Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Warhead--She's about to BLOW!

I've decided that I'm fairly tired of my wrist hurting.

Tomorrow, I go to the doctor's office for a cortisone shot in my wrist. Now, I have no idea how this is going to affect my life, and frankly, I'm terrified. I use this wrist for typing. I use this wrist for drumming. If I lose use of my wrist, it means I can neither work or drum, and that, for me, is pretty terrifying.

I have babied this thing long enough.

And if it doesn't work, I'll end up in surgery, which will sideline ALL use of my wrist and hand until it heals--meaning, I'll have to do something that doesn't require holding anything--neither file, or stick or pencil.

I'll take pictures of the shot--if anyone cares...don't worry, doctor plans to numb the nerves before shooting me up with steroids. I wonder if I'll grow a mustache? Probably not. I just hope that it doesn't have the same effect as what steroids have on a cat...

More to fret about, eh?

I got the tents folded and put away last night, having dried out in two days of sun and breezes. Of course, my erstwhile husband sat on the telephone wishing that the caller hadn't corralled him into a long-winded diatribe about at least a dozen different things, when he could have said:

"oh, Tenna needs help with folding the tents, so can I call you later?"

Once done with the tents, though, the call ends, and he says

"Whew! He sure can chatter about stuff!"

And I'm you even care what happens to me?

I believe I voiced something that purveyed my displeasure in his choices, but I don't remember it.

Today, I'm wishing I were a construction worker. It's raining, and they've all taken the day off. I'm in a mood--pretty surly, actually, due to the throbbing in my wrist, and it shows in my telephone voice when the phone rings.

"ya, what do you want? Just remember I only have so much blood to go around!"

Maybe surly is an understatement?

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