Thursday, August 30, 2012

Its an Emergency!

This is getting ridiculous.  Now I've pinched some nerve and my whole leg hurts, not just the foot.  I'm a pill-poppin', couch-sittin', TV-watchin', cake-eatin'... person.

Yesterday I really felt like eating cake, so I made this recipe I have called Emergency Chocolate Cake.  Its for cake emergencies, so it was perfect for my predicament, but in reality you have to wait one to two hours for it to cool, and I don't know what kind of emergency can wait one to two hours.  So maybe I wasn't really having a cake emergency, maybe I was just having a cake crisis. 

Wanna know what the main ingredient in this cake is?  Mayonnaise!  Let's all say it together: "Ewwwwwwww!" Yes, mayonnaise and flour and cocoa powder etc.  And it is delicious.  Very moist.  No one would ever know it has mayonnaise in it. 

Anyhoo, so now I'm cutting little squares of cake off and eating them all day, and they give me the hiccups.  I went to a movie, so I finally got out of the house, but now I've got to go sit on the sofa and put my foot up again because it seems that the universe really, really wants me on that couch. 

Sorry about this post, its all I have today. 

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Grumpy-ass Weirdo

Okay, people, I've taken one of my new pain pills.  It says that it may cause dizziness and drowsiness, so lets see how this goes.  So far, we're okay.

The weirdest thing happened the other night.  I was driving home from my parents' house after dark and I was stopped at a stop light when a grumpy looking man crossed in front of me.  My windows were not open, but I did say to myself, out loud, "What a grumpy-ass dude." or something like that.

Before he reached the other side of the street, he stopped in the crosswalk and pulled out his cell phone and made call.  I said, probably out loud, "Oh nice!  Stop in the middle of the crosswalk to make a phone call!" and then he came over to the passenger side corner of my car and I watched his lips as he said my license plate number into the phone!  Grumpy-ass called in my plate!!

The first question anyone asks me when I tell this story is "Are you sure that's what he was doing?"  So let me just say that there is no doubt that's what he was doing.  He was standing in front of my car, in the crosswalk, staring at my license plate, calling it in to someone.  Then he closed his phone and continued on his way.  He didn't look at my face, he didn't make any hand gestures, just made the phone call.

I totally freaked.

When the light turned green, I pulled into the gas station and decided to drive the back way to my house, but not before taking ten minutes to hide in the Calico Corners parking lot with my lights off.  Both my headlights are working, my car passed the most recent smog test, I was stopped at a stop light, so he couldn't have seen me speeding, which I wasn't doing anyway.  I passed Grumpy-ass on the way to the parking lot, and I really wanted to roll down my window and say , "Hey! Why did you just call my plate in?!" but then decided, woman alone, after dark, guy could have a gun, so that little mystery will go unsolved.

Here's the thing, though: I had had some wine at my parents' house.  Its pretty hard to get out of that place without ingesting any alcohol, its just the way my family is, but I was no where near drunk, and I would never get behind the wheel if I was remotely inebriated.  I have spent two hours watching TV with my dad, drinking water, waiting to drive home if I've had too much wine there.  I'm that kind of girl. 

My thinking was, if this guy randomly called my plate into the highway patrol, and they stop me based on his call, and let's say he's said that I was driving erratically, and they ask me to take a breathalizer, and I say no, and then they arrest me and haul me in on suspicion of a DUI, and then what if I actually ended up arrested for a DUI even though I was fine to drive... How about that for the first day of school?  PTA MOM, BUSTED ON DAUGHTER'S FIRST DAY OF 5TH GRADE.

I drove home with my eyes on the rear view mirror the whole time.  I did not get pulled over.  Was he just messing with me?  Did he read my lips and see me call him a Grumpy-ass?

Then two days later, I saw a man walking down the main road holding a large, docile rabbit.  Things are just getting weirder and weirder.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Dr. Douche bag

I am continuing to deal with this foot thing.  It is getting a little better, no thanks to the Podiatrist I've been seeing.

What a douche bag.

I had my fourth appointment with him.  I have been in a lot of pain, like can't go to sleep, wakes me up, clench my eyes kind of pain, and we still don't have a specific diagnosis.  His prescription is to wear my storm trooper boot, and rest.  Wait-and-see doesn't work with me particularly well, so I made some calls and got an appointment with a neurologist and did a little internet research on nerve pain and stress fractures.

Well.  I made the mistake of mentioning that I had done some of my own research, and the man lost his mind.  He was rude, he was combative, and that fucker actually made me cry.  Its pretty hard to make me cry, unless you're a really heartfelt TV commercial or a particular James Taylor song, but he did it.  It was a perfect storm: Take a woman who is hormonal, and in severe pain, put her way up in the air on a foot-examining lift so she can't get down and leave the room, and then berate her until she cries.  Easy.  Since I was way up in the air, I had to stretch my arm way down and over to the Kleenex and I couldn't reach it; Dr. Douche Bag just stood there, continuing to argue with me.

