissy about not being able to do something. So I do it. As well as I can. And it hurts. So what. It is supposed to hurt. Grrrrrrr. But it appears to have an advantageous effect in this situation.

I will admit that this week at work, despite being a tad slow, has thoroughly kicked my ass. But I also attribute that to lack of sleep. The PT lady gave me some suggestions that really helped in that dept. last night. So there is hope. And glory.

Not to make this a blog about my shoulder though. That is boring. How about the strangest dream ever? I know, I have promised on occasion never to share those- but broken that promise on occasion. And this one is blasted odd. So, it's about 30 years ago, and Snoop Dog is having a threesome with my parents in the basement. And I am all pissed off because I want him for myself (not the 30 years ago me, but the now me- PARADOX!). I woke up from that one.....man....don't know what the FUCK that one is all about. Between the parents thing, the Snoop thing, and the strange time differential, I am totally boggled. In the head. And no, there were no naughty goings on witnessed when I was a child. Very well protected there, thank you. This was just about strangeness. Probably the Krispy Kreme doghnut that I ate in the late afternoon (Bismark- officially their fattest doghnut at 350 calories- looked it up after I ate it). I'll blame that. And shudder when I remember the rest....the things in my head are awfully Boschlike of late. And I'm even off of the really effective drugs now. Riddle me that.

Am too tired to do much writing. Seriously, this week is kicking my ass. But I will start PT today, and only have one more day to suffer through tomorrow. Then I can sleep. Perchance to dream. And if those dreams are as interesting as the ones last night, it will be fitful sleep, indeed.

Gotta go. To work.

Am alive, reasonably well, but tired. Very, very tired. Probably a combo of being feeble still, not sleeping really well on vicodin, and just work in general.

The shoulder feels icky- deep burny itchiness.

PT starts on Thursday.

Over and out.

by request

Dirk Niewoehner was born in Helena, MT in 1945. His family was from White Sulfur Springs- a very small farming town kind of near Helena. His father was an attorney with a violent streak. Now here is where it gets interesting.

According to IMDB, Dirk's dad died when he was 18 and he took it very hard. Well, there were circumstances that would make it hard to take. Seems that the old man beat the shit out of the wife and kids on a regular basis. Seems that it got worse with time. Don't remember from the story I was told if he was a drinker- coulda been. Coulda just been mean as hell. Dunno. This was told many, many years ago. And second hand.

So, one day or night- you decide which atmosphere you prefer- dad is raising hell and pounding on mom. Dirk's brother had enough of these goings on, and shot dad to death. Probably with a well-used hunting rifle. And that was that. So yes, getting over that would be hard. Hard indeed.

But really, it is kind of a typical story. Plenty like it. The only unusual element is the life Dirk had later. Something to do with Hollywood. Something to do with Battlestar Gallactica. Something to do with a Team called A.

Remember though- the details on my end are sketchy, so don't sue me.

Ok- I am sort of back. They typing kind of hurts a bit, so most likely won't be long-winded.

Valentine's day sucked. Officially and on the record. They used a general anesthesia- which I really didn't expect. Much like the Spanish Inquisition. They also gave me a nerve block. That is a truly nasty experience. Having a guy digging in my neck for a nerve with a needle, then sending shocks down my arm...eck. But at least it kept my entire right arm lifeless and numb for 16 hours. That's something, right?

Felt sick and icky for at least 2 days after. Just because. And the drugs worked ok. But I discovered that like Codeine, I can't sleep very well on percocets. Alas. So I have been reading novels whilst doped up into the wee hours every night. Because it seems to help.

Overall, the good Dr. is happy with the progress- I have these little triumphs. I dried my hair properly yesterday. I was able to clean the cat box. I still can't use my right hand for some of the regular things, but it will happen.

I saw pictures of the inside of my shoulder. It was more of a mess than expected. I had somehow (and I just can't figure this one out) managed to eliminate the connection between the ligament and the front of my shoulder. Gone. So now it is back. And the prognosis is good. Seriously, though, I just can't remember originally injuring my shoulder that badly. This is kind of scary. Like I'm a replicant, and they didn't plant that particular memory. Bad scifi reference, but it has been a lonnnnnng week. Dude, I've got a lot of tables.

Other than that, nothing to report. Nothing. Just sitting. Or reading. Or napping. Or trying to shave my armpit. Or trying to wash my hair. Or taping plastic bags to my shoulder. Or talking soulfully to the cats. Or monitoring my email on the sly- and I will not succumb and log in! I will not!!!

Crikey. I go back to work on Monday. It ought to be....interesting.

And now I hurt. Bye bye.

