Category: blog

Tree was making tacos last night and, thanks to his food permit training, he regularly washed his hands between the handling of fruits, meats, etc. After a quick bathroom break (and, yes, he washed his hands) he immediately felt a burning down below. Apparently, the jalapeño – a fruit not a veggie – was still on his hands and, now, it was elsewhere. Later, while attempting to have an intimate moment with Awkward, they were instead like Madonna in 1983 – Burning Up.

 

After he shared this intimate story with me I told him about a similar situation I experienced many years ago. Gone are the days of innocently preparing jalapeño or attempting to make sexy time sexier.

 

As we continued to discuss these two situations I read a headline on NPR and had to share it with Tree, Chopped: How Amputees Fingertips Sometimes Grow Back. “I guess that is possible,” Tree said and added, “Hopefully it won’t happen while their fingers are in your vagina.”

A while back a few friends decided to have book club. I ‘read’ the book (on CD), plus I saw the movie, so I was fully prepared for the book discussions – of which, we really had none. A decision was made to have the next book club at my house so I selected a book I already read, I Loved I Lost I Made Spaghetti, and then asked everyone to bring a dish from the book.

 

On the night of book club I slaved over the stove with my one good arm making Orzo and toasting pinenuts. Everyone arrived with their Italian wines and store-bought items (that bore a slight resemblance to book recipes) and we spoke about the book very briefly. As was the case last time, we met one or two had read the book in it’s entirety and the rest hadn’t read it at all.

 

“Maybe we can do a movie club instead,” Live Longer suggested. “Or a sitcom club.  Sitcom of your choice. We can all watch different sitcoms – watching the same show is silly. Hell, let’s just do BYOB – Bring Your Own Book Club,” I replied. “I like the sound of that,” said Live Longer said and so it was. BYO Book Club. The theme will be Asian, the book, who knows?!?!

 

My electricity has been needing an update for some time. In fact, anyone who has really looked at or heard about what I’m currently working with has expressed concern. “I can’t believe how small your box is.” “What you’re describing to me sounds extremely dangerous.” “Did your lights just dim on their own?” “Can anyone else hear that buzzing sound?”

 

I got the name of an electrician from a friend and, on the day of the appointment, I forgot about it. Thus, when he arrived I was still in bed. I answered the door with my hair a mess, no bra and my pajamas on. He gave me a stellar bid for the work and then, as I spoke with him about other items in need of repair, he told me to make a ‘Honey Do’ list for him.

 

I thought he was joking until he sent a text to confirm the next appointment, and said, “Get your honey do list together….Don’t be ready!! It’ll make my day much more pleasing if you’re in the same outfit as when I first met ya!” I shared some of our exchange with Ice Cream Man and Sleepless who found it exciting and had concerns for my safety. “I bet he wants a honey do list from you. Honey do you,” Ice Cream Man quipped. “It’s funny how that works in the beginning of a relationship,” I said. “Once the relationship is a few years in it becomes a ‘Honey Don’t’ list. Honey, don’t do that. Honey, don’t tonight. Honey, don’t say that. No, seriously honey, don’t.”

 

When he showed up to update my box I was out of bed, showered and ready to go. He was a bit disappointed but carried on with his work. While doing so he told me, “You picked a hot day to mess with a box,” and “Size does matter.” Honey, don’t……

It’s that time of year again when I attend a certain fundraiser, ‘it’s for the kids,’ and spend a lot of money on auction items. Being that I am currently sponsoring a big kid in need of copays, surgery fees and physical therapy, most of my money is spent. Thus, instead of bidding on items this year, Oreggano and I bid on behalf of Ice Cream Man.

 

We went around the silent auction cautiously bidding on baskets and items that may or may not be of interest to Ice Cream man and we really couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when the bids close and he learned of his winnings.

 

As the silent auction ended and bids were being tallied, the live auction began. This is the part of the evening when my arm and credit cards get really tired of being used. Due to my sling, I was limited to right arm bidding and, fortunately, couldn’t participate in any two-armed ‘holla!’ activity – Oreggano, however, cannot say the same.

 

As one of the items was nearing a purchase point of $3000, Sleepless, Oreggano and I were chatting about different stages in our life. It was at this exact time, well, at approximately “$2700? Do I hear $2700? Who wants this for $2700?” When Oreggano extended both arms high above her head and did a double “holla!” All eyes at the table widened and she quickly threw her arms down to her side. Luckily, the auctioneer didn’t see her gesture and someone else in the room felt $2700 was not nearly enough for this item and bid higher.

