A Very Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, in a magical kingdom far, far away, there lived a beautiful-but-neurotic queen, a handsome King, a prince, a princess, and all manner of magical creatures (Unicorns, Elves, and Malamutes among others.)  There was singing in the meadow, dancing in the enchanted wood, and mirrors that could not reflect cellulite.  But alas, shortly after the births of the young prince and princess, the Fairy Godmother charged with their care and protection developed a terminal case of Goblin Flu.  She was forced to take FMLA and even had to pay for Cobra, leaving her penniless as Cinderella herself, until she was dropped by her HMO and became even poorer than Cinderella's mice.  And so the Fairy Godmother found herself in foreclosure, her magical powers dwindling faster than her 401k, and her pumpkin carriage repossessed  by the dealer.  The Fairy Godmother wished upon her stars for a Change She Could Believe In.

But instead of Change, she got Changelings.  The Ogres at Fox and Hound News reported that at tall, thin Black Man from Another Kingdom seemed to have stolen the beautiful, laughing, royal children and replaced them with two precious but wicked trolls who wished only to socialize the Kingdom and run up the Royal Debt.  (So said their sources.  They report.  They decide.)

Alas, the Fairy Godmother turned into a toad and died while waiting for the Health Care Reform Spell to pass.

Meanwhile, the beautiful-but-neurotic Queen Ophelia, having let her children watch too much TV, eat non-organic food, and play unsupervised in the Castle cul-de-sac, barely noticed the Change.  The Prince, for instance, only got beastly when very hungry or very tired.

The Princess, though, made even the wicked stepsisters cry.  She broke glass slippers, smashed mirrors on the wall, turned princes into toads, and made six out of seven dwarves her bitches. 

And so the Queen ruled her castle, bereft of her Fairy Godmother, oft-abandoned by her King (who had to work late hours now to sustain the Kingdom's economy), and disillusioned with her Black Knight ("it's just a flesh wound!")  ("I'm invincible!")  (YES WE CAN!)

Queen Ophelia faced many challenges: the Bean Sprout Blight, the Witches' Strike, the Great Pumpkin Famine, and especially, How To Entertain the Changelings.  The Changelings went to school; they played soccer and tee ball and violin and ballet and gymnastics and learned to ride Unicorns.  They played in the Toy Vaults and explored the Magical Forest behind the castle, they learned Elvish and read many, many fairy tales.  They even had Wii Joust and Rock Band of Merry Men.

But they were BORED.

They wanted to go to the Fair.  The King was busy, as many of the Dukes, Earls, and Barons of the kingdom were without heat.

919-833-0960

The Changelings wanted to go to the Fair.  Not Jack's Jumpin' Beans or ElfSpace or McMinotaur's.  THE FAIR.

Against her better judgment, the Queen acquiesced.  She had ridden into battle many times, after all.  How epic could this journey be? 

Fast-forward five hundred years. Facebook has replaced the carrier pigeons of old.

It was 2009, not 1509, and THIS distressed damsel had graced the Arena of Dorton and the Complex of the Hunt Horse many times, oft without the accompaniment of her Knight of the Dinner Table.

Becky Pennington Powell Going to the fair RIGHT NOW, flying solo, sans co-pilot, with both troglodytes in tow. Who's with me? Come ON, it'll be FUN!

6 hours ago via Mobile Web

 (Yeah, this post pretty much writes itself from here on.  ME, my tendency toward injury, my navigational disability, my spastic, adorable children, large crowds, fair workers, and livestock.  Did I mention I'm a GERMAPHOBE?  The potential for disaster is immediate and imminent.  I mean, do I even need to keep writing?)

Did you know that  the North Carolina State Fair made the 2008 list of Top 50 Fairs?  Uh...aren't there only 50 in the competition? I'M SO PROUD OF US!

#24 North Carolina State Fair - Raleigh, NC
October 16 - October 26, 2008 - Attendance: 765,067 - Powers Great American 
http://www.carnivalwarehouse.com/

In Medieval times, fairs were a venue for merchants to barter, sell, and trade wares.  Often, activities like bear-baiting, dog-fighting, witch-burning, and other theatrical acts would entertain the masses of commoners.  The good people would feast on cabbage salad, onion soup, and roasted chickens.