Be out for a while. I'll try and report in from the trenches, but am not sure what kind of drugs I'll be on exactly. If my hands feel like oven mits, I won't type. If my arm ends up on the cutting room floor, I certainly won't write. But...I'll give it a try in a couple of days.

Think at least one happy thought, eat a cookie, pet a puppy, smile at a child in the checkout line, and be a decent person. That's all I ask in my absence.

If all else fails, just have a good beer. Or glass of wine. That would suffice.

My dad used to listen to a lot of Johnny Cash. On 8 track, if you will. We would take loooong roadtrips across the state to visit relatives, all to the backbeat of Johnny. We would drive to Utah, Arizona, Washington, all with Johnny in the car.

How high IS the water Mama? I don't know if that question ever got fully answered. But it was among the better songs of youth.

And it applies to my world at the moment. How high is the water? Well, it's 2 foot high, and rising. And there you have it. The floods are coming, and that's just the way it is. Almost wish I could go back to bed and sleep it off. But that's not on the agenda today. Not in the itinerary. Not in the powerpoint deck. (yes, people, a powerpoint presentation in my world is called a deck. Sigh.)

But not to worry. It's not really despair. Not really fear, just kind of an acceptance that the next few days will officially suck. But then it will be different. Might be worse, might be better. But it will be different.

And right now I have a buggy eyed cat staring at me, and must go chase him around the house. Because it makes me laugh, and that is of the utmost today.

The girl slumped against the picnic table. She was wearing her sexy top, the one she insisted her mother buy from Tempo. The effect was ruined by the blue workshirt that she wore over the little tank top. It was all because of her skin. It totally made being pretty impossible. And today was supposed to be the day they noticed her. She did her hair perfectly. But then noticed the line of acne on her right shoulder. Right where the sexy shirt stopped, and her skin began. It was so ugly. Just like everything else. So ugly. And there was nothing she could do about it. It just ruined the effect. And it was hot out. So the blue shirt had pit stains. Because she couldn't help that either.

Nothing was going to work, she realized. She was going to remain invisible. And no amount of hair preparation was going to make her pretty like Brooke Shields in the magazines. She could be tall, and she could have pretty hair, yes. But the rest didn't follow. And so she slumped against the picnic table and picked at the layer of brown paint covering words carved deeply into the wood.

She wouldn't tell her mother about the unsuccessful shirt. But she wouldn't wear it ever again, either.

I was thinking about all the things I collected as a child. Very young, I might add.

I collected:
pretty feathers
rocks- especially agates that my grandfather cut and polished (still have those)
funny dolls in Indian costumes
dolls in quasi-international costumes
paper dolls- including ones my mother drew (sure wish I had kept those)
pictures of pretty women in fashionable dresses that I drew (ditto above)
some stuffed animals- mainly teddy bears
and other strange assorted things that drew my attention- I still have most of those, too.

Funny- with all of that assorted crap in my life, a pretty large batch of it all is still with me. And my poor husband wonders where it all came from. Such a history.

My reasoning? Well the emotional attachment dwelled upon before.

But at the time, all of those things really got the synapses firing. I remember learning about rocks when my grandfather gave me a bunch of tumbled stones. And then I got a bunch of library books about art when I noticed the cover of one of them looked like my drawing (I believe it was a children's art history book about ancient Egypt). So there were causes and effects. Not a bad thing. Just need to divest of some of the accoutrements at this point. Because my bookshelves not only ache from the weight of books, but also look like a magpie roosted for a while.

And crikey, I almost forgot about Dawn and Barbie. They were important. Pivotal, really. When I wasn't on my bike, or running around in the back yard, I was concocting elaborate and endless dramas with them as the stars. I had a couple of treasured friends with whom I played these games. On and on and on. I still also wish that I had written these down. I'm pretty sure they would be full of insight into what an 8 year old considers important. But there again, the boat has floated.

I was just sharing in another forum. And what I disclosed is that for some reason (which I can guess), I have emerged as tech geek sugar. Now this is really, really funny. The cool side effect? I can get help desk geeks to assist in person when I ask the right one. If, for example, I IM my main tech guy and start making BBC America references, specifically about Top Gear, and if I start quoting Jeremy Clarkson, he is mine for the taking. It is a really cool superpower.

But only if used in small doses. I made the mistake of being overly (by his estimation) friendly to a tech geek in another building that I was in. He made very inappropriate comments after that. All because I said "Good Morning." Too much for him to handle, I guess.

I had a training class where I was one of only 3 women in the class. And boy, the ratio of tecchie to marketing/sales type was about 3:1. And I was very popular. It was cool. Until I realized that none of these fellows were a) my type, b) overly concerned about hygiene or clothing in general, and c) well socialized. Not to mention the whole I am married thing. But it's nice to dangle out there when Kman gets in a mood- hey, pal. I have options, don't you know! And they have some mighty earning power hereabouts. They can afford a Segway! (one of them does ride one in my neighborhood- he wears a gold bike helmet, lord help us all). Or a Prius. Or a really rockin gaming system. Heh.

