The Dangers of Home Furnishings... Part 2: Stairs
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Any one who has known me long enough also knows about my unfortunate ongoing battle with the complexities of stairs. For some reason, even though I would like to pride myself on a rather superb level of balance in all other areas of daily life, put a minimum of three consecutive steps in a sequence and I will eventually fail to navigate them at some point....the record still being three full flights from top to bottom in one go....which I don't wish to go into further details about right now, or ever. Hell, I've also had one incident when I fell flat on my face on level ground just having turned my head to the side to LOOK at a set of stairs!
So I suppose what is to follow here was an inevitability of sorts.
I work at a rather large art supply store here in Denver. Large enough that it has a second level that one needs to climb a set of metal stairs to reach. Having 37 years of prior stair falling experience under my belt, I have always taken great care with these, but having a broken foot it seems was the right mixture to trump carefulness altogether.
A little over a week ago, at a point in the healing process of said foot that saw the end of bandages, limping and what shall forever be known affectionately now as "the boot", I found myself descending these stairs on the way to retrieve an item for a conspiring customer. At one point (for once luckily near the bottom) while stepping down on the gimp foot it took it upon itself to basically re-break itself, or so it felt. A couple of things happen simultaneously here: first, having a blinding pain shoot up my leg from the offending foot in question caused my brain (who I'm beginning to believe was in on this the whole time) to shut off all weight bearing properties my leg normally would handle, causing me to topple forward.....second, this same brain then sent messages to my hands to instantly try to reach for and cradle the injured foot instead of putting them in front of myself to break the pending fall, leading to my striking the ground on both my chest and chin and creating such a dense resounding thud that I do remember witnesses gasping around me.
It's a curious thing, the sense of responsibility and appearance. I can be known to cuss like a sailor, especially when I've been injured or given a fifth ticket by the same cop for 'no front plate' when I CLEARLY HAVE A FUCKING FRONT PLATE ON MY CAR AND I DON'T KNOW WHO HE HAS CONFUSED ME WITH TO TRY TO GET EVEN WITH BY DOING THIS EVERY OTHER WEEK.....but I digress. The point is, somehow I was aware that I was still at work and did my best to stifle any and all obscenities that I might come up with, leaving me no outlet other than retardedly stupid mindless self-destructive violence than manifested itself in the form of punching what turned out to be an iron I-Beam.....which incidentally has absolutely no give to it.
The good news was that I punched this beam with my Dead Hand, so I did not feel any injuries occurring.....but that is also the bad news in and of itself. I didn't get worried until a bit later when I noticed that one of my knuckles had been pushed all the way in. But, I was reassured by the fact that I was still able to move all my fingers and wrist, so I ignored it. I got re-worried a few days ago after meeting someone and shaking their hand, only to find one of my fingers no longer wanting to obey my commands afterwards, until physically popping it back into play.....it has gotten stuck twice more since then. Bah!
While most of my blog entries has some variety of resolution, this one does not....other than me saying, "Fuck you Mr. Stairs....I'll take the elevator!"
So I suppose what is to follow here was an inevitability of sorts.
I work at a rather large art supply store here in Denver. Large enough that it has a second level that one needs to climb a set of metal stairs to reach. Having 37 years of prior stair falling experience under my belt, I have always taken great care with these, but having a broken foot it seems was the right mixture to trump carefulness altogether.
A little over a week ago, at a point in the healing process of said foot that saw the end of bandages, limping and what shall forever be known affectionately now as "the boot", I found myself descending these stairs on the way to retrieve an item for a conspiring customer. At one point (for once luckily near the bottom) while stepping down on the gimp foot it took it upon itself to basically re-break itself, or so it felt. A couple of things happen simultaneously here: first, having a blinding pain shoot up my leg from the offending foot in question caused my brain (who I'm beginning to believe was in on this the whole time) to shut off all weight bearing properties my leg normally would handle, causing me to topple forward.....second, this same brain then sent messages to my hands to instantly try to reach for and cradle the injured foot instead of putting them in front of myself to break the pending fall, leading to my striking the ground on both my chest and chin and creating such a dense resounding thud that I do remember witnesses gasping around me.