Each year in North Carolina, as in days of old, there are fantastic animals (world's smallest pony), exotic foods (chocolate covered bacon), and dizzying entertainment.  It's "A Whole Lotta Happy."

It's irresistible.

And so the Queen, like many of her minions, would forget the bellowing, noxious crowd of human, livestock, and bacteria of previous years' fairs and return each year like Knights to the Round Table, like Democrats after Bushes: confident, optimistic, full of hope.

Now, gentle reader, fast-forward to 2010 (Hang with me.  Fairy tales often involve time travel), in which I, contemplating taking my children to the fair by myself, read a letter from my self of 2009.  (Have you read The Time Traveler's Wife?  It's AMAZING.)

MADAM,

Your Majesty, the Queen of  Mommytown; Head of the Dinner Table; Enforcer of Chores and Violin Practice; Ruler of Two Small Children:

In obedience to your Highness' commands, and with submission to superior judgment, I will say whatever occurs to me in reference to the attendance of State Fairs, both those already discovered and those that may be discovered hereafter.

Inasmuch as the number of colonists who desire to go thither amounts to NEARLY ONE MILLION, I humbly beseach you to consider the following advice when planning your next quest for that Holiest of Grails, the Deep Fried Twinkie.

1.  Parking your carriage will be difficult.  Spaces fill up fast, even for pumpkins.  If necessary, have yourself hobbled in order to obtain a handicap placard.  OR bring a troll, as they ALL have them.  This will allow you to park in Section 10, which is RIGHT next to the ferris wheel.

2. When the farmers in the livestock area say that the area is closed, do not attempt to go Sir Gawain on them and stealth your way in so you can see the cows with your kids.  There will be shit.  Lots of shit.  The farmers are just trying to protect your jeans.  (YES I SAID JEANS.  It went past the shoes, people.)

3. Do not take the $3 gamble on shooting a target in order to win your 6-yr.-old a SpongeBob toy.  Despite your military training, you are not good with a water pistol.  You will not win the SpongeBob and your child WILL NOT UNDERSTAND.  YOU GAVE THE MAN THREE DOLLARS.  WHERE'S HIS PRIZE?

4. DO spend $10 on the purchase of said SpongeBob.  They are for sale in multiple locations without your having to shoot anyone or anything.  AND any stuffed toy purchased at the fair will ensure that the children sleep on the drive home, a thing more sought for than the Holy Grail itself.

5.  The Turkey Shoot is not as gruesome as it sounds.  Contrary to the horror that was your initial conception, the participants are not shooting at live turkeys squawking and running around scattershot, feathers a-flyin', within the confines of an enclosed pen.  I repeat, THEY ARE NOT SHOOTING LIVE TURKEYS.  They are shooting targets in hopes of winning a frozen turkey breast.

6. It is not necessary to throw yourself and your children to the ground if you should find yourself walking unawares past the Turkey Shoot at the commencement of firing.  You will hurt your children and embarrass  yourself.  (PTSD IS REAL, PEOPLE.)

7.  Those giant turkey legs that EVERYONE seems to be feeding on (a fact which bolsters my argument for the TRUE nature of the Turkey Shoot) are horrifying.  They look like barbecued toddler legs.  Your husband will want to get one if he goes with you next year and you should stop him.  This stuff is a medieval sort of carnage and mayhem and a powerful argument for vegetarianism.  (Have you read The Omnivore's Dilemma?  It's AMAZING.)

8.  Fair people are WEIRD.  The workers especially.  The attendees in general.  It will get very crowded and noisy.  If you just imagine that your are surrounded by fairies and not fair-ees you may avoid that panic attack.  Breathe.  BREATHE.  Just not in the poultry exhibit.

9.  The poultry exhibit will prompt an immediate and brutal asthma attack in your oldest child.  Bring his freakin' inhaler next time, m'kay?

