I’m shaking in my boots (or should I say, my leg cast) today.  Hurricane Ike, the massive killer and daddy of all storms, is headed straight toward the Texas coast and way too close for comfort to the home of one of our kids.  (Be safe, Bob!  Be safe.)  I flip back and forth between CNN and MSNBC just because I can’t keep my eyes off the television and its images of swelling ocean and building winds.

Then there’s the world’s largest particle accelerator buried deep in the earth beneath herds of placid dairy cows grazing on the Swiss-French border.  The idea of this thing is to set two beams of protons traveling in opposite directions through a giant round tunnel, redlining at the speed of light, generating a wicked energy that will mimic the cataclysmic conditions at the beginning of time, then smashing into each other in a furious re-creation of the Big Bang — this time recorded by giant digital cameras.  Whee-doggies!

On Wednesday, they fired this sucker up.  I wonder if they played the theme music from Jaws as they sent those toothy Sarah Barracuda protons out to eat up the earth.  Ba-dum … Ba-dum.

And then there’s Wilson.  My dear sweet Wilson who has his own little toothy grin as he gleefully gnaws his way across baseboards and door casings while I’m impotently stuck on the couch.

Dan:  He’s eating the house.

Me:  He’s nine months old.  He’s teething.

Dan:  He’s EATING.  THE.  HOUSE.

Me:   I can learn carpentry. (I say brightly.)

Dan:  Swell.  A house-eating dog and a wife with a broken leg and her finger on the red button of a power saw.

Me:  Yeah, well you’ll be glad I learned how to saw things if we need to board up against that black hole they’re making.

Dan:  And you’re qualified to stop a black hole?

Me:  May I remind you that I was a PTA member, a Pop Warner football mom, Captain of a cheerleader squad — AND the mayor of a small couch.  Thus, I’m quite qualified to preemptively poke red buttons, thereby nullifying black holes. So read my lipstick, mister.  I’m a heartbeat away.  A heartbeat!

I wonder if the sound of Dan’s hand smacking his forehead is similar to the big-bang explosion they plan to make in that underground tunnel.  I guess we’ll soon know.

In the meantime, again I pray, stay safe Texas.  Stay safe.

I have seven more days glued to the couch, toes aimed toward the ceiling, before the first post-surgical evaluation of how my little fibula is doing.  Seven days to make good with life on my back.  Time in a Bottle may have been a hauntingly prescient song, but Time on a Couch pretty much sucks.  Here are a few things I can do to pass the day:

Thursday – Watch re-runs of Sex in the City until my eyes bleed.

Friday – Learn a new language.  I’m thinking Pig-Latin might be fitting for today’s distraction.  I’ll start with the common phrase, ipstick-lay on a ig-pay, and then feign my own sexist outrage over it.

Saturday – Memorize the Periodical Table, then break out that Little Genius Chemistry Set to invent the Auburn McCanta line of designer stink bombs.

Sunday – Knit a sweater … provided I learn to knit without poking myself with those sharp pointy needles.

Monday – Worry over that teensy-weensy little black hole they are expecting to make inside the Super Collider in Geneva — you know, that black hole some worry might swallow up the earth, along with this ridiculous couch on which I’m captured.  Whee-doggies!

Tuesday – Read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, concentrating on the red-necked spitting cobra with which I will SO relate about this time.

Wednesday – Do a one-legged happy dance because the galaxy still whirls and we’re one day closer to something other than life on a couch.

I’d be happy to take further suggestions for time-consuming activities.  There are still those wide-awake nights in which to occupy and amuse myself.  I promise to take it all under advisement.  Anyone?  Anything?

Two weeks ago tomorrow I fell through a crack in the earth.  Things broke.  A leg.  The strap of a purse.  A cell phone.  A heart.  The fall was swift, thorough.  Complicated.  Like Alice down the rabbit hole, there’s a sense that up is down and teacups are no longer to be trusted.  The path from active and vibrant to existence on a couch is more than winding and certainly not one I’d anticipated.  But this is no Wonderland and I’m no Alice.  I’m simply a woman who was startled by how abruptly one’s day can intersect with an unlikely event.  How one can so easily happen upon a wrinkle in the earth and fall … fall … fall.

