(no subject)

I have just come from my doctor's office. He says I am healed.

Healed!

No more physical therapy outside of the normal range of uses to which I put my left hand, no more splint, no more weight restrictions on lifting. My bones are knit and my tendons are reconditioned. The only sign I was ever in a cast is the mark on the back of my hand where they burned me, cutting the cast off. I'm very much persuaded to worry at it until it's a permanent scar; I feel like I want a marker of the past eight weeks. The doctor joked that he was sure he'd be hearing from my lawyer about it, but I said very seriously, no. Thank you for healing me.

It has been a long process and I've spent a lot of time complaining and contemplating, especially on this journal. I'm very proud that, except in quite dark moments of depression, I'm able to look at whatever's going on in my life and take something away from it -- humour or insight or strength. Being in a cast could have been a complete wash, with nothing to show for it, but I spent a lot of time thinking and did take away some lessons from it.

( What I Learned From My Broken Left Wrist, by Sam Starbuck, Age 28 and 1/2. )

All told, it's not so large a thing; a broken arm happens to plenty of people, happens to children all the time, and much worse happens to much better people than I am, every day. I've had other injuries that were much more psychologically traumatic, if less physically damaging. But it is a defined period in my life, from the moment I fell to the moment when the doctor said, You're healed, and like all experiences it helps to define who I am.

I want the scar.

(no subject)

As an afterthought, I would like to point out that I made it through eight weeks with a broken wrist and there was only one masturbation joke made at my expense. I'm so proud of you kids. And a little perplexed, to be honest. But mostly proud.

Funniest moment of the morning so far was someone using the new intranet to report a maintenance request:

"Unknown person spills coffee everywhere in kitchen! Send help!"

Okay, calm down, it's coffee on linoleum, not the levies bursting. MBAs are so delicate.

(no subject)

One of the things I do here, when I'm not shadow-governing the office or pwning the internet, is take deliveries.

I have a standard form email I send out: "A courier has delivered a package for you. I am holding it at my desk for pickup. Sam."

Having been here for over a month now, I'm starting to figure out who I can be a little less professional with; the admins, mostly, one of whom calls me "Baby". I will say this, you do remember the name of someone who calls you Baby. And she's like two hundred years old, so I indulge her, because you don't get to be two hundred years old if you can't kick a little ass when necessary.

Anyway, the graphic design team one floor down are also on an informal footing with me, since they get a lot of deliveries and stop at my desk to scuttlebutt. So for them, I sent a special email.

A courier has delivered a package for you. I am holding it at my desk for ransome. Sam.

I would like to share with you their replies.

Designer A: We do not negotiate with hostage takers. The package will be turned over to us.
Designer B: What?
Designer A: Go re-read the email.
Designer B: Shouldn't we ask what he wants first?
Sam: I want a Diet Pepsi. I know you have a vending machine. I know you know how to use it.
Designer A: If we give you a Diet Pepsi you'll expect one every time.
Designer B: NO PEPSI, COKE*
Sam: That's it. The box gets it.

And then they actually brought me a Diet Pepsi.

* This is a reference to the famous Chicago Billy Goat Tavern, which in its schtick and ad campaign ("Cheezborger cheezborger no fries, chips! no pepsi, coke!") alludes to a deeply, deeply unfunny Saturday Night Life sketch.