And he responds with, "I'm not stoppin you." Which basically ends the discussion. Because I am stopping me. For all the right reasons. So, be free little tecchie boys! Be free. You will find her out there- somewhere....and she won't be me.

So last night there were 2 vivid dreams. Not VIVID dreams, like on the pay per view porn channel. But one involved saving my mother from gypsies. And the other involved F1 driver Fernando Alonso, and was actually quite funny.

So that's that. Something in the air.

And no, I don't choose to elaborate what I know about pay per view porn. It's not important.
(or imporntant...heh.heh.heh- I crack myself up)

So I am currently stocking up on movies on the DVR (Tivo broke, we are on to new technology), trashy novels and other things to distract me when the surgery happens. We have entered count down mode. And I have to train Kman to do my hair properly. And learn not to carry things with my right arm for a while. Hey, it'll be an adventure.

Next up, why the hell was Heath Ledger on Oxycontin???? What the fuck??? I thought that was reserved for cancer sufferers and Courtney Love. What a farce.

Other than that, I got nothin. Just gotta go to work and try and find meaning in it all. Some days more than others. I am suspecting that today is going to be one of those challenging days.

The dreams have been spectacularly vivid. And appear to center around unresolved things. I appear to be resolving them, albeit unconsciously. Or not. The magic 8 ball would be unclear.

There was one that was more sci fi than anything else. Cool as hell, unless you study the subtext too closely within the context of my head. Then you see the dilemma. And you see the cracks around the edges. She has...issues.

The next one was kind of a Natty Bumpo kind of thing. Only the heroes weren't the settlers- they weren't included. Only the Indians. And I was there. And it was another one of those unsettling unresolved things that wouldn't matter to anyone but myself.

And the latest installment was about escaping from a monster in the basement with my mother. Everyone else got out alive, for the most part. But when I woke up, I realized that the only other person who escaped with my mother and I is a ghost. Which is kind of upsetting, because I know him- there again within the context of the dream and my head.

Now why the hell am I sharing all of this? Very good question. No fucking clue. Kind of selfish of me, really. Inflicting this kind of crap upon people. But there you have it. There be monsters inside, and sometimes they cry to be released. And if that happens only in dreams, I don't see the enormity of the problem.

so, he was a small man. Smaller than you would expect, right? but with a huge head. Fucking huge. Surprising really, you'd think he'd be smarter with all of that real estate to be filled and all.

Huge head. And look at him now. Maybe he's just hydrocephalic, and the extra space is water. Or in his case, beer. Or something like that. But sweet Jesus, that was a huge head.

And then there was the girl with him. Dressed like a fucking whore. Some kind of fringy jackety thing. Not like she fit in or anything. shorts with heels. Always reminds me of hookers, that. shorts with heels. Not sad like shorts with nylons. That is pitiful. But shorts with heels.

The two of them. Made quite a spectacle of themselves. Only a few of the locals recognized them. And of those few, only one or two cared. The rest I think filed it away for later.

The boy died alone. In a crowd. But alone.
Probably more accurate to call him a man, but really he had the last
vestiges of youth. And a roll of hundreds attached to his belt.
The crowd howled. They wanted to see help. They wanted to see life.
They didn't bargain for death on a night out.
Neither did he.
Were his last thoughts of regret?
Or was he lonely?
Did he know what was happening?
Did he hear the flapping of wings...see grey mist...a bright white light?
Did he hear the crowd growing angry to see him lying in the puddle of blood
while the police kept them at bay?
Did he feel anger at their ineffectual protest?
Or was he so beyond caring about all of that?
And what of the police who were so jaded that it was
beyond any one of them to sit and hold his hand for the last few minutes he had left.
What of them.

A guy from work was telling me about his weekend yesterday. Seems he saw a shooting and witnessed the victim die. He was pretty shaken up- but his first impulse was to go out and buy a gun. Not where I would go. But whatever.

The story was grim. What bothered me, and I didn't follow up in questions, just because he was still pretty upset, was that the victim died without any human contact. He just bled to death behind a police cordon. There were probably aid workers on the scene- I can't imagine there not being any of those. But no one was there to hold his hand and say it would be ok. Not that it matters to the dead guy now. But I hate the idea of anyone, even a punk thug (and this guy was apparently one of those), dying on the pavement like that. Must've been a priest in a former life. Or something.

Other than that, bummer that I didn't buy a shitton of Yahoo stocks yesterday.