Criminal mind

It's been a while since I've written, hasn't it? Expecting an apology? Good that you're not. I'm so far away from surgery now that blogging on rehab almost seems moot. After all, I had a real shower today, hot water running over my face and wetting every inch of my grateful skin. Every inch, that is, except those protected by Press'n'Seal. (What it can do for keeping food fresh it can do for keeping incisions dry.) I've been up and down stairs as often as if I had important business afoot and I've even done laps on my front porch. These things are necessary for good recovery and to keeping my butt from falling permanently asleep.

I eat mostly normal, though I have yet to reclaim my chocolate habit. Stomach is still on the queasy side, so I make nutrition happen first. There's usually no room after that. So you think I'd drop a pound or two, right? Get this - after all the months faithfully adhering to my low-carb eating and consciously cutting fat calories, losing 63 pounds, I come home from the hospital weighing FOURTEEN POUNDS MORE than the day I went in. Believe me, I'm going googling to see just how much a fabricated hip joint weighs. Here's hoping the doctor didn't leave behind his chain saw.

I woke up this morning from a dream where I was writing some sort of exposé from a women's prison. Psychiatrists could be in diagnostic heaven analyzing that dream, but it led me to the realization that writing - even something as low-powered as this blog - requires the same basic elements as any crime: means, motive and opportunity. Figurative butt-kicking acknowledged previously accounts for motive, but what I've lacked lately are means and opportunity.

I have two computers available for my use in this house. There's the home setup upstairs, the warmest room in the house, good light from two big windows, new speakers to air my music, comfortable old chair and bathroom just down the hall. Downstairs is the laptop, the go-anywhere tool I could even take TO the bathroom if I were perverse enough. It would appear then that I have means. Until today, I've had about a dozen impediments to access these means in the form of caretakers and visitors. I've enjoyed all of them and sincerely appreciate their help, so I hope none who might be reading take offense when I say I'm also enjoying the quiet that dominates right now. So opportunity has been restored, and since I'm unable to write with people dangling over my shoulder or hovering just a foot away, I chose to celebrate my solitude right here in cyberspace with you. This need for the furtive just points out to me that writers might make good criminals, although I don't think it necessarily follows that criminals would make good writers.

Harking back to my dream, perhaps the message in all of this is that I'm pursuing the wrong path. Instead of writing my own story, should I investigate a career in ghost-writing the memoirs of an Iowa soccer mom who eliminated her son's team competition ala "Misery"? If I ever began to understand people like this, I'd hope there's some one among you cares enough to have me committed.

Off to nap, perchance to have another wacky dream. Let me offer my condolences to those of you who have to slog through the snow today. You don't think my choice of surgery date was an accident, do you?

Beerma