Wolfitis - It's Not Just For Circus Freaks Anymore

Okay, well, it’s been a while since I’ve updated you all. I know, I know...I promised you the moon and the stars and to update you all once a month. Whaddya gonna do? Spank me? (Please.) I am finally in possession of two typing hands, though my daily cartwheeling is still on hold. The second cast came off last Friday. My priorities after the case coming off were the same priorities that most American males feel toward their automobiles: (1) wash; (2) rinse; (3) wax. Little known fact - wearing a cast can cause temporary hypertrichosis (aka “wolfitis), which is the presence of excessive (and dark) body hair where the cast was located. Not quite Teen Wolf, but hey, I have always been proud of being relatively free of body hair despite having 23 chromosomes from a bearskin rug. Wolfitis met Nair wax strips and the wax strips won. The skin, however, lost.

Now with all that extra hair out of the way, I am free to concentrate on rehabilitating “Chicken Little” (as my left arm is now less-than-affectionately called) to do such big and butch things as doing circles with my left wrist and attempting to hold up a wall (which usually requires a 90 degree bend in the wrist, but alas, I can do it with a mere 20 degree bend!). On the positive side of life, my scar no longer looks like Dr. Frankenstein attached a dead hand to my body. On the negative side, it now looks like I tried to commit suicide and chickened out halfway through. I can’t decide which is the better first impression.

In other news, its’s a mere 16 days before Scooter and I leave on our European vacation (but who’s counting?). Let me tell you - I need this vacation badly. Work is starting to get to me...in the past week, I have bitten off the head of both a paralegal and an investigator (you were thinking live chickens, weren’t you?). Now granted, both of them deserved a little nibbling from a land shark, but still, I think the French Riviera will do wonders for my chi, my karma, my superego, all of it. An entire month without a shred of work, the annoyance of constant conference calls (or any calls for that matter), or, well, Americans for that matter. Bring it on, baby. I am so ready for it, I may cave and become one of those expatriates who gives up her day job, starts writing about the passion of French wine, and frequents naked beaches. It could happen.