...
You'd think I could've talked one of my fifty RETIRED lawyer friends into handling my case for me since I just got creamed and can barely leave my house without some personal disaster making it not very safe for me to be in public for very long, but no. I get it, I get it. Decades of hating themselves, followed by the fresh air of retirement. Travel. Spiritual improvement. Also medically unfit, all that.
But, hell.
THEN it seemed I could not raise the clerk's office at the court for days. Trying every day, and today, mystically, they pick up on the first ring and it's a nice person on the other end of the line. She quickly tells me to hold the line for just a moment while she finds out which option is optimal for me. We settle on a declaration. I can't be there when they want me and will need a couple two or three months to be socially acceptable and clear-headed again.
So I'm typing in on a form furiously, so I don't miss today's mail. And I drive into town and can't get anyone at the mail service place — a fellow customer — to sign the proof of service, because, aaaaagh, legal, no way. So I have to "run" across the drive to pluck Danny out from under a car he's fixing to come in and do it. But we get 'er done.
Then he's telling me that the parking space that almost ripped off my bumper the other day will complete its task if I don't go over to Bob's and see if he won't secure it for me better. So I go to Bob's... glaring at my midsection and willing it to behave. Bob's in the middle of showing off his work on an old muscle car to his client. Damn, gorgeous bright red, with black racing stripes that are somehow not contrasting in a gaudy way. That red, by itself, will just make everyone on the road jealous as heck.
Bob stops to say he needs to help this old lady because got to be nice to old ladies. He comes out and clucks at those damn low rider cars, says they're the body shop's main source of business, grabs a few screws and a drill gun and screws my crumbling bumper back onto my crumbling car.
Then, heck, I'm going to gamble big. I need way more wash cloths than I own for the care and maintenance of my midsection, so I "darted" into the dollar store and got a bunch more wash cloths so I don't wear out my washing machine with the few I own, and then I made it home just in time to save most of my clothing from another disaster.
Still, after my last surgery, sometime mid-next-month or so, I am still "expected to make a full recovery." I'm expecting to at least have some days where I'm not hobbling. Yes, I'm old, but I'm not old enough to excuse all this hobbling.
pipe up any time....
