How to Survive Breaking a Rib

Posted on March 21, 2012by apronheadlilly

(Picture of neighbor's cute dog, which has absolutely nothing to do with this post. And I don't care; it's my blog!!)

Obviously, preventing the incident in the first place is optimum. But having done the stupid bike trick of falling into the gutter and fracturing a rib, the following are survival tips to make it through the six-week recovery process:

• Drugs. Legal, of course.
• Only breathe as much as is necessary for survival. When deep breathing is prescribed by the doctor for torture and to prevent pneumonia, grimace so everyone knows you are not faking injury. If required, produce copies of your x-rays for more sympathy.
• Learn to burp like a man. Good manners will hurt.
• Never lie down. Or if you are lying down, never get up. If you really need to change positions, moan and groan and puff so everybody in the house knows exactly what this trip to the bathroom is costing you.
• No coughing, sneezing or throat clearing. Drowning in your allergies is much preferred to the throbbing, excruciating, mind-numbing . . . well, you get the idea.
• Stand up straight and suck in your stomach or you will stay hunched that way forever. Or was that what Mom said about rolling my eyes? Sorry, I have a drug-induced “can’t remember.”
• Put off all chiropractor appointments for six months.
• Put off all mammogram appointments for six months—a year if you can talk your primary care provider into it!
• If husband insists on cracking jokes, give him his own cracked rib.
• Once you can move your arms, write about it. It is somewhat cathartic . . . somewhat.

Clarification: Hubby does tell jokes that hurt, but he redeems himself by bringing me meds, ice packs, warm woobies, praying for me, staying in Urgent Care 4 1/2 hours with me, and being very sypathetic! He’s a keeper!

The Weak in Review: Whine and Roses

Posted on March 14, 2012by apronheadlilly

 

Okay, there are no roses, but there is a whine. Once again the local paper has reproduced a picture of me, a picture designed to shame even the most innocent! (Not included in this post!)

In 2010, I entered a limerick contest. Think mistake; think March mistake; think St. Pat’s Day. It was a momentary lapse. I got a call that I was one of the three top winners, but I had to go to the corned beef meal at the Women’s Club to receive my monetary prize and to find out which prize I indeed should recieve.

I got there only to find out that I had to pay for my meal! $12.00! Okay, if I won, that would be 50 bucks, so embarassment and lust for filthy lucre kept me hanging in there. I knew no one there except for an older couple that used to go to the church I attended. I latched on to them. The conversation was somewhat strained, but the food was good, and I just wanted to get it over with.

Finally the program started with an MC and corny Irish jokes and all that jazz. The three winners had to read their poems. I was third. Think $15.00. 15-12 = profit of 3. Argh.

Mine was political, and the winner’s was the stereotypical “There once was a man from Kilharney” stuff. The winner also happened to be the aged dad of the MC. Odd how that happened.

And now the worst part: The paper was there, and they wanted a picture. I was trapped. And being the nonconfrontational marshmallow that I am, I stood in for it. I was the tallest on the stage, even aside from the stupid green and shiny St. Pat’s hat they perched on top of my head. Borrowed from another stranger who probably had lice or eczema!Think: Face getting redder than normal!

To top it all off, they never sent me my prize money, and the dork-supreme picture appeared in the paper. The only consolation was they spelled my name wrong–both names. But my wonderful co-workers of course recognized me and ceremoniously posted it around the school office. Lovely.

The fame died down.

Till last year when they ran the stupid pic again, advertising a new contest. And now again this year! And luckily for me, even though my hair is now white, folks around the valley are still quick to assure me that they recognized me in the paper!

This is what they call the gift that keeps on giving, except for the monetary part of course! Below is my inspired limerick that got me into so much trouble.

We’ll settle for imperfect healthcare

And put everybody on welfare.

Won’t matter an iota,

‘Cause just like Toyota,

In three years, we’ll recall and repair!