Therapy

This week went to hell pretty much on Wednesday, and I hit the utter nadir (I hope to God) yesterday, between work and the gov’ment*. So I’m closing it out with this:

*It seems that Fairfax County’s Personal Property Tax administrators work only part time, which barely gives them the hours to send you bills for years during which you were not a resident, but not the hours to be at their desks to take your phone calls to remind them you've sent them documentary proof of your non-residence. I hate living in a Confederate state.

Parking privileges

Huh—it’s mid-May again, so time for the annual weekend invasion of the Nation’s Capital by cops.

I worked from home on Friday so I didn’t witness the gathering, or the spandex. But when I walked to work Monday morning, I saw the Orlando PD’s array of motorcycles parked across 12^th Street from the Metro Center Marriott.

This appears to be their spot. And as I pulled out my camera to take some shots, it occurred to me that if you’re the police, you can apparently leave your motorcycles on the sidewalk.

Getting a grip

As presaged on Monday, yesterday the cast came off. And—considering the 90-degree-plus-about-105%-humidity—not a moment too soon. If there is anything slimier than the inside of a cast on sweaty skin, I do not want to know about it.

The PA cut through the carapace and pulled away the shell, then I had a proper old scrub of the skin.

There’s some tenderness, but no pain; most of it is apparently due to the four weeks’ constriction inside the cast. And I’m peeling skin off like I used to after a day at the beach.

My surgeon is quite pleased with my healing—he gave me a referral for OT, but he said I don’t have to use it unless I really feel I need it. (Glad about that, because I was not looking forward to the $40 a pop co-pay.) Ditto the thumb brace; better that I just get back to (careful) normal movement.

The first thing I did—before even the surgeon came into the room—was take out pens and start marking up some work documents.

I cannot tell you what a joy that was, even just with the crappy office pen. Ditto pouring a glass of bubbly and holding it in my right hand to drink. I came home (although operating the gear shift was a bit problematic; I expect that’ll improve) and took a shower without having to stick my arm in a plastic bag!

Small joys, my friends. Small joys.

Special handling

I am by no means a Social Media maven, but I have some familiarity with much of the terminology. So when I saw this on a website that puts itself forward as a high-tech, with-it platform for connecting high-tech with-it women jobseekers with companies committed to diversity in the workplace, I did a bit of a doubletake.

I’m not even going to quibble about not capitalizing Facebook and Twitter—although they’re proper nouns, and I bet that you wouldn’t like it if people cited your application with your company name misspelt.

But if you’re going to toss around all the usual SoMe suspects, you might want to learn that it’s a Twitter handle, not handler.

Gratitude Monday: freedom at hand

One more sleep until the cast comes off my wrist. Thanks be to God.