10.  If your child is having an asthma attack, find a police officer.  Their sheriff stickers are almost as good as albuterol and will help to distract him from his inability to breathe. 

11. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT engage in the pull-up contest at the US Marine Corps booth.  You will win and will only deprive them of a perfectly good USMC T-shirt that you'll NEVER wear and you'll have to listen to them try to recruit you.

12.  Don't put Bridger on the kiddy roller coaster.  Despite his assurances to the contrary, he will NOT enjoy it and he will blame you for letting him ride such a scary thing.

13.  Some things are fried that should not be.  It is against the laws of nature to deep fry Ho-Hos, Reese's, Twinkies, green beans, pickles, or cheesecake.  (Again I refer you to The Omnivore's Dilemma.)  But dear God is it all so good! 

14.  Keep close watch over your children. If YOU can drag your kicking, screaming, hissing child off the Midway in plain view of law enforcement without arrest and apprehension, so can a pedophile.

15.  Did I mention fried Twinkies?  AND--there is FRIED.  CHEDDAR.  Nom nom nom.

16.  Leave your Coach (handbag not pumpkin)  at home and wear a sturdy backpack with quick access to hand sanitizer from either side.  Do not be afraid to go double-fisted with the Purell.

17.  The trees at the fair, though not technically a ride, can be enjoyed for free:

 18.   Remember, the fair is FUN.  No matter how lost you get, how much trans fat you ingest, no matter how dirty your boots and ruffled your plumage, the fair is fun.  Their are racing pigs and a Field of Dreams, magic shows and performing poodles, cotton candy and caramel apples, folk music and mobile robots.  There are the same animals that frequent the stories of Anderson, Grimm, and Aesop  that you don't ever get to see up close in the Kingdom of Cary.  There are sights and smells and sounds that transport you far away from the Castle of Camelot with its National Debt, its Civil Wars, its Plagues and Disillusionment.   And there are Fairies astride magical unicorns.

May you all live happily ever after.  At least until next October, when GOD BLESS, WOMAN, HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING?  DO NOT EVER TRY DOING THIS ON YOUR OWN AGAIN!  EVER!

I remain,
With the sincerest loyalty and respect,
Your Majesty's humble and devoted
Subject and Servant,

YOUR WISER SELF.

CARY, STATE OF CAROLINA (North)
This 22nd day of October, 2009.

Pinkalicious

What Waverly is wearing today:

Isn't this just CUTE?

I found this neat, creative little tool at  www.polyvore.com courtesy of Mary Michele Little at http://onechicmama.blogspot.com/

Who said collage was just for schoolkids?

The Queen of the DMV

So I've lost my driver's license.  This is a problem, not so much because I need it to drive, per se, but because I need it to buy alcohol.  (Yeah I still get carded, bitches!)  AND I'm turning thirty-five in a couple weeks (which blows ASS in and of itself, EXCEPT that I still get carded) which means I have to renew my license anyway.

It's DMV time.

Friday is usually my Nordstrom Day.  NOW I get to go hang out with the loonies and good public servants of Wake County.  BOO. (Did I mention it's Friday?  The last Friday of the month, to be precise?  It COULDN'T POSSIBLY be busy there today, right?)  I'll just drop the kids at school and be the first one there.  I'll be in and out faster than you can spell DMV.  Or FML. 

Easy.  I make the coffee wake the kids make the breakfasts make the lunches dress the kids feed the dogs feed the cat load the car and...

SHIT!  THERE'S GOING TO BE PHOTOGRAPHY!

I go back in the house park the kids in front of the TV take a shower wash my hair get dressed in something timeless-not-trendy (because I'll have to live with this pic for eight years!) and not blue (seeing that my clothes would get lost against the blue NC driver license backdrop thereby depicting me as a dismembered head) put on makeup (ON A WEEKDAY!  UNHEARD OF!)  and curl my hair (which I think makes me look cute.)

I practice a couple variations of my Picture Smile for the kids.

