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I went out with the roomie today because he gets stir crazy if he stays inside for too many consecutive days and because I said I would. So, off we went to the bus depot. It was a fortuitous start, indeed, when the bus proved to be a front loader, and an even better omen when the connector was as well. Usually, it's one or the other or neither. The gods must have been pleased, for I arrived at our destination in safety and relative comfort.
Apparently, one of them had to burp.
One of the measures I took to get to the bus on times was to forego using the bathroom before I left the apartment. Normally, I tend to my biological business first thing in the morning, but if I had done so today, I would have missed the bus. My trips to the loo are not a simple matter of meandering into the bathroom, dropping trou or hiking skirt, and perching upon the cherished porcelain throne. Nay, it is a complicated ritual of pulling myself out of the chair, wobbling to my feet, swaying drunkenly until I find some semblance of equilibrium, fumbling with my clothes while holding the grab bar in a cold, sweat-slicked, white-knuckled grip, wrestling them into submission, flopping onto the toilet, doing my business, wrangling the toilet paper, lurching upright, pulling up the pants, tottering until my ass is aligned with the seat, falling into it, and flushing. The entire process can take anywhere from five to twenty minutes, and there is a moderate risk of falling.
And yes, I do all of this with the door open. It is paramount that help be able to arrive quickly should I need it, and not be impeded by the door. It may sound odd, but twenty-seven years of a nurse standing over you while you extrude last evening's meal inures you to embarrassment after a while. Indeed, you begin to feel odd if there isn't a white-coated specter looming over you, clipboard in hand, waiting to inspect your leavings.
So, no bathroom break this morning, thanks. I hop on the bus and proceed to the shopping mecca. Once there, the first order of business was to find a bathroom and alleviate the pressure on my bladder, which was throbbing like an infected tooth. No problem. A mall has plenty of bathrooms. A bathroom was found, and I rolled in to heed nature's call.
Because it is a public bathroom, I cannot pee with the door open. After all, a mother might wander in with a booger-mining progeny of the opposite sex in tow, and clearly, seeing the sacred bits from which he has so recently emerged, particularly the sacred bits of an Asexual Handicapped Person might raise uncomfortable queries. So, to avoid the histrionic shriekings of puritanical harpies who insist I have scarred their booger miners' minds and made them dog-raping serial killers ever and anon, I bring my roomie and close the door.
Well, on this particular occasion, my roomie was spotted by an elderly woman as he entered the stall.
The shrill cry of, "Sir! Sir! This is the ladies' room," rang out. Over and over again. As if he simply hadn't heard her pronouncement the first thirteen times. She was positively indignant. I do believe she was convinced he had interloped on the blessed ground of the Squatting Peepee Tribe for the express purpose of leering at the sweet manna that lurked beneath the veil of her Old Navy khakis, never mind that said delicacy had last been on view when Moses wandered through the desert.
I assure you, Mother Methuselah, that my roomie has not the slightest interest in your bits, and would not have done even if they hadn't been sixty years past their sell-by date. He's not even interested in mine, for that matter. What he is interested in is making sure I don't shatter an arm or a hip. I am sorry that his presence offends you, but unless you can lift my body off the floor or catch me if I stumble, he's here to stay, because I'm not sacrificing what little health I have for your delicate sensibilities.
Other than that, the day was most enjoyable. I picked up The Incredibles for my DVD collection, as well as a book by Steve Erickson called DeathHouse Gates. It seems to be a fantasy epic peopled with demons, Trells, and Seers. I was browsing the New in Paperback table at Barnes and Noble and picked it up. I didn't think I was going to like it. After all, I'd tried the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan and been bored to tears, but this was lovely. A deft touch, sure and informative without belaboring the necessary world-building and backstory. I'd intended to read only a few pages and wound up reading seventy in the store. The clerk remarked on it as I was checking out.
Off to watch Iron Chef now. The weatherman forecast heavy rain and severe thunderstorms from now until midnight tomorrow, so it might be my last electronic entertainment for a while.
