This and That

I begin physical therapy at the Spaulding Rehab outlet at the Y at 7:30 this morning. Similar to when I had PT there after my late 2017 spine surgery, it’ll be half aquatic and half… who knows what. Yes, I'm a little nervous. SO?!

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My iPhone’s auto-correct – I typed in fuckwad. Know what it suggested? Duckweed. 

The duckweeds (genus Lemna) and related genera of the duckweed family (Lemnaceae) are the smallest flowering plants known. Individual plants consist of a single, flat oval leaf (technically a modified stem) no more than ¼ of an inch long that floats on the surface of still-moving ponds, lakes, and sloughs. (source) 

This may be a fresh new addition to my insult bank. As in, Moscow Mitch is not only a Russian asset, he’s the lead duckweed in a fetid pool of disingenuous, hypocritical swindlers, frauds and grifters. You know, the GOP “led” duckweedian Senate.

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I now have an appointment to see a brand-y new neurologist. This one doesn’t replace anyone on the current crew – nope. He specializes in ”movement.”  In the text Jen sent me on this (she’s my health care proxy and does all the phone crap for me) she used the word “movement” – singular. So, this won’t be about poops. Just FYI.

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A confession – I’m not a big Terry Pratchett fan. Yes, I KNOW. How can I possibly be a sci fi/fantasy zealot and NOT be mondo keen on Sir Terry Pratchett – the king of wildly silly sci fi?

BEING DEAD IS NOT COMPULSORY. NOT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO. These are the words of Death, one of Terry Pratchett’s ingenious comic creations in his Discworld novels. Death has a booming, unamused voice (always in capitals, never in quotation marks), and is the permanent straight man in the comic chaos around him. He goes about his morbid business on a horse called Binky, whose hooves throw up sparks on every street cobble. (source) 

I like his writing, truly I do, but he just doesn’t rip my socks off like A. Lee Martinez or Catherynne Valente’s Space Opera or early Christopher Moore. Mebbe this is all about timing and contrast? That is, I shouldn’t pick up a Pratchett right after a Martinez. I’d enjoy Going Postal more if I read it after slogging through some Nietzsche and Stanislaw Lem?

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I managed to get outside for a TINY walk yesterday and was nearly transported, via insanely fierce winds, to Oz. This, THIS is why, six weeks post surgery and seizures, I’m not allowed to leave the house on my own.

I understand the ER in Oz is just not all that and a bag of chips.

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One day, when I’m dead and gone, my wee cottage will be torn down (to be replaced by some four story megalithic townhome). The demolishers will find a zillion single earrings (socks too). I’m convinced that all those lost halves are/were sentient and hellbent on freedom from the shackles of coupledom. This is why my socks never match, why the earring on my left is different from the one on the right – their other half’s done a runner.

OK, time to get dressed and hit the gym for PT.