I suppose it’s not so bad, this exaggerated drifting through days of painful surgical recovery, numerous leg casts, endless hospital trips.  Immobility.  Isolation.  Loneliness.  But there’s a cupboard full of books waiting for hands to open them.  There are two award-winning manuscripts in my drawer, completed and just needing an agent to give them wings.  A couch-bound writer has nothing but the gift of time to research agents, write query letters, anticipate that one “Yes” that can propel an unpublished story toward its rightful place on bookstore shelves.  There are more stories to write.  More ideas to dispel.

There’s also an exquisite humility that enters the heart when one is suddenly disabled, helpless, dependent on others for everything.  Modesty has no place.  Determination becomes an abstract concept.  A clock insults the true length of a day for the bedridden.  A Handicapped placard now hangs from the rearview mirror of my car — a car I can no longer drive.

So paint those roses red, boys.  Call the Queen of Hearts.  Deal the cards and pass the pills that make me small and make me tall.  Pour me another cup of tea; I’ll be here a while.  I’ll follow that time-obsessed March Hare until I figure out the logic of this place.  Like Alice, I’ll flutter the rabbit’s fan and wonder if I’m still the same person I was before.  I’ll grow and shrink and when it’s all done, I’ll either be a little crazier or a whole lot better for this unlikely adventure.   And maybe, oh just maybe, I’ll figure out the Hatter’s unanswerable riddle of “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”  Certainly, if nothing else, this Dancing Bird with a broken leg will have plenty of time for pondering answers to such nonsensical questions.

Wish me luck.

I’m off first thing in the morning to get a zipper put in my leg — a nice metal plate and a couple of screws, a few more weeks with my leg stuck in the air, three to four months in a cast, several weeks of physical therapy and oh, maybe a box or three of wine to seal the deal.

Once I can manage to hold this trusty old laptop without screaming, MEDIC, MEDIC, we’ll all sit down and have a nice chat about how to not break your leg by tripping over cracks in the sidewalk.  We can share scars and swap medical horror stories.  We can be Brothers and Sisters of The Leg.  We can tremble together as we dim the lamps and tell stories around a crackling campfire about the headless ghost in the mall who captures unsuspecting women and snaps their legs like little dry twigs.

I’ll see you soon.

In the meantime, stay safe.  Be well.  Keep the oily side down and write, write, write.

Wilson and Dan on the occasion of Beginner Puppy Class Graduation.

Of course I was incredibly sad I couldn’t attend Wilson’s big day, but missing your puppy’s graduation because your leg is broken is just a simple suck-it-up moment, not an opportunity to brag how you’re a woman of strong character in spite of the evidence of your weak bones.

After countless reiterations of how I fell because of an unexpected sidewalk crack at the mall (boorring), I’m claiming the story-teller’s right to make up a better tale.  Now when asked how I broke my leg, I’ll simply shrug and growl, “Ah, those dastardly Pirates.”

On this Labor Day, those of us who are couch-bound captives to all things television, may I join the collective concern as I watch water roll over the West side of the Industrial Canal in New Orleans.  Be safe, people.  Be well.  You live in a lump in my throat now.  You are cupped within a prayer that I’ve captured into my folded hands.  You’re in every gust of wind, every drop of water, every fallen tree.  Take care.  Please.

I’ll be quiet for a few days.  Tomorrow is pre-op day, followed by surgery Wednesday morning.  I’ve been told that a plate and screws hammered into one’s fibula is about as fun as a ruptured spleen.  It could be worse.  I could be lashed to the mast of a ship, my breasts wildly heaving like the ocean’s reckless waves, pirates dancing over my capture, a plank being readied for my final walk, and my rescuing hero still only on the 7th green and pondering the slope and speed of his next putt.  Yeah, it could be way worse.