It's a curious thing, the sense of responsibility and appearance. I can be known to cuss like a sailor, especially when I've been injured or given a fifth ticket by the same cop for 'no front plate' when I CLEARLY HAVE A FUCKING FRONT PLATE ON MY CAR AND I DON'T KNOW WHO HE HAS CONFUSED ME WITH TO TRY TO GET EVEN WITH BY DOING THIS EVERY OTHER WEEK.....but I digress. The point is, somehow I was aware that I was still at work and did my best to stifle any and all obscenities that I might come up with, leaving me no outlet other than retardedly stupid mindless self-destructive violence than manifested itself in the form of punching what turned out to be an iron I-Beam.....which incidentally has absolutely no give to it.
The good news was that I punched this beam with my Dead Hand, so I did not feel any injuries occurring.....but that is also the bad news in and of itself. I didn't get worried until a bit later when I noticed that one of my knuckles had been pushed all the way in. But, I was reassured by the fact that I was still able to move all my fingers and wrist, so I ignored it. I got re-worried a few days ago after meeting someone and shaking their hand, only to find one of my fingers no longer wanting to obey my commands afterwards, until physically popping it back into play.....it has gotten stuck twice more since then. Bah!
While most of my blog entries has some variety of resolution, this one does not....other than me saying, "Fuck you Mr. Stairs....I'll take the elevator!"
The Dangers of Home Furnishings...
Saturday, July 19, 2008
If I ever was wanting proof of my aging, that being other than the balding, declining eyesight and hearing, graying beard, degenerative arthritis and loss of tolerance for those Damn Kids!!, it would be the event of a little over a month ago....or has it been two months now? Did I mention the onset of alzheimer's?
I live now in a small studio apartment, which I have to admit to loving. It is nearly the right size for me at the moment, I say 'nearly' because I do have to cut some corners to fit what I want and need within....one item being my credenza-slash-bar-slash-bookcase-slash-hateful killing machine. I've had to place it right at the end of my hallway that opens up to my main room, so it sticks out in the way just a bit....just a bit being the right amount for me to forget about in the middle of the night when walking half asleep to the bathroom in the dark. I'm sure you see where this is heading.
My right foot made contact with the credenza's leg directly at my third toe...or 'ring toe', if I ever was to marry...a Hobbit, or something. The preciseness of the strike was enough to peel back the toenail like the tab of a soda can, causing me to tumble forward onto the many frames I have leaning against the hallway wall waiting to contain future drawings.
I learning a couple things during this event: first, frames do not make a soft cushion for a fall...and second, my neighbors would refuse to call the police for me if I ever were attacked in my apartment, seeing as I had no visitors or inquiries after pounding on the floor and wall in pain screaming things like "Motherfucking Cocksucker!".....but maybe they all thought I was watching Deadwood while playing basket ball, I don't know.
After three days my toe showed very little sign of getting any better, seeing as "worse" is not a "better" indicator. I had been walking on my foot for those days wondering why the pain was increasing and swelling of the entire foot was taking place. When, on the third day, the pain started shooting up the back of my leg, I got frightened of infection and went to Urgent Care...only then finding out that I had broken my third metatarsal in half.
Returning to the mention of proof of my aging, I pose this fact: I was WALKING to the bathroom that night! Not running in some desperate act to avoid shitting my bed, or sprinting in fear that my toilet had eloped with the sink while I slumbered....walking!
After years of accidents as a skateboarder, getting hit by blunt objects, a few muggings, getting struck by a car, bike accidents, dog attacks, falls and fights....I break my foot WALKING to the bathroom! Not only this, but there is the chance that this might lead to my having to walk with a cane from now on due to my foot feeling that it really doesn't feel the need to heal correctly (this is where Christina chimes in that in order for my foot to heal correctly I should listen to the doctor....and where I reply that the Doctor also said that I shouldn't have broken my foot, but I did, which leaves me little faith in his abilities).