Of course, that's what he predicted for today, and all it's done is drizzle. Pea-brained dolt.
See you all on the other side.
Apparently, one of them had to burp.
One of the measures I took to get to the bus on times was to forego using the bathroom before I left the apartment. Normally, I tend to my biological business first thing in the morning, but if I had done so today, I would have missed the bus. My trips to the loo are not a simple matter of meandering into the bathroom, dropping trou or hiking skirt, and perching upon the cherished porcelain throne. Nay, it is a complicated ritual of pulling myself out of the chair, wobbling to my feet, swaying drunkenly until I find some semblance of equilibrium, fumbling with my clothes while holding the grab bar in a cold, sweat-slicked, white-knuckled grip, wrestling them into submission, flopping onto the toilet, doing my business, wrangling the toilet paper, lurching upright, pulling up the pants, tottering until my ass is aligned with the seat, falling into it, and flushing. The entire process can take anywhere from five to twenty minutes, and there is a moderate risk of falling.
And yes, I do all of this with the door open. It is paramount that help be able to arrive quickly should I need it, and not be impeded by the door. It may sound odd, but twenty-seven years of a nurse standing over you while you extrude last evening's meal inures you to embarrassment after a while. Indeed, you begin to feel odd if there isn't a white-coated specter looming over you, clipboard in hand, waiting to inspect your leavings.
So, no bathroom break this morning, thanks. I hop on the bus and proceed to the shopping mecca. Once there, the first order of business was to find a bathroom and alleviate the pressure on my bladder, which was throbbing like an infected tooth. No problem. A mall has plenty of bathrooms. A bathroom was found, and I rolled in to heed nature's call.
Because it is a public bathroom, I cannot pee with the door open. After all, a mother might wander in with a booger-mining progeny of the opposite sex in tow, and clearly, seeing the sacred bits from which he has so recently emerged, particularly the sacred bits of an Asexual Handicapped Person might raise uncomfortable queries. So, to avoid the histrionic shriekings of puritanical harpies who insist I have scarred their booger miners' minds and made them dog-raping serial killers ever and anon, I bring my roomie and close the door.
Well, on this particular occasion, my roomie was spotted by an elderly woman as he entered the stall.
The shrill cry of, "Sir! Sir! This is the ladies' room," rang out. Over and over again. As if he simply hadn't heard her pronouncement the first thirteen times. She was positively indignant. I do believe she was convinced he had interloped on the blessed ground of the Squatting Peepee Tribe for the express purpose of leering at the sweet manna that lurked beneath the veil of her Old Navy khakis, never mind that said delicacy had last been on view when Moses wandered through the desert.
I assure you, Mother Methuselah, that my roomie has not the slightest interest in your bits, and would not have done even if they hadn't been sixty years past their sell-by date. He's not even interested in mine, for that matter. What he is interested in is making sure I don't shatter an arm or a hip. I am sorry that his presence offends you, but unless you can lift my body off the floor or catch me if I stumble, he's here to stay, because I'm not sacrificing what little health I have for your delicate sensibilities.
Other than that, the day was most enjoyable. I picked up The Incredibles for my DVD collection, as well as a book by Steve Erickson called DeathHouse Gates. It seems to be a fantasy epic peopled with demons, Trells, and Seers. I was browsing the New in Paperback table at Barnes and Noble and picked it up. I didn't think I was going to like it. After all, I'd tried the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan and been bored to tears, but this was lovely. A deft touch, sure and informative without belaboring the necessary world-building and backstory. I'd intended to read only a few pages and wound up reading seventy in the store. The clerk remarked on it as I was checking out.
Off to watch Iron Chef now. The weatherman forecast heavy rain and severe thunderstorms from now until midnight tomorrow, so it might be my last electronic entertainment for a while.
Of course, that's what he predicted for today, and all it's done is drizzle. Pea-brained dolt.
See you all on the other side.