Then he says we could do an MRI, but that would cost $750, and seeing a neurologist would cost $1500, and I'm thinking, do I look like a bag lady?  So I say, "My husband works for the government; I have excellent insurance."  So he gets these things rolling, even though I already had made an appointment with a neurologist on my own, and at the end of this nightmare appointment, I ask, "Is there anything else I should know, or anything else I should be doing?" and I'm thinking of hot compresses, or epsom salts or incantations, and do you know what this douche bag says? "Do you think there's something I'm keeping from you?  Do you think I'm whispering with nurse 'Lets not tell her to do this or that'?"  What an asshole.

Of course, at that time, I was too upset to be angry.  That's the part about crying that I hate the most.  It ruins my ability to stand up for myself and call a douche bag a douche bag in that moment.  Instead I just whimper and then limp to my car in my big boot and call my husband and cry some more, and then I let it ruin my day and my night, and only after about 24 hours do I realize that he is the douche bag, not me, and that his behavior probably has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his impotence, or hair loss, or the affair he's having.  He never would have spoken to a man the way he spoke to me, I'm sure of it.

By the time I got home, there was a message from his office.  For a moment, I thought it was an apology for being a douche bag, but it was just his office saying I needed to make a follow up appointment for the next week.  Yeah, I don't think so.  You're fired, Dr. Douche Bag.

The end of the story is, I was able to get in with the neurologist the following afternoon and now I have a diagnosis, a prognosis (3 - 6 months recovery time) and some specific nerve pain drugs, and a treatment plan.  I've had an MRI, nothing is broken, and I can stop wearing that boot which I discovered, after a weekend of not wearing it, was making things more painful instead of less.

So, Dr. Davis, if you ever read this, here's what I have to say to you: You can choose to be nice.  You can choose your words and your tone.  You don't have to choose to be a douche bag.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Give me 5 Bees for a Quarter

First day of fifth grade.  I did not schedule anything for today because my calendar said "first day of school" and now I'm sitting here with my thumb up my ass until 2.

I had a weird experience this morning.  Leila insisted that I walk her to her class room.  She's been insisting this much longer than any of the other kids, and last year I kept pointing out to her that I was the only mom dangling outside the classroom waiting for the door to open.  She said she didn't care, she wasn't embarrassed, and asked me if I was.  I wasn't, but even if I had been I could really tell her, "I'm embarrassed on your behalf."

I told her that I would walk her to her classroom for the first three days and after that I would walk her to the crosswalk with the dog and she would take it from there.  Then comes the foot injury bullshit, and all that walking is out the window, much to the chagrin of my dog.  I drove to the school, and, I'll admit it to you here: I used my long-expired disabled placard.  I was in a lot of pain, and I have the big boot on, and I decided that if someone messed with me I would just write down my license plate number for them and point them in the direction of the police station across the street and tell them to bite me.  Before we were parked, Leila yelled, "There's my friend!  Let me out!!!"  and I was all, "No way!"  She was the one that made the stink about me walking her to her classroom, and here I was trussed up in my boot ready to do just that, and I WAS BREAKING THE LAW in the process.  No way was she getting out and running ahead.  I walked her to her classroom of her new school, met her new teacher (who looked vaguely stoned.  I'm sure she wasn't, but I grew up in the 70s when we were sure they were.) and hobbled back to my car.

Then I started to weep. Just a little, and just for a minute, because I realized that this was it: I have walked her to her classroom for 5 years, and now its over.  I will probably never walk her to her classroom again, and she's going to grow up and get boobs and text people and I'm old and unhip and lame.

Three years ago, on this very blog, I described a time when Leila was in second grade and wanted to walk from the lunch tables to her classroom by herself.  It was a big deal.  She scampered off and said, "Wish me luck!" as if she might get lost or mugged on the way.  And now here we are.

I'm not sure I've ever felt so old.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Koom Ba Ya

I don't know why I seem to like writing in the middle of the night lately.  During the day, I look at the computer and choose to do something else.  Like watch TV, or nap, or eat Lucky Charms.  But now its after midnight, and I've had a little wine, so of course its the perfect time.

My foot sucks.  I had the fungus, I had a stress fracture, only it did not turn out to be a stress fracture at all.  I've had two sets of x-rays, neither of which show any proof of a fracture, and now we don't know what is going on.  Nerve damage?  Joint damage?  My doctor says it could be regional pain syndrome, and my friend who is a nurse says that that is what doctors say when they don't know what it is.

The good news is I finally remembered the incident that caused all this bullshit.  I slammed my foot in the car door two weeks ago.  I was hobbling around with a swollen, painful foot convinced that I had either A) been injured as a result of my imminent osteoporosis, B) had a camping/ambien/midnight frolic that I couldn't remember, or C) injured myself while too drunk to remember the injury or the drunkenness.  Turns out it was D) Injured while in my 40s, where I can't remember the very recent, totally sober injury that lead to this:
Storm Trooper Chic

I don't like to sit around and feel sorry for myself, and no one likes a whiny gasbag, but THIS TOTALLY SUCKS. 