1. The Sweet/Shy Smile, wherein my mouth is closed and I couldn't possibly have run that red light, Officer?

2. The Really Toothy Smile, wherein I make the Arresting Officer feel embarrassed for me and thereby let me go with a warning.

3. The Ridiculously Happy Smile, wherein you can see in explicit detail my tonsils in all their glory because I'm purchasing alcohol (!) courtesy of said driver's license picture.

I don't even have a picture of  THAT smile.  It's scary.  Here's the closest approximation I could find:

I think the lady that takes the pictures at the DMV should be required to say something hilarious right before taking your pic. OR have one of those cute little capucin monkeys running around the place--they are very funny. Either way, millions of Americans would have better driver's license photos. I think this would solve many problems.

Clearly I'm putting entirely too much thought into this photo.  

I practice my smile until the kids are sure I have a tic.

 
We're too late for carpool now, so I get to walk the kids into school in all my curly magnificence and encounter The Women Who Live In The Lobby.  The Peanut Gallery.  The Usual Suspects. The Gossip Girls (Tammy Linda Julie Nancy YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) who promptly ask me where are my tap shoes and if the sun will indeed come out tomorrow?

It's a hard-knock life/for us/ It's a hard-knock life/for US!  (No, they inform me, IT'S A KNOCKED-UP LIFE.  FOR US.)

And I'm off to the DMV with THIS hair:

Not good. Did I mention I have the world's largest forehead? The only one smiling in my driver's license picture will be the lady taking it. BOO.

So I get to the DMV (which is in a REALLY interesting neighborhood) and get in the line you get in to find out what line you're supposed to get in.

DMV officer: "How can I help you?"

Me: "I need to renew my driver's license."

DMV officer: "ID please?"

Me: "Well, I kind of lost it over the weekend..."

DMV officer stares at me.  I understand that I am One of Those.  People.  DAMN IT.

Me: "Um, I have a Visa here,  and uh, here's my Kroger card, oh yeah, here's a picture of me:"

It has my name on the back (Mommy).  I think the resemblance speaks for itself.

Did you know that DMV officers have NO sense of humor?

I leave with a list of acceptable forms of identification which I may bring back with me.  Social Security Card, Passport, Marriage License, Birth Certificate, yada, yada, yada.  No problem.  I have all of these.  In my safe, because that's where Responsible People keep important documents.

At home, I can't find my safe.  It is a very safe safe, because NO ONE knows where it is.

(I'll leave out the part where I turn my house ass over teakettle looking for my very safe safe.  Rest assured that I finally found it in a Very Safe Place.)

Back to the DMV.  (That sounds like a sequel to a horror flick.)  IT IS.  Without any of the suspense, drama, or hot actors.  Just horror.

 

And WAITING. The lines here are longer than at Disney World but WITH NO RIDES AT THE END!

OR FOOD!

A SNACK!  I NEED A SNACK!  WHY did I not eat lunch before I came back here?  I have absorbed ENTIRELY my Cake and Coke breakfast and my blood sugar has hit the floor.  Soon I will be too.  Hitting the floor.  Will they call me up sooner if I am laying on the floor?

The floor is dirty.

Nevermind.

The TV at the DMV features a channel called MVN: Motor Vehicle Network.  Lots of Public Service Announcements featuring children maimed, killed, or orphaned by texting, drinking, mascara-applying, masturbating drivers.  As if I didn't ALREADY want to string myself up!

 

NOW I know the reason that weapons are prohibited at the DMV--not for the safety of the employees but to keep people from offing themselves out of sheer boredom and despondency.  I check the ceiling for a joist from which to hang myself.  I remember that I left my rope at home from when I used it this morning to tie up a certain hissing, kicking, spitting four year old.  DAMN IT!   I could stab myself with the pen I'm holding, but I'm pretty sure that this is the least efficient way a person can kill herself, and I'm nothing if not efficient.

 

Now I see that the DMV officers are GIVING the people the answers to the driver's test.  This cements my position that most people in this state are not qualified to drive.  The proctors give one clue, then another, then finally just tell them the answer.  Is THAT how it's supposed to work?  Certainly they don't give EVERYONE  WHO WALKS IN HERE a license.