Be safe today, everyone.  Donate something to benefit our current hurricane victims — if you can.  The Red Cross is here.  Barack Obama has information and a link here.  John McCain has local links here.

The saga of the leg goes on.  I’m told I must have surgery on my dear little broken and misplaced fibula.  SURGERY!  We’re talking metal plates and screws.  A manly scar.  Another true grit moment.  One more notch on the old belt.

So from this day forward and into the next three months, I’ll be the one on the couch with my leg stuck up in the air, making certain my toes stay eye level, keeping my ankle higher than my poor sad little heart, demurely trying not to give an accidental crotch shot now and then with this left leg waving wildly at the ceiling.  Wheee!!!

Hang with me, though.  I’ll do my best to write through my sure-to-be chronically drug-induced brain fog.  With my trusty laptop resting on the shelf of my chest, my teeth clenched in pain, my fingers not responsible for anything they might write, this Dancing Bird will continue on.

The next few days will be busy with all the pre-op nonsense they do to people — blood tests, EKG, sincere pats on the knee, kind and good wishes from family and friends who are damned glad it isn’t them.  I’m glad it’s not them too.

Oh, did I mention I’m signed up for ballet lessons when this is over?

Yes, this is MY BROKEN LEG!!!

Before we go any further, let me explain that I’m on some nifty pain meds, so I’m not responsible for my actions.  If only I’d known this in college.  I could have gotten away with soooo much stuff.

To rewind a bit, except for this one little thing, this little broken fibula thing, yesterday was a day well lived.  Dan brought home the morning paper, which was a rare occurrence.  We ordinarily only receive the paper on weekends — our way of cutting costs and saving trees.  Normally, we do what every other red-blooded American does.  We receive the news from Jon Stewart and The Internets.  Nevertheless, I LOVE coffee with a newspaper crackling in my hands.  It’s just so newsprinty.  So, I’m drinking my coffee and turning pages, when I come across a notice that there’s a writer’s group that meets every Tuesday not that far from home.  You don’t have to ask me twice.  A Writer’s Group!

When I arrived, note pad in hand, I found myself in seventh heaven.  I was surrounded by writerly types, the scent of iced lattes, chocolate brownies and thinking brain matter drifting all about.  It was the BEST.  I even won a prize for something.  THEY GAVE PRIZES.  It was wonderful–

–until I left.  On my way to the car, the side of my foot rolled into a joint in the concrete, sending me ass over teakettle and soon thereafter, drooling over three nice firemen in their tight blue T-shirts.

A trip to the hospital and a few X-Rays later, here we are.  One broken fibula, a temporary splint to be replaced by a hard cast suitable for signing, a pair of crutches more treacherous than that nasty mall sidewalk, and a very sleepless night on the couch wrapped in ice and misery.

Recovery is expected to be anywhere from six weeks to three months.  Don’t feel sorry for me, though.  I get out of doing the dishes.

We’re having a discussion.  I want Wilson to go to school to become a Therapy Dog.  An elder statesman, so to speak.  He could shake hands with the gentlemen and give slurpy kisses to all the babies.  He could smile at the ladies and schmooze with the boys down at the bowling alley.  He could roll over and … and … FETCH things.  What could be more noble?  He could give … THERAPY.  It’s almost like he’d be “my Son the Doctor, or “my Son the Senator.”

Wilson, however, wants only to work in the food industry.  Since flipping hamburgers was recently reclassified as “manufacturing,” he argues he’d be serving others, never mind the drooling quality control he’d assert over every product.  See?  He’s already bought his hairnet.  HIS HAIRNET FOR GOD’S SAKE.

Oh, where did I go wrong?

I haven’t felt well lately — something about impaired blood sugar and low potassium, both of which are butt-kicking maladies.  Not one to let this just slide on by without notice, I’ve concocted a chicken soup guaranteed to either cure you, kill you, or turn you into a great Jewish mother.

