What Ever Happened to This Blog?

But after a few days at my parents’ home, I and my sprained ankle improved immensely, and I took off for Portugal, albeit it with a wicked limp. The best thing about being physically compromised is the special attention I got. I was able to pre-board before Elite Sky Members and families with children. On the plane, I was given an exit row for more room for my leg, and I was supplied with soda and two bags of pretzels before anyone boarded. “Hey, this gimp thing ain’t so bad, after all,” I said to myself.

In Lisbon, as I hauled myself down steep hills and lurched up uneven becos (stone stairways) in the Alfama district near where I lived, I visited with friends, researched, and ate. But my ankle never got better. Two weeks passed, then three. I went to the hospital, and all I got was an X-ray, a pair of sleek European-style crutches, and a pat on my ass to send me on my way. When I returned to New York eight weeks later, I got checked out. The diagnosis: not a sprained ankle but a completely severed Achilles tendon. Six days later I was in the hospital for reconstructive surgery, after which I was in the blue haze of Vicodin for more than two weeks. The One Who Brings Me Love Joy and Happiness (AKA The One) was giving me two extra pills a day by accident—shades of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? perhaps?) After that was two months of lying prone with my leg up. I started watching daytime TV. I actually began liking the Rachael Ray Show and decided Whoopi Goldberg was eons better than Rosie O’Donnell. The faces on General Hospital changed but the plots were the same when I watched it in college. Hardly the stuff of compelling narrative.

With another month or so of medically induced house arrest ahead of me, I decided to launch this blog for real. Maybe there’ll be something worth writing about, such as the new and improved vacuum sealer on QVC. Until then, enjoy the words of some of our talented writers.