"You get to a certain age--don't touch. You'll find you're crumbling."

I've been out of touch. Since last Sunday, I've been in Chicago--JRoss is filming the movie we wrote, and I'm here, too, participating some in the movie-making, cuddling with Cooper, and kicking it with our friend Vea and Vea's and Jules's whole bunch of rad, loving, queer-ass friends.

I was supposed to fly back to Vermont last Thursday, but Wednesday night, JRoss and Vea and I decided to change that plan. So I moved my ticket and we planned for me to stay awhile longer, helping with film stuff, but mostly supporting my sweetperson while he works on such an intense project.

On Friday, I went to the shoot, which was something of a disaster. And also a really effing long day. At the end of it, JRoss and I found out that our housing situation had been temporarily complicated. As we walked down the stairs to head (not) home, I fell. And then I recovered. And then I fell again. And that time, I really fucking hurt my foot. So Vea and another friend carried me to a car, and to an apartment, and I was iced and arnica'd and Advilled and otherwise intoxicated, and it seemed like maybe it was just a bad sprain. JRoss carried me "home," which, for that night, meant a third floor walk-up.

Upon waking the next morning, it was PAINFULLY clear that my foot--though maybe just sprained--required some medical attention. We headed to the emergency room, where everyone--from the nurses to the doctors to the x-ray techs--was sweet and polite and accommodating and friendly. Coming in, as I always do, expecting the worst from doctors, I was fairly hostile and demanding, but by the time we left, I would have been able to smile at them, if I wasn't weeping for my fractured foot.

We spent two more nights on that third floor, and last night we were allowed back into the beautiful, spacious, glowing-with-light, plant-filled, cool, internet-accessible apartment JRoss is subletting, where we were reunited with our clothes (though they all need to be washed), a bed that is not a futon, and Facebook. Glory be.

So. Now I am doing my best to at least be a sweet face for my sweetface, even if I can't be the kind of support I'd intended to. I went to a shoot on Sunday, broken foot and all, and that was surprisingly functional and fine, so. I'm not the best bed-maker or dish-washer or laundry-doer at the moment, and there's absolutely no way I can sweep the floor. But I sure am nice, and I look real cute.