Here’s the recipe:

1 boneless, skinless chicken breast; 2 likewise naked chicken thighs.  I like the kind of chickens that are treated nice with all natural foods rather than those poor things who eat nothing but ground-up rubber tires and metal spikes … and they get to frolic in the woods all day and sleep on memory foam mattresses at night.  You know.  HAPPY chickens with soft thighs and breasts like pillows.

Boil the heck out of ’em in about four cups of water spiced with garlic powder, basil, parsley and dried soup greens.  Cook the chicken pieces until they really, really fall apart, probably about an hour or as long as it takes to have a nice nap.  Reserve the broth because you’ll add thingys to it later.

Slice up some carrots, celery, green onion, mushrooms, cabbage, zucchini, or anything else that strikes your fancy — except, of course, your fingers … or that chocolate bar that you’ve been hiding from the kids.  But go ahead, add the kitchen sink.  Who cares?  With this recipe, you’ll be half soused by the time you eat it anyway.  I try to use as many organic veggies as possible in this recipe.  Really.  I’d rather die from a freak encounter with a raccoon than be killed by my own soup.

Put all the veggies in your salad spinner, wash ’em down and then make them all whoo-whoo spinny, dizzy and screaming like you were in bed last night — but that’s another story entirely.

When the chicken’s done, shred it like you’d do that bad boy ex-husband of yours in court.  You know what I’m talkin’ about, girl.

Add into the pot a cup or two of some good organic chicken broth, your shredded chicken, the veggies, about a quarter cup of barley, half a package of noodles, salt and pepper to taste, and some chili powder for a bit of pow-zing.  I’d have added some dry white wine too, but I seem to have consumed it all.  Oops.  Silly me!

Cook it all for about as long as it takes to slug down a gin and tonic since the wine’s all gone.

When everything’s all soft and yummy, including your mood, spoon the soup into a bowl, add a garnish on the top and serve it to your hubby while wearing only a little French maid’s apron.

I guarantee you’ll have a great night … and your health with be better than ever!

Bon Appetit.

A few weeks ago, I came across this photo of my mother in a box filled with other such photos.  This one struck me, though.  This one seems the perfect summation of my mother and who she was.  She was Jackie-O, Lucille Ball, Keira Knightly, with a dab of Marilyn Monroe thrown in for good measure.   She was as comfortable in a ball gown as she was in chaps and boots.  She rode a horse to school and was the first of her family to graduate college.

She was a beauty!  She put up with my Dad, for God’s sake, usually with some comment like, “This too shall pass.”  She always offered him more than he deserved, he always responded with less than appropriate. Still, she’d just smile and say, “This too shall pass.”

Sometimes we’d have a special lunch with broccoli and little lamb chops and we’d sit at the table with our toes touching, our talk weaving light and laughter through it, like we were fashioning some intricate lace of what it was to be female.  She was a Republican, but I forgive her for that because that was before the Neo-cons.  She would have had a word or two about those folks, and it wouldn’t have been generous or gracious.  Or even lady-like.  She loved Goldwater, but refused to vote for him because he was, as she put it, “filled with the nonsense of war.”

She’s been gone a very long time.  Thirty-two years now.

She’s still here, though.  I catch a glimpse of her sometimes when I look sideways into a mirror.  She moves my tongue now and then with one of her pithy no-nonsense statements.  This too shall pass.  For God’s sake, don’t be a doormat for anyone.  These Republicans are gonna be the death of me yet.

She didn’t die of Republicanism, but because an undetected aortic aneurysm blew apart at 5:00 p.m. on the Friday before Mother’s Day.  I’d like to think, though, that were she alive today, she’d be a Momma for Obama and that the outspoken Joe Biden would be her hero.

I guess it’s okay that I’m a Democrat.  Mom would simply make us a special lunch of broccoli and little lamb chops and with her wry sense of humor, tell me, “This too shall pass.”