OH HAI OLD BLIND MAN WITH PARKINSON'S AND A CANE!  The officer at the desk does not turn him away.  Maybe they should show horror movies on Motor Vehicle Network.  THAT WOULD BE LESS SCARY.

FACT: the DMV people would make terrible teachers.

DMV officer: "What's 2 plus 2, Betsy?"

(Betsy stares indifferently.)

DMV officer: "It rhymes with door, Betsy...."

(Besty's eyes glaze over.)

DMV officer: "It comes after 3...and before 5...."

(Betsy falls to the floor, frothing at the mouth.)

DMV officer: "Good job, Betsy, it IS four!  Go on to 1st grade now!"

(Betsy is dead.  She is featured on the next DMV Public Service Announcement: The Perils of Forgetting to Bring Something to Read While Waiting to Renew Your License.)

 

I become aware that I am the only Person of European Descent in the room.   This fact does not bother me, as I am down with the people.  The Pizzles of the DMVizzle.  AND I speak a little Spanish, AND when I dance like I think I'm Shakira, so I'm covered on both fronts.

Perhaps THEY should be worried about ME.  If History is on my side--AND I THINK IT IS--I am sure I can easily conquer and colonize the lot of them and call myself their Queen.

 

The TV here is FASCINATING.  NOW I know that my children should wear seatbelts.  Good thing, because I generally let them surf the roof the entire way to school.  Bridger, especially, is good at that.  Sometimes Waverly falls off but she's usually  a good sport about it as I keep Band-Aids in the car and rarely exceed 45 mph when she's up there.  Because speeding is dangerous. 

That's what I'll tell the DMV officer when it's my turn to take the test!  I will bombard her with stories of my careful and polite driving.  I will assure her that I give The Wave when other drivers let me in.

I will NOT tell her about my parking disability.  Or the frequency with which I hit curbs, parked cars,and my garage wall.

 

The lady taking her road sign test is crying.  Seriously.  This is serious, sad business.

A traffic report scrolls across the bottom of DMV-TV.  I find this ironic, as the 28 people in this room are the LEAST LIKELY 28 PEOPLE IN THE STATE OF NORTH CAROLINA to get caught in traffic anytime in the near future.  I fear that none of us will ever drive again.  We will all be here until we are dead or too old to drive.

Did you know that, according to DMV-TV,  "Party in the USA" is the #1 download in the U.S. right now?  I can feel it.  The Party.  Right here.  It will break out an any second and I will become Shakira and dance with my people.  There will be music and dancing and it will be like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical except more ethnic and without the fancy costumes.

Can I get this channel at home?  Calling Time Warner Cable as soon as I bust out of this joint.

 

I think if I ever make it out of here I will liberate my subjects.  If I don't I'll surely have a War for Independence or at the very least a Civil Rights Movement to deal with and I simply don't have time for that as I have three riotous heathens at home that I have to deal with ALREADY. 

OH!  OH!  I'VE BEEN CALLED!  I gather my Social Security card,  birth certificate, shot record, college diploma, military records, X-rays, a resume, and a brief but funny autobiography.  (I've come prepared.  Efficient, remember?)  I fly through the vision test and and only miss one road sign.

This is not a problem as the officer gives me a broad hint by saying "CHOO!  CHOO!"

I PASS! 

I GET MY PICTURE TAKEN!

I grant my people independence. 

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

The Aftermath

 "No matter how many times you save the world, it always manages to get back in jeopardy again. Sometimes I just want it to stay saved! You know, for a little bit? I feel like the maid; I just cleaned up this mess! Can we keep it clean for... for ten minutes!" --Mr. Incredible

Saturday, September 26th 2:00pm (Act I)

Waverly's birthday party is a success.  The cake is magnificent.  The bedroom is pink.  I have makeup on my face, food coloring on my fingers, and pink paint in my fair.  FABULOSITY!  I am Supermom. 

