"Boxing Kerawin"

What's the most ass-bad come-on line you've ever heard? My little prize came at a bus stop outside FAO Schwartz a few years ago, back when there was a store on Sixth and Pike with a 15-foot bronze teddy bear out front. Emanating a streak of somewhat suppressed psychotic violence, an Asian guy came up, stared hard at my chest, started rubbing his crotch, and moaned in a low, low voice, "Oh, it hurts bad. It hurts sooooo baaaaad. Can I come home with you?"

After shaking my head in sheer disbelief and getting him to repeat himself a few more times (the latter repetitions were actually for my own sadistic jollies), I then generously asked if he wanted me to make it hurt really, *reeeeally* bad. After realizing I was both amused and serious, he finally went away. A few weeks later, I saw him on the #14 with his hand roughly gripping a girl's boob as he shot me a challenging look. Did that line actually work, and did he end up hurting her? I still wonder, because that guy seemed like bad news all around.

Anyway, I hurt myself last night at my Ninja class, and boy, it hurt bad. It hurt. Soooooo. Baaaaaad.

Sounds so ultra bad-ass to sustain an impressive injury in a martial arts class... but you have no idea just how great it was, because it was actually so bad-ass it was mythically ass-bad... so FRICKING ASS-BAD it was the physical equivalent of that piss-poor pick-up line, and there was no more a retarded way to go down... short of slipping while taking a wee in a Honey Bucket and breaking your neck. Sadly enough, there was no crotch-rubbing involved this time, but there was leather and wood...

For the past few weeks, I've been fighting some sort of low-grade sick that's filled my head with muck and mire, grog and head-rushes, so I was a little late getting started in my mixed-arts conditioning class. While trying to muster some energy to throw into my class, which had already begun with jump-roping, I unwound my very tangled-up but awesome leather rope ~ a gift from my cool instructor, Hyper Zenwarrior ~ and prepared to get started.

One does not Hyper Zenwarrior mock; check out Them Guns.


I flicked the rope up, relaxed my body into zen rope-jumping mode, hopped up off one foot... and landed with my ankle completely snapping in and snapping back under me as I crumpled onto the floor in a pathetic heap. BJJ Mastah managed to catch most of it, and later laughingly described it as "a spectacular two-step process" that culminated in me screaming with surprised agony, then jerkily dragging my whimpering torso off the floor and out of sight around the corner all Terminator-style after his legs got blown off. Graceful, it was not. Exquisitely excruciating, it most certainly was.

Even after ingesting four ibuprofens on an empty stomach (which I paid for hours later when it went absolutely ballistic with breathtaking agony), I was in so much throbbing misery my back stayed arched off the floor for ages, and my injured ankle was shaking so badly I think the nerves must've been in some shock. Luckily, my kids' Ninja instructors, Red Sonja and Cyphur Ninjaboy, were there to completely baby me with ice packs, Thai pads for leg elevation and head pillow, bandage wraps to compress the wound, water, and simple conversational distraction.

And yes, I will proclaim it here and now: It was just as bad as unmedicated labour. On a scale of 1-10, it was at least a solid 8.7599999.

Ah! And let's not forget the absolute worst, most retarded thing I did to myself after the initial collapse: Like a dying cat, I needed to get away from everyone whilst I dealt with the pain, so in dragging myself away, I scraped my other foot along the ground with such speed and weight that the disgusting carpet took the skin off the tops of my toes, resulting in raw flesh and oozing blood. It was actually a welcome relief from my ankle agony to apply Purell-coated papertowel to the open wounds on my other foot, so I had something fresh to quietly scream from. That's how far my addled brain had gone.

After an hour of lying around, when the mixed arts class had finished and my BJJ class had begun, I started hearing grunts coming from the other side of the wall... and nearly gagged with frustration. Saying that my BJJ class is amongst the highest regular points of my week would be a gross understatement, so I dragged a few key things down to the other floor and watched my class from the side. Unfortunately, that, too, proved to be pure torture, as watching the guys drill exercises I adore doing felt like watching other kids have massive ice creams in big chocolate-dipped waffle cones without you. At one point, a sweetheart came over and let me practice an arm bar on him a few times, and I can't tell you how that just sent me over the moon in blissful joy.

Mercifully, Tits'n'Gritts, BJJ Mastah, and their kids offered me a ride the entire 1.5 blocks home, and one of their adorable girls let me use her as a crutch while their cutie boy carried my bag for me. You guys, I adore you so... thanks for being so great.

When I got home, my wonderful Boy took over Florence Nightingale duties by pampering, feeding, and showering me. Unfortunately, the one time (aside from my second pregnancy) when I reeeeally needed a beer, he'd already downloaded the last Hoegaarden, so I had to happily make do with the tasty spicy tea Southern Gritte had brought by on Saturday.

Then, we took pictures of my boo-boo.

If anything, the elephantiasis is even worse today than what you see here. Sweet!

At one point, Boy chirped, "Hey, this is great! You can't escape or fight back... You're like my own 'Boxing Helena'!!!"

Boxing Helena, indeed. But I guess like Helena, I do have a bit of a mouth on me. But of course, you already knew that...

Update alert!


It's Saturday morning, and look at my beauty!!! Unfortunately, I still can't walk worth Liberace's hairpiece, but I'll start worrying about that if I'm still encrippled on Monday morning.

This whole incident has given me much food for thought, and a renewed appreciation for my generally stellar health. The dark blasted night of my Graceless Demise, I suddenly found myself wishing for one of those bum-shelf thingies you see in some geriatric and hospital showers. Also, the walker with the cut-up tennis balls on the back bottoms suggested on Conan O'Brien's show for Neil Armstrong's revisited spacewalk on the moon also seems like a really good idea.

Arrgghhhhh. I'm getting frustrated and restless and am tired of working on my bedsores, and this is only Day Two of my lameness. Sadly, today feels like a Costco day for stocking up on meat, cheese, wine, coffee, dairy, eggs, frozen treats, and other goodies, and I'm really in the mood to do a shit-load of fragrant cooking with My Boy while listening to music and drinking some vino. Boy's suggesting we make tagliatelle tonight with the pasta roller, which we haven't done for ages and is fun, fun, fun. Tagliatelle! A puttanesca sauce... Yumskis. So if I could only walk so I can go shopping, too...

As it is, dear Boy is currently at Bartell Drugs, looking to see if he can find me a pair of crutches or a cane. I never thought I'd see the day. But then, that's what you hear from seniors who are still baffled to find themselves in retirement homes because they're convinced they're still only around 25 years old...

*shudder* The mere thought of having crutches lying around here gives me some pause as I can scarcely imagine what the kids might end up doing with them, and the damage they may wreak. In the meantime however, as chronically ass-bad Cartman would say,
"Let the cripple fight begin!!!"




(photo credit for the FAO Schwartz Bear: Gracefully ripped off from Ryan Hadley's flickr site.)