Whine, whine, whine

***DISCLAIMER****
This post will contain much pissing and moaning.

Have I mentioned that being trapped in a 90 degree cast will turn a reasonable woman into a raving lunatic? Look, I know that I should be focusing on the silver lining of this whole surgery but I'm having trouble getting past the fact that I am unable to button my own pants.

My hair looks like crap. It is neither curly nor straight and as a two-handed person, I am usually able to manipulate it into a reasonable coif. Not anymore. Now every morning, I go to the office and I am forced to wait for a co worker to arrive to help me pull it into a pony. Today is French braid day.

My wardrobe presents numerous challenges because pajamas are not considered business casual. Buttons, snaps, zippers and, god forbid, strings that need to be tied, are instruments of the devil. My bra? Let's just say that the girls and I are in a death match with gravity and every day that we triumph is like winning the lottery.

My morning routine has been blown like a drunken sailor on shore leave. I used to enjoy a leisurely coffee, shower and breakfast before the kids got up. Now, everything takes longer. Grasp scrunchie with right hand. Reach for bottle of liquid soap with right hand. Brain registers conflict. Put scrunchie down. Get bottle. Pour on scrunchie. Put bottle down. Pick up scrunchie. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And just try to shave your right underarm with your right hand.

School lunches are their own unique nightmare. I buy organic peanut butter. It resides in the fridge. It has a screw on lid. I can hold the jar in my left hand but applying any pressure (say the act of unscrewing with my right hand) causes pain. The peanut butter is stiff and unyielding. Getting it out of the jar with one hand while using my hip to anchor it in the corner of the counter top is a lesson in freak ergonomics.

The final insult is laundry. I have become this crazy person, screeching at my kids to help me get the stuff out of the dryer while it is still hot because the thought of ironing with one hand is too much for me to contemplate. As it is, the mere act of folding clean clothes has me muttering profanities under my breath.

There is some good. I am predominately right handed, except for eating. I eat with my left. So now, I'm clumsy and many morsels do not make it to the promised land. Instead, they end up on my shirt, usually in the chest area because I am shaped like a letter "P". I am so pleased that I have managed to get the girls holstered that I choose to view the few dribbles as artful accessorizing. And then there is the fact that food on my shirt means that there is no way it made it to my hips. BONUS. So who says I'm not a glass half full kind of gal?

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