Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition
So, Friday. It had been a bit of a week, but I had paid my bills, finally finished some work (before the deadline! Ok, just before. Almost as ‘just’ as you can get – nervewracking, that was) and was so ready for the weekend. I started things out by getting my hair cut (was resembling an Old English Sheepdog) and getting tickets to Last Night of the Proms at St. James'. Double yay! Went home for my Friday morning breakfast (or in this case lunch) gab session with a friend on the west coast. She’d had a bit of a week too and we talked about how it was starting to look like a good end to a not-terrific week.
That’s when she got me. Nemesis. The bitch.
After I got off the phone, Mojo promptly had bad GI issue, requiring – urgh – clean-up and cuddling to comfort the wee thing.
Around 2pm, I decide to follow up with health insurance company re: replacement cheque for a claim. Turns out they have done the exact opposite of what I asked them to do. Looks like classic insurance company: very busy getting sky-high premiums. Very un-busy getting cheques to customers. A few months ago, when I was $27 short on my premium (due to misinformation by one of their customer service rep), they contacted me twice by letter and once by phone in a 1-week period. In contrast, I’ve been waiting 3 months for my cheque. Ha. Percolate complaint letter (with sky-high blood pressure).
Start reading Cell by Stephen King – have an intense need to read about a world-wide apocalypse in which many, many people turn into ravening zombies and many, many people die. Violently. Imagine them all to be employees of insurance company.
This gives me a bit of an appetite. Have lunch.
Notice wheelchair feels weird. I think maybe it's me - sometimes when my shoulder is unhappy, this happens. Realize there's no give in chair when in neutral. Remember vaguely that this has happened before and that it's serious. Fact: the likelihood of a wheelchair breaking down becomes statistically greater the closer you come to Friday afternoon (and goes through the roof before a long weekend). It is now 3:10pm. I call repair place, talk to lovely rep Amber. Amber tells me it sounds like the brake has gone. Realize she’s right - left side feels more draggy (this is an expensive repair and since my chair is old, they may not even have the right parts). Am informed that if I keep using it, I will fry the controller, which, on top of the brake repair, will be several thousand dollars. Have no repair guy available to come out. Chair must go to shop to get fixed. On Monday. Fuck. Have minor nervous breakdown about what to do. Options are 1) use old chair, fry controller; or 2) use new chair which, as the issues (seating, etc) are so significant that they cause rather loud pain after a few hours in it, will for today’s purposes no longer referred to as “sculpture”, but “torture device”. Freak out a bit more.
Right. There’s nothing for it. Have to use torture device until problem resolved.
Said torture device, by the way, isn't charged. Batteries completely comatose.
Fine. Take nap, charge chair during. Mor (thank various divinities for mor) comes over with big knife - Crocodile Dundee kind of Big Knife - to hack away at new $500 cushion (replacement for $400 original which feels like sitting on nails) to attempt to make more comfortable - if it destroys it in the process, as we're not expert seating people who knows how to do this shit, so be it. Decide to try cushion from old chair before hacking commences. Is OK. Not great, but marginally better than nail-cushion. Phew! While mor adjusts cushion, I'm standing (such as it is) with support of another person – interesting. Haven’t stood for that long in years. Body somewhat underwhelmed by the experience. Sit back down, pack a pillow by lower back, another on left side, plan to sit still for the evening, hoping the 3 hour charge will see me through to bedtime. It does. Rest of weekend is… well. Good thing I had serious painkillers in the house. Better living through chemistry and all that. Currently waiting for Dave the Miracle Repair Guy to come pick up the old chair. Keeping my fingers crossed that they have the parts. (note: yes, it does eventually occur to me to be grateful that the torture device was here or the degree to which I’d be screwed would have been significantly greater. Took about a day, though)
And to push things into the realm of the surreal and hysterical…. As the circumference of the waist in comfy drawstring pants is rather different when sitting and standing and as I am a bit thin these days, when I am “standing” while my mother applies old cushion to new chair, said pants start very slowly, but inexorably to slide down towards indecent. Mor, ever helpful, gives them a yank up before I sit down again. And in so doing, gives me a wedgie.
Oh well. At least my hair looks good.