 

“This is when the T-Rex holla! is most appropriate,” I said while showing Oreggano how it is done, then advised the rest of the table, “Let that be a lesson learned. From now on, I don’t want your hands where I can see them.”

 

Ice Cream Man took this advice to heart and, after retrieving wine for us and bumping the back of a chair, thus, a little spillage occurred, had both hands working hard under the table. Unfortunately, the bump and spill resulted in a couple of red wine spots on his pants. As a result, he was rubbing his pants vigorously in hopes of eliminating the stain. To those seated across from him or, really, anywhere else in the room, it probably appeared as though he might be rubbing one off . He was, so to speak – he was trying to rub one, two, possibly three stains off of his pants.

 

During the time he was cleaning his pants several high-priced auction items were sold to others without even one bid from Ice Cream Man. Sometimes, even if the money is for the kids, taking care of our pants is more important. Pants – they’re for the kids. Without them our money doesn’t go to help the kids or pay our copays. Instead, our money goes to attorney fees and fines related to exhibitionist charges. Can I get a T-Rex holla!?!?!

While at physical therapy today I received some very sad news: I do not qualify for the case study.

 

The reason is simple really, there is no existing research available to which my therapist can do comparisons.”There is no information out there about this type of fracture and how to treat it. None. I looked everywhere, even PubMed. It’s stupid that I can’t do it, because then the information could be out there, but I need to be able to draw comparisons.” “I coulda been a case study,” I said while trying to lift my T-Rex into a raised fist. “I guess I could still do it and get published,” she thought aloud. “Yes, let’s do it. Get us published, then we can travel all around the world and you can talk about treatment while I show off my amazing range of motion.”

 

I can’t guarantee it will  happen and I won’t be surprised if it doesn’t – still, though, my dreams are now like my arm – broken.  It is quite possible my fame my come at the same time that my worth increases – when I die. And, if I’m lucky, instead of being read about on PubMed, I’ll be read about on famous DEAD (.com).

It has been over a month since That’s Not Chinese and I visited with my gynecologist, the ‘Nutty Professor.’ Since that time a lot has happened – I fractured my shoulder, changed my hair color, and That’s Not Chinese determined ‘Mr. Magoo’ might be a more appropriate doppelgänger for my gyno.

 

For most, Leap Year is a year with one day added – tagged on to the end of February – to keep the calendar in sync with the seasons. For me, LEEP Year is a year in which, on one day in June, an additional biopsy is conducted to keep my cervix in sync with my ‘seasons.’ Last time I spoke with my gyno she informed me I would not be receiving any anesthesia for the procedure so I took two acetaminophen and grabbed an ivory mocha with two shots – the only two shots I thought I’d be getting for the day.

 

The assistant took me to the procedure room, handed me a gown, and said, “Just so you know, you will be grounded.” I haven’t been grounded since high school. I felt it was best that I advise her I just had surgery and have wire in my arm. “Will that make a difference?” I asked. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Uh oh,  you’ve got a fever,” she replied. “I do? Of what? Will that make a difference?” I asked. “Just over 100. No difference. Your doctor will be here shortly,” she said and left the room.

 

I set my coffee on the ground, underneath a chair by the exam table, and conducted a quick assessment of the room. It was small with a set of cabinets in one corner. The cabinets were covered with swabs, speculums, wire loops, scalpels, needles, and scissors. One pair of scissors was a in sealed bag labeled, ‘Needle Holder.’ The rest of the room was a hodgepodge of equipment – helium tanks, surgery light, flexible lamp, Smoke Shark Evacuator, and a couple of randomly placed plastic carts on wheels. I knew immediately that today’s visit would be as good as the last.

 

My doctor entered the room, asked me to scoot to the edge of the table, placed my feet in the oven mitts, and then pushed my gown down and said, “I want to be able to see your face.” So romantic. Her assistant then advised, “We tell most patients it is best if they relax their legs as much as possible – it really helps them.” I doubted that advice helped anyone relax knowing what was about to happen.

 

My doctor explained the procedure which, fortunately, now included a local anesthetic – looks like today would include more than two shots. She attempted to adjust the surgical lamp, which apparently had a loose joint, thus, kept moving. “This isn’t going to work,” she observed and added, “I need a screw tightened.” That’s Not Chinese would definitely agree  – there were a few loose screws here. I informed my doctor she would need an Allen wrench to remedy the situation and she opted for a flexible light instead – probably best since I didn’t see an Allen wrench in any of the sealed medical device bags.

