Je pense que j'ai cassé mon pied

I had a decent evening: learned my mom figured out how to text-message (mon dieu!), decided to get a pizza rather than cooking (a rare event, I assure you), stayed up late watching The Decent (yikes!), went to bed VERY late.

I had a decent morning: slept through most of it (got up around 11:30), had my requisite omlette, and toast with fig jam, emailed some farms to see whether we can buy into a CSA (community supported agriculture, to get a share of a local farm's produce), made dough for pita bread, started the laundry, started to watch Two Days in Paris (J'adore Julie Delpy) ... aaaaaand then I slipped on the stairs, my foot hitting the corner of the wall (preventing me from going any further, but taking the brunt of the momentum.

Je pense que j'ai cassé mon pied.



This is what it looked like about an hour ago, purplish and swollen.


It looks worse now.


I'm heading off "Patient First" talk.

So I've been laid up in the corner of my bedroom, in the chaise, foot elevated and iced, laptop on my lap, watching my movie and being lorded over. I think the hubby enjoys my being temporarily dependent... he even had to carry me to the wc. But the bright side of this is that he got to partake in bread making, seeing I couldn't get back downstairs to punch down, divide, ball, roll out and bake the pitas. He did a great job, though: the house has a wonderful warm buttery smell (which I don't get, since there is no butter involved!) and the pitas look good, seem to have the pocket in the middle, and judging from the sample he brought me, are quite yummy.

He's doing that, and I'm sitting here staring at my foot and the pack of ice sitting on top of it.


It looks like someone put a golf ball under my skin.


I think I need a pedi.


And I should probably hem my jeans, since I think it was the cuff I slipped on.


C'est la vie.