There's no draft to this post. It is what it is. My laptop has died in a horrible household accident, and the Word on my desktop is flaky at best and totally unreliable at worst, and my work schedule has prevented me from having the appropriate guru log in to fix it. OpenOffice works fine, but I can't copy and paste from it to here, for some reason known only to some guy on a hilltop in Tibet, and I'm certainly not going to type it there just to type it here again. I suppose there's WordPad, but then the formatting's gone anyway.

Please don't send me suggestions on what I should do. I'm managing just fine, really. Except for writing, which I was going to start today in celebration of national write a novel month, which I'm not participating in because my novel writing abilities are currently in doubt. No, I was going to start on something much better.

Let's get back to the point however. 

I jumped out of a plane yesterday.  I know, I said that last week. But I did it again! The open sky called to me all week, so I begged charming husband for the cash and he gave it to me, on the condition that I not go splat on the ground. Since I have no desire to go splat on the ground or anywhere else I told him I could live with that condition. There's a joke in there somewhere. 

There weren't as many people around this time, but the plane was full. We were packed in like sardines, which seems to be the typical phrase for such situations. My jumpmaster this time was an  older gentleman who even gave me gloves and took extra precautions to secure my glasses. The goggles were tightened to within an an eighth of an inch of my life, just to preclude any issues during freefall. I'm sure the pictures would have been much better this time, but having pictures done again just seemed redundant.  My jumpmaster gave me much information, and pointed out all the scenery on the way up, and then again on the way down. It was a beautiful fall day again, and since we're in Oregon, everything's green. Green and blue and white mountains in the distance on all sides, and other canopies swooping around. 

Have you noticed my banner? When I named it, it was metaphorical. I never had any intention of finding out about freefall. When a generous member of OS made my banner he put a skydiver in it to go along with the name. I still had no intention of skydiving. 

The other day I looked at it and I thought, "Wow, it's like it came true!"

Whatever. So far in freefall I'm still pretty useless. Oh sure, I can fall just fine, but I'm still attached to another full grown person which makes it particularly difficult to do my own thing, and I'm thinking I'd really like to try it on my own. Under the canopy I can take my turn steering, and swooping left and right, but when it comes time for something serious to be done, like, oh, I don't know -- opening the canopy or landing, I'm just along for the ride. I think I'd like to tackle those little tasks myself next year. I did manage to land on my feet this time, though my legs, with their perennial cries of "no! you have fibromyalgia, remember?" wanted to just give way beneath me. But who's in charge here, anyway? 

Afterwards I couldn't see, thanks to my eyes, which like to serve the same functions as a faucet when irritated by the wind, so I took off my jumpsuit with my eyes closed. I must be quite entertaining.  My jumpmaster then took me in a training room and showed me what to practice. When the wind hits and you find yourself going at 120 miles there's not a lot of time for thinking. 

Don't get me wrong. It's not a perfect experience. I'm still working on a couple of comfort issues, but I still feel drawn to it.  

Afterwards I drove myself home. This skydiving thing has become so routine around here charming husband stays home to do his laundry while I'm gone. We went out for lunch, and he wanted all the details. In the evening he packed up, like he does every Sunday, and he left for Seattle for the week again.  

I languished (in obscurity or lassitude, one or the other) on the couch. I was exhausted, which seemed rather odd. I mean, falling out of the sky is not that physically wearing, at least not the way I do it, and it doesn't last that long, so I had no idea what I was so tired for. Eventually I dragged myself into the kitchen and heated up some won ton soup we'd brought home the day before. I forgot about it, so when I finally did remember to go back to it there was some fantastic boiling going on.

I put the soup in a bowl. I dragged myself and said bowl back to the couch, and I sat down and put my feet up, with the intention of letting said bowl rest on me while it cooled off.

I know this isn't the smartest thing I've ever done.

Naturally, the boiling hot soup and I had an altercation, with me ending up with a goodly portion of said soup on my upper chest.

Are you laughing?

It's okay. Some people have that reaction.

There was screaming, and lots of quick movements, some more screaming, and somehow my laptop, which was sitting a couple of feet away, managed to get a good dose of soup too. At that point I didn't care, since I was certain my skin was coming off. 

I called the nurse hotline. I cursed A LOT. Screamed. Said ow a lot. Held a wet compress to my tortured skin for the next couple of hours. Debated with myself the merits of having a full time keeper. Watched it blister. Took some ibuprofen. Later took a vicodin.

By the time I went to bed with my dogs, who had been very patient and spent most of the screaming time outside, it had calmed down considerably, and I was ecstatically happy just to be free of the burning pain. It's going to leave a mark. Oh yeah. My upper chest is bright red and painful and blistered, and I have to make sure it doesn't get infected. 

I ate the won tons out of the soup once it was cold. They were good.

I've survived to jump another day.