 

To distract me, we talked shop – the fact that Michael Douglas is blaming his throat cancer on cunnilingus and where my lab work would be sent. Being that my lab work has previously been sent to labs not covered by my plan, I wanted to be sure that she was clear about my insurance. “You’ve got United Health Care so we’ll send it to their lab,” she told me. I advised her United Health Care was not my insurance provider. We then started talking about my shoulder injury. Distraction, distraction, distraction.

 

As she administered the third shot and I laid back, trying to relax, as instructed, she said, “And that’s why we wear glasses. Can  you please hand me a tissue?” As I tried to lift my grounded body to see what hit her, she continued on with the anesthesia, completely unfazed. Unfazed would be very impressed. Although she opted to wear scrubs for today’s visit, she wasn’t wearing safety glasses/goggles, rather, she was wearing her prescription eyeglasses. Poor little nearsighted Mr. Magoo. She then said, “Let’s do one more shot, just to make sure you can’t feel anything. Lidocaine please.” “We’re out,” the assistant replied and then the two of them left me to ‘relax’ while they fumbled around the procedure room looking for more Lidocaine.

 

Fortunately, they found more without having to leave the sterile environment and, as they were wrapping up the biopsy, literally, my doctor requested some ‘sticks.’ I’m not familiar with medical terms, so I have no idea what that meant, but the assistant was unable to find any in the room. As a result, my doctor had to again leave me, relaxing, to locate them. As she scoured through one of the plastic carts she found another device in a bag and said, “I guess these will work.” A couple more pokes and smokes and she announced, “You’re done!”

 

The assistant left the room and my doctor continued to fumble around the room and discuss with me what would happen next. “You’ve got United Health Care so we’ll send this to their lab and when it comes back I’ll call you.” It was at this time that two things happened: 1) I decided not to correct her and 2) she knocked over my coffee cup. She quickly picked up the cup, grabbed a tissue – not the same tissue she used to clean her glasses – wiped up the spill and said, “Only lost a swallow.”

 

Maybe. I may also lose my biopsy if she really sends it to the wrong lab. Oh well, LEEP Year only comes every so often, right?

 

While living in Los Angeles in the early 90s I did my best to participate in the local television scene. I was an audience member and door prize winner on The Price Is Right; I seriously considered Wheel of Fortune; and tried like mad to get my friends to audition with me for cutting edge dating show. Sadly, although I did win the door prize, I ended up filing ‘single’ on my tax return, paid 25% tax on my winnings, and seem to always be one spin away from a win.

 

Years later, still filing single, no longer winning door prizes (unless you count the packages left for me by delivery men), and physically unable to spin the wheel, I wondered if I might end up meeting a fellow gimp along my rehab path. Although I haven’t met anyone at the hospital, imaging facility, doctor’s office, or physical therapy clinic, I have experienced some broken love connections.

 

The first broken love connection occurred when I was Gladys Kravitzing one afternoon and, subsequently, ended up helping a man who crashed on his crotch rocket. Since that day, he has hobbled by several times, asking MiniMe for ‘the girl with the broken arm,’ and offering food, drink, huka, anything for my kindness. No good deed goes unpunished – especially when the recipient knows where you live.

 

The second broken love connection occurred when, while sitting on my chaise lounge rehabbing and not helping strangers, I noticed (on Facebook) that a former lover ruptured his quadriceps tendon. For a fellow gimp, and under different circumstances, this would be a dream come true – a partner in crime to help pass crippled time.  Unfortunately, he lives in a different state, it has been years since we were together, he is in a relationship, and Facebook has afforded both of us the luxury of knowing each other better than we ever did when we knew each other in a biblical sense.

 

Alas, I’ll continue to file ‘single;’ I’ll set my DVR to record Wheel of Fortune; and I’ll wait for the next big dating show to be announced. If Pat Sajak and Vanna White are still around at that time they could host the show. Perhaps we could call it “Metamucil Mates” and, instead of buying vowels, we’ll buy bowels; instead of consonants, catheters (that one was for you Ice Cream Man). Our broken love connections can fuse together like a fractured bone – with no guarantee of full recovery.

 

 

Sleepless and I have known for some time that my fracture is, as they say in the orthopedic world, a ‘total boner.’

 

“You should offer to be a case study,” Sleepless advised me one day and added, “I’m surprised your surgeon hasn’t asked.” I wasn’t surprised. Some men are shy. Women, however, not so much.

