The Infirmary

THEGIRL fell last night. We’d been playing “night night,” and she tripped over a pillow in the floor and went face-first into the corner of the glider rocker. It was pretty bad. She hit it with her eye, which was scary. She actually cut her eyelid. We checked it out as well as we could. The eyeball itself didn’t get discolored or dilated or anything, didn’t appear to have sustained any trauma. We’d do things in her peripheral vision to see if she’d react, and she seemed to.

And this morning it didn’t look as bad as we expected, thank goodness.

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Me, I twisted my ankle yesterday and tweaked an injury I believe I originally sustained while working at Larry’s Music. That’d be 1990, folks. Walking is okay, but stairs and changing directions suck. I finally broke down and made an appointment to see the doctor this afternoon. I don’t want pills, don’t want surgery. I just want to know if this thing needs to be immobilized.

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It’s raining here. When I first saw THEBOY this morning—in his jammies in the bathroom—he had already fetched his umbrella.

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Hmm…

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Watched the return of Curt Schilling last night, coming out of the bullpen to serve as the closer for the BoSox while (A) he rebuilds stamina after being out most of the season with his own bum ankle and (B) Keith Foulke, their regular closer, is out with knee problems.

It was electric as the flashbulbs went off and Schilling took the mound.

He promptly gave up a double to Gary Sheffield and a home run to A-Rod. The “electric” part didn’t last long.

Schilling’s mobility has been limited, sure, but I was quite surprised to see how much weight he’s put on. The extra pounds on the bad ankle won’t help his recovery or his stamina.

But he’s still the man, even if he sucks from here on out.

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Scored a 100 on my psych quiz last night. I’m bad, I’m nationwide.

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Tick tick tick…