Eighteen fancy little girls arrive at my doorstep.  A couple mommies stay.  (Did you know that age four is the year that parents start DROPPING THEIR KIDS OFF AND LEAVING THEM?  SHIT!)  Nineteen fancy little girls make tiaras, color Fancy Nancy pictures, receive ministrations of purple eyeshadow and pink nail polish, dance to vintage Piaf, eat hors d'oeuvres (that's a fancy word for snack) and Cake (that one deserved proper noun status and is therefore capitalized), and OPEN PRESENTS!   The mommies drink Mimosas while the girls get on their sugar high and turn heathen.  They scream, they squeal, they swing from the chandeliers.  It's like Lord of the Flies but with tulle and hairbows.  I search the house for a conch shell (I have none). 

As my powers appear to be useless here, I drink another Mimosa. 

Later we unveil Waverly's Big Girl Room.  It is very pink.  She is overjoyed.

The mommies come back.  (Whew!)  I deactivate my Wonder Twin powers and take a nap.

Saturday, September 26th 7:00pm (Act II)
Johnny and I attend another (!) party.  This one for a friend recently home from Iraq, a real superhero, who hasn't had a proper birthday celebration in several years.  He is a Bostonian; he taught me how to box; and I'm pretty sure he sustained injuries a few weeks back when I clung to him for dear not-being-thrown-in-the-pool.  (Ladies, there is a fine line between throwing out a man's back and leaving him sexually traumatized.  Just sayin'.)  So I bring him this cake, which I made with the help of my trusty sidekicks Meghan and Jenny:

It is a hit.  So is the Yankees pinata.

There is drinking.  There is beer pong, which Johnny is supernaturally good at.  Also, there are cougar attacks.  COUGAR!  ATTACKS!

(Did you know that cougars lack the ability to see their own reflections?  If they spot themselves in a mirror they hiss, snarl, and dismiss their own handbags as fakes.  Luckily for my young friends I am able to divert the cougars, hide their keys, and then extract my men from certain bodily harm and likely sexual trauma.  YOU'RE WELCOME.)


Friday, October 2nd 6:00 pm
It's first down on the sixty yard line.  Johnny and I are playing flag football with some friends.  I know what you're thinking.  Becky and Johnny have had enough sutures, broken bones, concussion, and dislocations to get a trauma surgeon through her residency.  WHY ON EARTH would the Powells engage in any kind of sport?  Isn't Becky about to have knee surgery?  Doesn't Johnny already have a steel ankle and a titanium elbow? 

Well, I'll tell you.  It's been eight months since any of us has been in the E.R.  THAT IS LONG ENOUGH,  PEOPLE!  AND we think we're invincible.  AND it's flag football.  WHO GETS HURT PLAYING FLAG FOOTBALL?

He's running.  He's cutting.  He's faking.  He's reaching out to catch the ball...he's tripping.  He's falling.  HE"S DOWN.

He's not moving.  SHIT.

It's his shoulder.  I see his collarbone jetting out at an odd angle.  I tell him I'll call an ambulance.

Apparently, Superman doesn't ride in ambulances. (Apparently, I didn't read enough comic books as a kid.)  I call Marvel and they say that This Is So.

So Johnny stands up and is able to walk to the car on his own.  Just a shoulder injury, right?  I drive him to the Veteran's Hospital where he receives care because he really was a superhero in the 82nd Airborne.  But by the time we get there his skin is pale, his pupils are pinpointed, he's not speaking, and he can't move his neck.  The ER doc asks me why I didn't call 911.  The ER doc calls 911 (YOU HEARD ME CORRECTLY--THE DOCTOR CALLED 911), because there is no one there who can handle head and neck trauma and the VA doesn't have ambulances AND HE NEEDS TO GO TO DUKE HOSPITAL!  (Did he say head and neck trauma?  Ohmygod he did!  Why didn't I call 911?)  HIS NECK MAY BE BROKEN!  It's Friday night in Durham so it's another HOUR before the ambulance arrives to transport us to Duke.

