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2002-05-23 - 12:37 p.m.

Since I work at home, I have the chance to turn on daytime television once in a while during my lunch break. This week there were lesbians on A Baby Story. Lesbians! Usually they only show happily married couples, often ones who have struggled with infertility and who are now happy expectant parents thanks to the miracle of god and oh yeah the doctors and medical technology. But this week there were happy lesbians! Of course, they were white middle class happy lesbians complete with accepting families. The happy lesbians had a typical Baby Story medicalized c-section birth, but it was something. I'm waiting for the unmarried bisexual punk rock woman of color to appear on A Baby Story, grunting her way through a home birth with her new partner (another punk rock grrrl) standing by her tattooed side but I have a feeling I shouldn't hold my breath.


During the program I also found out I can get the Book of Mormon free if I just call the toll free number. Oh yeah, I'll be all over that. Me and the lesbians.


I like to think of myself as a strong, powerful, athletic woman but sometimes I have to face facts. I got my ass kicked at my tennis match on Monday. It was outside, cold, windy, my first single's match in almost a year, and--I admit it--I played like crap. In drill last night (I'm now playing 3 times a week--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday) I jumped up for an overhead that was slightly beyond my reach and although I got it, I came down weirdly on my ankle.

My ankles have been problematic for me since childhood when I thought I could be Mary Lou Retton and did gymnastics 5-6 days a week. Two years ago (holy shit, two years ago almost exactly--it will be two years to the day on Thursday) I did something similar at a tennis drill, but much worse. I ended up in the emergency room (or rather, the urgent care at my health clinic) and in a half-cast (fiberglass cast over the back and sides of my leg, ankle, and foot and open at the front, secured with ace bandages wrapped around the whole thing) and crutches for two or three weeks. This happened two days before The Scientist and I moved in together. Moving being the important part of that event.

The Scientist had to move all of my stuff as well as his own from our respective old apartments into our new apartment while I hopped around on crutches and tried to do the extensive cleaning required by my landlord. Let me make it clear that I had three or four times as much stuff as he did. Box after box of hardback books. Luckily, my stuff was all packed and labeled (I'm a planner, remember) but I was little help. I tried to unpack, but I could only carry one item at a time due to the crutches. Without crutches I resorted to hopping and limping, which was shaky at best and still didn't allow me to carry anything more. I think The Scientist looks back on that as his own private hell. He still talks about it in horror.

The point is I seem to have tweaked my ankle again. It hurt worse and worse after tennis as the night wore on. After limping around the house for a while today I realized as I was getting out of the shower that, huh, go figure, it was swollen. I spent 45 minutes on the couch elevating and icing it (and watching the season finale of The West Wing which I taped last night) and I hope it decides to cooperate and stop swelling. There's no point in going to the doctor---been there, done that, I can recite everything she would tell me. Wait a second, this is sounding spookily familiar. Am I turning into my grandma?

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