 

When I arrived at my second physical therapy appointment we started out slowly and, as the session progressed, the intern mumbled something to my therapist. My therapist told her, “Go ahead,” and she asked me, “Would you mind being a case study?” “I thought you’d never ask,” I replied.

 

As we talked about all that it would entail (me signing releases and business as usual after that), she shared a few other details with me, then continued on with physical therapy. As we did so, we talked about some alternative healing methods. “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be,” she said and then giggled. I got the pun. I knew she had been casing my joint since my first appointment. I don’t blame her. As my surgeon says, I’ve got ‘good bone,’ so, I may as well throw her one for her case study.

 

 

Now that MiniMe is all grown up – she graduated college and has been flopping at my house nearly every night since returning from Europe – a bunch of her family got together to celebrate. We decided to bring back an old tradition and dine at one of the fine local Italian chain restaurants.

 

They sat our party of 14 upstairs in a corner and the tables were set up such that the first people seated had to crawl up and out of the sitting area if they needed to use the loo. By ‘the first people,’ I mean me, in my sling, doing my thing.

 

Seated across from me was Beaner and her family. Seated next to me was MiniMe’s dad. Being that the party was large and the table was long, there were several conversations taking place – my conversations were primarily with Beaner and MiniMe’s dad.

 

At one point in the evening, after several drinks, I safely slid across the back wall and down the stairs to the loo and, when I returned, decided to take my arm out of the sling for a bit – people may dig scars, but nobody finds atrophy sexy.

 

While my arm was out, I was doing some of the range of motion exercises taught to me at physical therapy. A few minutes later I was rubbing my upper chest. “It feels like someone else is touching me,” I told Beaner. “Real nice,” MiniMe said and then gestured toward her dad. “Oh he knows, honey. How do you think you got here? Everyone, even me and my foreign arm, likes touching me. ”

 

Was that an overshare? Maybe, but I was ‘feeling’  generous. I’ve got my arm – lame or not; I’ve got a college graduate; and I’ve got yummy mizithra brown buttered pasta. “I don’t typically eat pasta in public,” I advised Beaner and those in close proximity (i.e., MiniMe’s dad), but considering what you just witnessed, I’m gonna give it a go.” “That’s a lot of noodle for your mouth,” Beaner quipped. Oh, he knows…..

 

This shoulder fracture has proven to be good for a lot of people.  Amazon has received a lot more attention from me. The neighborhood is a safer place with Gladys Kravitz keeping an eye on things. The Leaver is convinced it is forcing me to take the break I never take – doing a whole lot of nothing is not usually on my calendar. The medical profession cannot get enough of me – I’m like crack (pun intended) to them.

 

I arrived at my first physical therapy appointment with Sleepless in tow. We entered the room and the physical therapist said, “Let me spray the mat down for you first.” Sleepless quipped, “That’s not the first time we’ve heard that.” She and I giggled while my new physical therapist and the intern remained silent. “She means that’s not the first time we’ve heard that today,” I said. Still, no response. As I’ve told Tree many times, “I have got to download a laugh track app.”

 

I shared the story about my fracture with my therapist and asked if he spoke with my surgeon prior to our meeting – something my surgeon was adamant about. “Yes.”  “Was he pretty excited when he explained it to you?” I asked. “He was pretty proud of his work, yes,” he replied and then shared my surgeon’s story using words that only those into ‘bone’ know.

 

We spoke for a minute then he asked me, “for modesty purposes,” to flip around on the mat so that my legs were toward the wall (I was wearing a dress). I did so while calling Sleepless, who was at the end of the mat, a pervert. She smiled. The doctor then approached me on the right (or, in this case, wrong) side of my body, started gently rubbing my shoulder and asked, “Is this sensitive to touch?” “No, it actually feels quite nice, but it is my left shoulder that was fractured,” I replied. “I always get turned around when I ask people to flip around,” he replied and moved to my left side while Sleepless and I, again, giggled.

 

At the end of the visit I was getting my ice and heat treatment and there were several other patients participating in therapy around me. One woman was getting a massage and her therapist had her change positions on the bed then, just as my therapist did, he started massaging the wrong side. “Oops,” he exclaimed. Instant giggling from the corner where they stuck Sleepless and I.

 

All in all, even though this fracture was a bit of an inconvenience, it has been an all around good, and as my surgeon said, “clean,” break. I’ve done a lot of nothing with a lot of people – some I’ve known forever, others I haven’t seen for a while, and many I’ve just met. Maybe The Leaver is right. Maybe, I needed a break.