Look Ma! Two feet!!

My doctor's visit went well, my foot's healing, everthing's in the right place, and my doctor told me I could start trying to walk without the boot.

He gave me three rules:

1. No Running.
2. No Jumping.
3. No Falling. (Wah wah wah!)

When we left the office my mom and I decided to go to Target, 'cause why wouldn't we? She dropped me off at the door and I took my first non-booted steps. It felt like I was walking on a marshmallow, a magical, pain shooting marshmallow.

Yesterday I was able to walk without the boot through my first three class period, but by the end of 6th period I was hurting. Last night was also our AVID Awards Night, and I didn't want to wear jeans, so I put on a skirt, tights and flats and went with out the boot. It was probably too much, but I looked cute, so I felt like it was worth it.

I came home and put on the boot, frantically cleaning and packing for my trip to Utah this weekend for Mother's Day. Let me tell you a little something about me: When I get into a cleaning jag I become single minded. Let me tell you a little something else: Because I switched from shoe to boot midday I brought my left tennis shoe home in a Trader Joe's bag along with my water bottles and lunch stuff.

Sooooooooo to make a long story short, I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until I had three bags of trash to take out. Although I was tired and my foot was hurting, I clomped down my stairs with three bags of trash narrowly avoiding rule #3.

On my way back from the dumpster, my neighbor congratulated me "Good job girl! Next you'll be running a marathon!" I felt all warm and fuzzy.

Later that night after I'd taken a bath and removed my boot I started to lay out my clothes for today and realized I couldn't find my left shoe. I searched everywhere, finally realizing that the Trader Joe's bag was no where to be found. "Where in the world did I put the...."

Oh.

Poopy.

I threw it away.

In the dumpster.

Downstairs.

So, because I was tired and couldn't stomach the idea of putting the boot back on I gimped my way downstairs with wet hair and no bra and jammies to pull my trash out of the dumpster to search for my missing shoe.


I got down there only to realize that the dumpster was nearly empty which meant that unless I had developed super human reach, broke rule #2, or both, I couldn't reach my garbage sacks.

I didn't feel warm and fuzzy. Instead I felt sweaty and prickly as I thought:

Oh

Poopy.

I have to go upstairs, get the step ladder, gimp back down here, and THEN pull trash out of the dumpster to find my shoe.

And that's what I did.

By the time I got back to my apartment with my shoe but without some of my dignity, my foot felt like it was on fire.

At least I didn't

Run
Jump, or
Fall.

THAT would have been bad.

The *Poopy Clause

First of all, I'd like to say that I try not to swear on a day to day basis. I do pretty well with this (unless I'm hanging out with Jill on a regular basis. I'm not blaming Jill, we're bad influences on each other.)for the most part, but occasionally I slip.

I don't think that it's ok to use profanity when the mood hits, and I really try to find other ways of expressing myself.

There are, however, times when the only way to truly express your feelings is to use one particular profane word, and in those situations, no other word will do.

So, I'd like to codeify what I'm calling The *Poopy Clause. This clause states that you can say *poopy without any guilt feelings or judgy comments from the non-potty mouths.

Here are the types of conditions under which The Poopy Clause could be enacted:

1. You wake up at the time when you are supposed to be at work. You must run around your house throwing on clothes and trying to accomplish some semblance of your normal appearance and then attempt to break all land speed records in an attempt to make it to work as soon as possible.

2. You realize that you have forgotten a job interview/meeting/class/birthday party/family gathering that you HAVE to attend. The meeting is in 10 minutes and you are 20 minutes away.

3. You respond to an email from a co-worker/friend/partner in crime about a third co-worker/idiot/hell hound. After sending your response in which you refer to said third party as a friend of Dorothy/disco dancing drag queen you realize you sent the email to said disco dancing hell hound rather than your friend. Upon closer inspection you realize said d.d.h.h. has opened and read the email, thus embroiling not only yourself, but also your friend in scandal.

According to The *Poopy Clause you would have the right to repeat the word *poopy in tones ranging from the under-the-breath mutter to the outright scream of terror as many times as you'd like with no judging by yourself or others.

Whattaya think?

I'm sold on the idea, and I enacted the clause this morning at 6:40.

(incidentally, if Austen could vocalize actual words he'd have enacted the clause at approximately 6:45 a.m.)

*Oh, come on, we all know I don't say poopy. I can't write what I really say, my nieces and nephews read this blog. Plus, I'm G rated.