To sum this event up just let me add that I've been tempted as well as daunted to measure my height...for fear that I might also be shrinking.
I live now in a small studio apartment, which I have to admit to loving. It is nearly the right size for me at the moment, I say 'nearly' because I do have to cut some corners to fit what I want and need within....one item being my credenza-slash-bar-slash-bookcase-slash-hateful killing machine. I've had to place it right at the end of my hallway that opens up to my main room, so it sticks out in the way just a bit....just a bit being the right amount for me to forget about in the middle of the night when walking half asleep to the bathroom in the dark. I'm sure you see where this is heading.
My right foot made contact with the credenza's leg directly at my third toe...or 'ring toe', if I ever was to marry...a Hobbit, or something. The preciseness of the strike was enough to peel back the toenail like the tab of a soda can, causing me to tumble forward onto the many frames I have leaning against the hallway wall waiting to contain future drawings.
I learning a couple things during this event: first, frames do not make a soft cushion for a fall...and second, my neighbors would refuse to call the police for me if I ever were attacked in my apartment, seeing as I had no visitors or inquiries after pounding on the floor and wall in pain screaming things like "Motherfucking Cocksucker!".....but maybe they all thought I was watching Deadwood while playing basket ball, I don't know.
After three days my toe showed very little sign of getting any better, seeing as "worse" is not a "better" indicator. I had been walking on my foot for those days wondering why the pain was increasing and swelling of the entire foot was taking place. When, on the third day, the pain started shooting up the back of my leg, I got frightened of infection and went to Urgent Care...only then finding out that I had broken my third metatarsal in half.
Returning to the mention of proof of my aging, I pose this fact: I was WALKING to the bathroom that night! Not running in some desperate act to avoid shitting my bed, or sprinting in fear that my toilet had eloped with the sink while I slumbered....walking!
After years of accidents as a skateboarder, getting hit by blunt objects, a few muggings, getting struck by a car, bike accidents, dog attacks, falls and fights....I break my foot WALKING to the bathroom! Not only this, but there is the chance that this might lead to my having to walk with a cane from now on due to my foot feeling that it really doesn't feel the need to heal correctly (this is where Christina chimes in that in order for my foot to heal correctly I should listen to the doctor....and where I reply that the Doctor also said that I shouldn't have broken my foot, but I did, which leaves me little faith in his abilities).
To sum this event up just let me add that I've been tempted as well as daunted to measure my height...for fear that I might also be shrinking.
Religious Icons in the Toast...
Yep, here I be again with the excuses and apologies for the long distance between updates....a distance filled with visits from family and friends, a now TWICE broken foot (for me am stupid it seems), a near broken drawing hand (the dumbassness knows no bounds), gallons of coffee and nearly the same amount in pen ink on paper. To sum it all up: Hello! How are you doing?
I have no intention of catching you all up on the past several weeks right here in one blog. Instead, why not I break it up into parts like I usually so like to do? This little tid bit could be considered the "Intro", where I attempt to capture your attention with vague mentioning of things happened and broken....followed by entries of the events in greater details with the normal embellishments that usually lead to the emails that I receive from readers wanting to know if I REALLY wrestled a Polar Bear over a Kit Kat Bar or the likes. The answer is no....it was a very hairy homeless guy over a cigarette.
Just you wait for the climatic last entry which will contain a twist that would make M. Knight Shamalamamlamasomething give up writing and directing altogether....we could only hope!
I have no intention of catching you all up on the past several weeks right here in one blog. Instead, why not I break it up into parts like I usually so like to do? This little tid bit could be considered the "Intro", where I attempt to capture your attention with vague mentioning of things happened and broken....followed by entries of the events in greater details with the normal embellishments that usually lead to the emails that I receive from readers wanting to know if I REALLY wrestled a Polar Bear over a Kit Kat Bar or the likes. The answer is no....it was a very hairy homeless guy over a cigarette.
Just you wait for the climatic last entry which will contain a twist that would make M. Knight Shamalamamlamasomething give up writing and directing altogether....we could only hope!
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