"I heard a pop," Marty says from somewhere way above me. He's a tall man.

"I think I heard it, too," I said, faintly. I was lying on my back on the grass, clutching my ankle with both hands. The volleyball net above me moved in the breeze. Man, I'm sweating a lot, I thought to myself. That and, This really fucking hurts.

"Can you move it?"

"Does anybody have ice?"

"The point goes over here -- there was a net on that side before there was one on this side," said the ref.

"They might have ice at the AMPM across the street."

"Are you okay?"

"Can someone get me some ice?"

"Does this hurt?" grabbing my leg.

"Ow."

"...sprain..."

"What did she do?"

"...achilles..."

They're out of order, but those are some of the words that floated around me as I lay on my back in utter disbelief. It's kind of a swirl, and I'm still not quite sure how I did it. What I do know is that I jumped, either to spike or to block, and I landed. Someone else landed on my foot from the other side of the net. My ankle twisted and there was the pop that Marty heard. That was my fibula breaking in a couple of places from the twisting motion. Ouch.

Sixteen years of playing volleyball and nothing like this. Until now, of course.

So, here I am, on my couch. There's a splint on my leg and I'm elevating it and icing it like a good little broken-legged girl. I'm not in much pain, though I won't pretend it's comfortable. I get my permanent cast today, so while I can't drive the soapbox car this Saturday, I can at least go cheer on my team. And, depending on how things look, I might get to ride down in the back for at least one run.

Dramatic retellings aside, I'm in good spirits. I can work from home for the next couple of days (programming is portable) and I have Friday off. My boyfriend rocks and is taking super good care of me. He's off getting me crutches and groceries and filling prescriptions now. Crystal and Brian rescued me from the park after the volleyball came to an abrupt halt. Others have offered to bring me food and DVDs. My mom might come down and stay with me - I'm figuring I'll wait until Ransom gets sick of fetching me things and then have her come down. So, I'm well taken care of.

And there's your update. I think I'm going to do a three-legged crabwalk to the bathroom now and then get some work done.

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I finally went to see Fahrenheit 911 last weekend. I was surprised that there weren't more digs at Ashcroft, but the movie was really about how bad the Bush family is. Maybe it was just too hot that day, but it didn't give me the extreme sense of moral outrage I expected. It's probably because none of it really came as a surprise. Do I believe everything Michael Moore wants me to? Probably not, but I agree with many of his sentiments. The election in 2000 is, in my mind, still a pretty dark part of our history -- or of the history of democracy as a whole.

In fact, I think that's what makes me so mad about this administration. We were all raised to believe that our government has checks and balances and was structured to prevent corruption. Right? We were raised to believe that our government cares about us. How humiliating, then, to find ourselves under the thumb of the Bush Administration and the Patriot Act. We were duped.

Anyhow, during "The Twenty," an insanely annoying set of commercials that they show before the movie, someone in the audience started to hum The Girl From Ipanema. Someone else joined in, and another audience member began to whistle. Here's what I would like to see happen (and I think Portland is the place for it): during "The Twenty," everybody in the audience in every theater hums The Girl From Ipanema as loudly as they can, drowning out the annoying marketing messages. The Girl From Ipanema protests will grow and grow until, finally, movie theaters just stop showing stupid commercials before the movie. Then we can sit there quietly, eaves dropping on other people's conversations like we did in the good old days before every surface of our world was covered in advertisements.

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Now I'm even more irritated that they scheduled the Portland Flugtag on the same day as the Soapbox Derby. Now I won't get to see the A-Team. Bah!

What were they thinking?

Is there wireless on Mt. Tabor? They are going to be doing a webcast...

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Two things are occupying most of my thoughts these days:

1. Pillaging and plundering.


2. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I'm close to finishing it and I can't wait. It's been a long time since I've read a story that kept me in anticipation this long. I can't wait to find out what happens.
   
   Also, I hadn't noticed until just now how much I like the colors used in the cover of the book.

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So, last Thursday, I met Ilan of Particleman fame. Cherz, James and I (along with a roommate, husband, and boyfriend, respecively) met up with P-man and his Texas posse at the Kennedy School. They blazed through Portland in a bright orange convertible Mustang, leaving a trail of empty beer glasses and the faint echo of the word "y'all" in their wake. Sadly, I was almost entirely caught up in soapbox madness and a trip to the coast for a wedding over the weekend and didn't get to spend much time hanging out.

Which brings me to: congratulations Kathleen and John -- the wedding was beautiful!

Also, if you wind up near Depoe Bay, I highly recommend eating at the Sea Hag. Mmm, yummy.

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It is a rare occurrence that I am at work before 8:00am. Heck, it's rare enough that I actually get my lazy ass out of bed before 8:00 (or 8:30 for that matter). Mornings just aren't my thing. We don't get along, mornings and I. But, my boyfriend has jury duty and off went the alarm, and here I am at work.

Lest you think I actually am that lazy, I should tell you I tend to stay up pretty late most nights. Also, my aversion to mornings has been a life-long thing (partially owing, I would guess, to being a "night owl", or, as they say in the medical profession, an "insomniac"). The only good association I have with mornings is that Mighty Mouse used to come on at 6:00am or so when we were kids. My sister would manage to wake up super early to watch it. Me, I was always deep in a coma-like sleep around that hour. I think I only managed to see it twice and that was only through my enormous willpower because it became a huge goal for some reason when I was about six.

And there you have it. Rambling. Dare I write code at this hour? Without having ingested my decaf* coffee yet? I'm going to give it the old college try.

*I know, it's painfully wussy of me to be drinking decaf. If it weren't for the heart/nervous system condition, I'd have a Dr. Pepper in one hand and a triple vanilla latte in the other.

P.S. Groucho's letter to Warner Brothers over an alleged copyright infringement is hilarious.

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If you're inclined and in agreement, sign the petition urging President Bush to stop being such a huge jerk about same sex marriage. His idea is to ammend the Constitution to say that marriage can only be between a man and a woman. I'm opposed (to put it mildly).

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Remember the GI Joe Public Service Announcement ads from when we were kids? (This, of course, applies to people who grew up in the U.S. in the 80s). Does "Knowing is half the battle" ring a bell?

Anyhow, some crazy mofos have dubbed over the ads, to hilarious effect. Like, check this one out. Too funny.

There are 25 in all (that I know of).

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Wow. Y'all are so much fun, it makes me write the word "y'all". Actually, the way it went in my head while composing this is:

Me: You guys are so much fun.
Me: But they're not all guys.
Me: You guys (and ladies) are so much fun.
Me: What? So the ladies are parenthetical? Fuck that.
Me: I'm hungry.
Me: Mmm. Bagel.
Me: You all are so much fun.
Me: Sounds weird.
Me: Maybe I'll just write y'all and then explain the thought process. Painful, but potentially effective.

Okay. I think y'all're up to speed now.

What I meant to say is, you rock. The survey replies make me happy.

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Okay, I'm tired of me, I want to know about you. Who are you people who read this thing anyhow? Are there really more than five or six of you?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it (hey, it's easier than the math questions): use the comments and answer me some questions about yourself.

1. Who are you?
2. Where do you live?
3. What made you so bored that you're reading this site right now? Are you at work? Should you be getting back to it? (Okay, that's three questions in one, but they're all related).
4. What's your favorite hobby?

Extra credit: If you were an item found in a hardware store, what would you be?

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