The hazards of walking upright

So about two weeks ago, I was walking out of my scrap room and I broke my foot. I was going to come up with some awesome bar-fight story or some yarn about rescuing orphaned puppies from a booby-trapped and burning building, or some glorious tale of how I was training for the Olympics. But no, this is all I have. I broke my foot while I was walking. On carpet. No obstacles to tip-toe around. Completely flat and level ground.

Luckily, Missy and Sue were at the house when it happened. Jeff took me to the emergency room and they stayed with the boys. The pain was blinding and nauseating and I sobbed from the time I felt and heard the crunching of bones to the few minutes after I was finally given a shot of morphine.

Oooooooh, morphine. Now that is some good stuff. Morphine doesn't just dull the pain, but it reveals a technicolor world blind to sober eyes. It also mutates one's hearing abilities. See, the ER doc told me I had an "Anne Frank fracture". Now, I was a big history buff in high school, and I could have sworn Miss Frank died of Typhus and not, as I'd just discovered, a bone fracture. I'm glad I didn't voice my confusion at that moment in time because it turns out that I had a "Lisfranc fracture". (Dr Lisfranc named the fracture after himself. The good doctor was also a gynecologist, so I should be glad he didn't name it something like "G-Spot Fracture" or "Vajayjay Fracture")
I was fitted with a bright purple cast the next day and told that I would most likely not need surgery. Liar liar, pants on fire! Just this past Friday I found myself waking up from anesthesia after having two screws installed into my foot. Jeff had to be out of town on business, so I had the most awesome team of friends and family taking shifts to make sure that my foot was iced, my kids were taken care of and that I was comfortable.

However, they absolutely failed when it came to keeping me from my passion for making telephone calls when I'm under the influence. There are now in existence anywhere from three to eight recorded messages on answering devices across the country from a very stoned woman, claiming to be me.

Percocet is not my friend! It makes me say silly things!

So now I must scoot myself from room to room on a Free Spirit and keep my foot off the ground for eight, yes EIGHT weeks. I am having a little fun with it, though. I figure if I have to transport myself on a scooter, it might as well have a plastic, woven basket with a neon-purple flower and a loud, ice-cream cart bell on it!

That's how I roll.

For the next two months, anyhow.