Seriously, I don't ever want to go back. I suppose I might go to visit one of my parents or close friends if one of them were extremely ill, but that's the extent of my intended presence inside any hospital. I've even decided not to have any children because home births don't seem terribly safe (although some would dispute that) and I'm not entering any hospital or hoapital-like setting to give birth. I don't have anything against children; I'm just not going to produce any myself. If I'm really motivated in the future, I'll find some child to adopt, although it's debatable that I would ever be a suitable parent for a guinea pig, much less a child.
Speaking of suitaable parents . . . one night in the hospital, my parents and I became engaged in a heated debate. They both insisted that they had raised my brother and me in a non-sexist manner and had treated us equally as much as was practical. I have no problem with their having clothed me in dresses and put ribbons in my hair on occasion. The thing with the Jolie-Pitt family dressing Shiloh like a little boy and calling her John sseems a bit far out there to me. I'm just as happy my parents didn't carry their gender neutrality quite so far. It's the more recent parenting practices that cause me to question the veracity of their claims.
Some of you may have read from way back that my brother was asked to the prom by a bimbo whose sole intention for having selected him as a prom date was to become impregnated by him. She thought the baby would get her looks and his brains, and that he wasn't so hideous-looking that his DNA would ruin the potential love child's looks. i was supposed to have served as my brother's chaperone to and from the prom, and at the restaurant. Mom's co-worker spies were sworn to keep the frisky adolescents inside the building. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how one views the situation, my hurdling accident and broken prom date by a bum who didn't want to be seen at a prom with a wheelchair-bound cripple (I would have told him I didn't want to go anyway if he'd just asked) effectively prevented me from chaperoning my twin brother who is less than two minutes younger than I. (For the record, my brother's trying to be secretive about just what happened at the prom, but those who would know say that Bimbo could only have conceived that night by immaculate conception.)
My question to my parents was this: if a boy announced his intention to impregnate me on prom night (this is purely hypothetical; I don't want to share too much information, but it's not likely that I'll be capable of conceiving even by the time next spring's prom rolls around --plus, I'm not EVER getting pregnant because I'm not going back into a hospital as a patient) would I be allowed out the door with the boy with my brother chaperoning, with my mother's friends watching like eagles, or, for that matter, with the very same Secret Service agents who protect President Obama protecting me instead that night?
Of course, my parents were forced to admit that they'd do anything, including taking out a restraining order, to keep the boy in question at least the length of three football fields away from me. So much for gender-neutral parenting.
I did get to swim on Sunday. It was lots of fun except for the time my brother was supposed to be lifeguarding me while my father went inside briefly to take care ofpersonal business. My brother has passed Red Cross Junior and Senior Life-saving, and has passed the Water Safety Instruction course. On paper, he's qualified to watch a girl in a cast with a bound arm while she hangs onto a floatie with her semi-good arm for three minutes or so while her father visits the bathroom. Theory and practice are two different things, however, especially when females my brother considers attractive are present to distract him. I lost my grip on my floatie. With the extra weight of the cast, my ne good leg and arm weren't enough to propel me to the surface. Fortunately, another boy less lame than my brother noticed and pulled me out before it got to the point that anyone had to perform CPR. (If it had been needed, I'm lucky my dad's a doctor, because my brother would have found a way to screw that up as well.) Can you believe what a sub-moron my brother is. My parents were mad at him, but not as mad as they should have been, in my humble opinion.
Despite the triple wrapping, the cast did get wet, but it was cut off about sixteen hours later, so it didn't matter all that much. The new cast is even bulkier. It's supposed to be on for about seven weeks. My hips hurt about as much as my leg right now. The surgeon says in aother day or so, the leg will settle into the cast and won't give me too much pain, but that my hips will still hurt. They give me drugs if I complain enough. I've learned to exaggerate my complaints. I don't want to become an opium addict, but I also don't want to be in so much pain that it's making me hurl. My parents hand out Vicodin the way Ebenezer Scrooge shared his wealth before his visits from the ghosts, so it's unlikely that I'll ever become a full-fledged addict on their watch.
I haven't seen a single episode of Judge Alex since last week. Is he still in rerun mode?