I'm supposes to walk my kid to her first day at the middle school next week, and its not going to be possible. Its not getting worse, but its not getting better, and no one knows what's wrong. 

If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.  In the meantime, I will go to bed and try to think healing thoughts.  Koom ba ya.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Lost, and not Found

While I was in Europe with my parents and daughter, we had some kind of shitty things happen.  Actually, my mom had some shitty things happen.  She lost her suitcase out of the back of the rental car.  Actually, I may have lost her suitcase out of the back of the rental car.  I'm not sure it was my fault exactly, but I am sure that I didn't have absolutely nothing to do with it. 

I spent two hours in a German police car with Officer Schultz (I'm not making that name up) and we looked everywhere for this suitcase.  I took away two things from this experience: 1) German officers are allowed to smoke in their police cars, and they don't feel the need to ask if the civilian sitting in the passenger seat minds.  2) My German language skills kicked serious ass.  I really didn't know I could speak German.  I mean, my parents have been speaking German with me all my life, and I understand them perfectly and don't even notice whether they're speaking German or English, but I don't really speak it ever, and when I was a kid I was too self conscious and scared the speak it.  Stupid.  I fully rocked the German, man.  It did not help me find my mom's suitcase, but I still felt pretty good about myself. 
Officer Schultz, smoker, filling out a very detailed German police report

The night we lost the suitcase, we stayed in a hotel somewhere in Germany, and while I was trying to sleep, I heard a bug buzzing around.  It sounded like an enormous bug.  I was envisioning those palmetto bugs in Florida that I have never seen, but I've heard they're the size of your fist.  So I'm looking around in the limited light of our hotel room, trying to see if I can see the huge bug in the room.  I see something up on the ceiling and I'm sure its the bug, and I start thinking, "Holy shit, that thing is going to eat my kid."  But then I concentrate a little more and it turns out that its the sprinkler. 

I woke up in the morning and the bug was still flapping around the room.  Here it is:
I don't know what kind of bug it is, but its about the size of my pinky nail rather than my meaty fist.  This little shit kept me up half the night fearing huge bug poos falling on my forehead. 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

And Then my Body Broke

I went to Europe a while back, and it occurs to me that I haven't written anything about it.  Here's why: apparently, going to Europe for three weeks and walking 6 hours every day and seeing more relatives and artwork than you have in three decades will kick your ass.  I swear I'm still tired.  I have a good day, followed by a day where I can hardly keep my eyes open.  Add to that a 4 night camping trip and a toe infection, and I think I am entitled to my somnambulism.  Is that an awesome SAT word, or what?

And you know what else?  All those projects that I left before that three week trip ARE STILL HERE.  Miracles did not occur, and my walls still need to be touched up and that garage sale dresser is not going to paint itself. 

And now guess what?  That toe infection? It cleared up.  But, in its wake, it left a stress fracture.  I'm wearing a very unsexy boot and hobbling around, and people ask me, "what happened to your foot?" and I'm all, "I HAVE NO IDEA."  Because I really don't.  I was told that anyone who has feet can get a stress fracture, and I read that especially athletes can get stress fractures.  So this is the second athlete's disease I've gotten in the last month (athlete's foot was the first,) and I haven't done anything remotely athletic.  Unless you call stirring up a pitcher of margaritas athletic, and I didn't do that with my foot. 

Is this what we all have to look forward to?  Mysterious injuries?  Fungus?  Totally uncool.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Oprah on the Brain

I can't sleep.  Its not that late, or anything, but I was so tired that I went to bed early and watched TV and now I can't sleep. I was watching the Oprah network, her behind-the-scenes show called Building a Network, and now all I can think about it how I would love it if Oprah were impressed enough with me that she would invite me to her house in Montecito and interview me about my fascinating life and my unique and extraordinary world views.

Then I start thinking about what I could do to make that happen, and I know she likes books and I like writing so I think, I've got to write something major, then she'll invite me.  But let's face it: Oprah is not impressed by people who drink cokes while they sit around watching TV between folding loads of towels and cleaning the camping stove, even if they do write about it as brilliantly as I do.  I have to write something more meaningful.

Then I get bogged down in what that might be, and I have some ideas, but then I think, There's no freakin' way I can pull that off.  Which leads me to writing this bullshit on my computer at... 11:12 p.m.  Oprah just gets me all riled up.  Yes congratulations, Oprah: you've achieved your goal of making people lay awake at night figuring out how to be their best selves and impress you in the process.  Well done.

Its dark in here.  And quiet.  Even my annoying cat who constantly bothers me while I'm trying to sleep is somewhere else tonight. 

I don't know what else to write about, and if I stop I'll have to get back into bed and toss and turn and try to impress Oprah in my mind.  Oh, to hell with it.  I'll fall asleep eventually, and maybe the answer will come to me in a dream.  

Nighty Night.