Now Playing: “Cake by the Ocean,” DNCE 

Friday’s adventure: the hip doctor, DO. Word Raccoon came along curled up in the passenger seat, insisting I finally demand answers.

Diagnosis: Bursitis.
(Which is actually good news and WHY DID IT TAKE THIS LONG? The specialist diagnosed it within two minutes, bless him.)

Treatment Plan: Do the prescribed hip exercises daily for a month.
Next Step: Cortisone shot in exactly four weeks.

Yes, that means I might be back to normal within a month.

I may or may not have cried a little in the grocery store aisle afterward, imagining all the things I’ll be able to do again. I’m joyful. But also angry. I’ve been dealing with this on and off for nearly a decade, and it took Word Raccoon getting nearly rabid, baring her tiny literary teeth, for me to finally get answers.

I’ve tried deep tissue massages.
Months of expensive PT.
Steroids.
Pushing through the pain.
Trying to ignore it.

None of it worked.

To learn that there might’ve been a clear path forward all along? That’s a lot to sit with. Word Raccoon tried to make me feel better by shopping for new sneakers online before I finished my coffee. She thinks we’re training for something again. We’re not. 

But I like her optimism.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But let’s do keep open to possibilities, Word Raccoon. We like possibilities. 

Speaking of shots…

Later that night, we weren’t planning on doing shots, just hearing the husband’s bestie’s band play. But somehow, we ended up sitting beside a guy at the band’s table, nice, friendly, and maybe the unofficial shot evangelist of Milford.

“Do you know Drema?” someone asked as we joined the table.

“Only by reputation,” he said.
“All good things,” he added quickly when I raised an eyebrow.

Apparently, Word Raccoon’s been making the rounds without me.

He and I talked about comic books (not that I have a lot of opinions there) and traded shot stories like it was a competitive sport. (Spoiler: I can hold my own if called to. I’m a lightweight, yes, but I’m also stubborn. I will not lose to a man in a plaid shirt named Chad. *Not this guy’s name.)

To be clear, there was no competition. 

“You want to try a chocolate mini beer?” he asked.

I thought he meant a literal beer in this teeny tiny handled shotglass like the one I’d spotted at a nearby table. He came back with a shot. Not beer. And worse, it had cream in it. Dairy, and I had it down before it registered. 

He also gave me some “boy math” about the shot my hubby brought me that had an energy drink in it that I was worried about drinking. He said it has a half-life of whatever and that it should wear off by six a.m. 

I told him we could all go out for a group breakfast if that happened.

Thankfully, he was wrong. I think I was actually asleep by midnight.

The worst shot of the night was a Fireball. Oh, Fireball, we have a history. We won’t get into that just now. I hadn’t had one since, but I got it down without incident. 

I kept WR on a short leash all night, though, and even leaned over and whispered to my husband after I’d hit my modest limit, “I’m done.”

Which is code for: Do not let me drink another drop even though we both know I could. He nodded like the seasoned handler he is.

Word Raccoon tried to rally for one more. I distracted her by dancing to “Cake by the Ocean.”
(I will not out my dance partner, LOL, but we had fun.)

She settled down after that. 

And the next morning, I was glad. She woke up no worse for wear, though she did demand caffeine as usual. And no, she still doesn’t know I walked right past the Coke Zero at the store this week. Please don’t tell her yet. I don’t want to have to deal with her drama.

She’s been cleaning and rearranging the porch all morning, making the windows sparkle so she can see out of them better while she writes. She likes a pretty stage almost as much as she likes an audience. And she does like an audience, even if it’s a drive-by. 

Drink your coffee and be quiet, Word Raccoon.
And let me write.
We’ve got things to say.

Let’s count this as the quiet month before we do all the things after that shot. 

How ever will I keep you still then?