I'm back at work today. My shoulder guy took out the stitches ( well, he didn't; his tech did) and said I could take the brace off while I wrote, so I am no longer typing left-handed. However, ow. Using the keyboard hurts. Also, my shoulder muscles are so wonked I can't lift my arm to the desk -- I have to use my left hand to put it up there.
Shoulder guy promises a month of PT and I'll be zooming. I have my doubts.
He says this dizziness I've been having is from hitting the pain meds too hard. Too hard for what? I say. What is this language you are speaking?
Meanwhile, on other fronts, Laura, at the kid's school, this is one of the far-right Christians, the one who argued with the kid about whether Obama was a Christian (still does, in fact) tells the kid the other day that she "just can't" read the Tale of Despereaux because in the opening pages the mother mouse says she doesn't want to have anymore babies. Wicked, ungodly mama mouse! Wicked ungodly book!
This Laura is ten, have I mentioned?
"What?" I said, muzzled with Oxycontin.
"I told her if you just read past that bit," the kid said, "it's really good, but --"
"Hadn't she already had a lot of baby mice?" I said, struggling to remember, since I read through all of Kate DiCamillo's books a few summers ago after reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, having picked it up from the children's new book section because the title was so cool. "How many mice babies does the mouse Jesus require her to have?"
The kid was silent a moment. Then she said, "I'm not having any babies."
"That's up to you," I said, which is my standard answer to this declaration. "It's your body."
4 hours ago