DUKE.  (That's a scary word even if you're not a Tarheel.)  That's the place they send you when the regular doctors can't fix you.  Duke, where the doctors are so highly regarded that I'm surprised THEY don't wear capes.  My husband may have a broken neck.  My husband may need emergency surgery  My husband may be paralyzed.  My husband is in pain.  Childbirth-grade pain.  I am terrified.  This is my strong, stoic husband.  He is the world to me and our children. He is our provider, our protector, our field guide, our coach, our navigator, our encyclopedia of the natural world   He owns the heating and air conditioning company that puts food on our table and pays our bills; our children believe his job is To Heat and Cool the Earth.  He is our Superman.

He is broken.

My sister Jenny arrives at the hospital.  Luckily for Johnny and me, the girl knows her way around a trauma center like she IS FEMA.  She's like The Question from DC Comics, tirelessly and aggressively grilling the doctors and nurses about Johnny's injury and prognosis.  I am relieved.  Jenny has taken charge.  The texting begins.  The Bat-Signal appears in the sky over Durham. 

We wait and wait and WAIT to be allowed to see Johnny (ohmygod is he hurting ohmygod can they fix him ohmygod he's all alone back there ohmygod half the people in the freaking ER are growing tails and snouts and if John's neck isn't broken he'll probably die of the Swine Flu and has anyone seen my hand sanitizer?)   I imagine Johnny in a wheelchair, in a rehab facility.  I think about insurance and disability and mentally calculate the sums in our bank accounts that will have to pay the bills until he gets better.  (Because unlike Professor X or Bruce Wayne we are not independently wealthy AND I HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THESE THINGS!) I think about what kind of job I can get if he doesn't.  Get better.  Oh God.

Johnny goes through X-rays, CT scans, and examination after torturous examination.  He is finally unstrapped from the backboard.  The nurse gives him 6 cc of morphine which may as well be kryptonite for all the good it does him and then, finally, something strong enough to knock him out.

(Insert passionate, profanity-laden paragraph about my agitation with Duke Hospital and the American Healthcare "System" HERE.  Not enough time?  Not enough words in the English language?  YOU'RE SO RIGHT.  NEVER MIND.)

Saturday, October 3rd 4:45 am
Johnny is discharged from the hospital.  He has a separated shoulder and a disc injury in his neck.  He leaves with a neck brace and a sling and the ability to walk.  Soon he will have to do battle with the villains in Orthopaedics and Physical Therapy, but he will go on to defeat and diminish threats against humanity, especially when those threats involve furnace coils, refrigerant, or our four year old daughter.

Meanwhile, Back at Secret Headquarters:
Supermom here, wishing to thank all her Superfriends for everything they've done for us in the last 48 hours.  I should bake cakes for ALL OF YOU.   Thank you for the texts and phone calls and emails that kept me grounded and reminded me I wasn't alone.  Thank you Keith for the beer you were sure would kill Johnny's pain until we got to the ER.  Thank you to Kelly and Laurel for giving my children a fabulous day and my husband a day of rest and quiet.  Thank you Aunt Lori and Jenny for the dinners.  Thank you to the nurse at Duke who explained everything to me in plain, calm English as it was happening.  Thank you to the paramedic who warned me that Duke was on lockdown due to H1N1 and wouldn't be letting me see Johnny for a few hours, thereby preventing a certain mental breakdown on my part and likely bodily harm to the security guards.  Thank you nice guy at the front desk for letting Jenny go with me to Johnny's room even though it was against the rules.  Thank you Mom for being the best nurse in the world and for all your help with the kids.  And THANK YOU  Bono and the guys from Muse for making my world villain-free for a few hours the next night.

YES I DID GO TO U2 THE NEXT NIGHT.  JOHNNY WAS UNDER MY MOTHER'S CARE AND WAS WELL-SEDATED ON PAINKILLERS.  I *AM* A GOOD WIFE AND IF I GO TO HELL FOR GOING TO THAT CONCERT I'M SINGING "RESISTANCE" AND "SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY" THE WHOLE WAY DOWN.

 The saga continues....