How My Weekend Went

Friday morning, I started reading Tina Fey’s BossyPants on the way to work. This was a mistake: my commute is not that long, and once I started reading I did NOT want to stop. So I was grumpier than usual when I had to get off the subway, put the book away, and go to work. (Thumbs down to the beige cubicle; thumbs up to BossyPants.)

Friday evening, my friend JJ was celebrating her birthday at Marie’s Crisis, a piano bar in the West Village. I arrived just as the piano-man started playing “What I Did For Love,” from Chorus Line. The place wasn’t so packed yet (it was just after 9pm), but everyone in the room sang LOUD. With EMOTION. I think we were all working some stuff OUT, there, with that song. Our voices filled the place, from the low-hanging ceiling beams to the wood floors, from the front window overlooking Grove Street to the bar in the back, where the bartender “refuses to make margaritas or martinis” (we were told). A fun night singing show tunes with feeling.

On both Saturday and Sunday evenings I had shows at an Improv festival out in Long Island City. Good times with good people. In between the shows, however, I had a killer, disgusting, debilitating, stupid-pants migraine.

I consider myself a fairly tough cookie when it comes to sickness – I’ll get myself to the grocery store for soup, I’ll pick up my own medicine, I’ll keep-on-keepin’-on like the strong, independent gal that I am. Heck, I walked on a fractured foot for two weeks before finally taking myself to the doctor.* But when it comes to migraines – and specifically the fun-times repetitive up-chucking that comes along with them – I’m felled. I want my mommy. I slump on the bathroom floor and whimper like a puppy.

No bueno.

So there was that.  And there was work that got in the way of my reading, and there was too little outdoors time, and not enough alone time.  But there was also show tunes, and laughter with friends, and MTA-miracles that got me from home to Long Island City in 20 minutes, and Improv team bonding, and fake-ninja-fighting in a parking lot (part of our warm-ups for one Improv show).

So, all in all: a mixed-bag of a weekend.  But not totally terrible.


*Wait, is that toughness, or stupidity?

Run Down, Built Up

Apropos of nothing; I just like that this place exists

I'm ten days into a cold that just won't quit. All the juice and tea and OTC meds I've consumed haven't done a whole lot to remedy the situation.  I'm feeling awfully run down.

And so I'm going to the doctor in a bit to demand some drugs. Because enough is enough!  This cold is not coming to Europe with me.

But enough about what's running me down lately; here's what's running my motor and making me smile:

1) Soap - Totes addicted to this late 70's/early 80's sitcom, starring Billy Crystal, Richard Mulligan, Kathryn Helmond, and well - everyone.  Everyone was on Soap, or so it seems.  God bless you, Netflix, for giving me access to all 4 seasons on-demand.

2) Chocolate Mate - I'm trying to avoid coffee/caffeine as much as possible.  But mate (rhymes with latte) tea is a good substitute while I wait out this cold - lots of flavor, not a lot of caffeine.  God bless you, South America, for giving us the miracle of mate.

3) Sara Bareilles' new album - this is my current go-to music for bopping around the apartment while I'm getting ready to go out, and also my evening homeward-bound commute soundtrack. God bless you, Sara, for knowing your way around a piano.

4) I'm also loving how nearly every hostel listing I've looked at in Krakow describes their facilities as "homely." God bless when things get lost in translation and make funny.

5) Speaking of funny, Subway Douchery nearly always makes me laugh.  It's funny, 'cause it's true.  (This older post is my all-time fave.)  God bless people who fly their freak flag on public transit, for the amusement/horror of the rest of us.

6) I heard the heat switch on in my apartment this weekend.  Building management controls when the heat is on (cold months) and off (warm months), and this weekend I heard the tell-tale clanks, rattles, and hisses that signal the radiators and heat pipes have come to life again after their summer dormancy.  God bless cooler temperatures and winter accessories. You're my favorite, and your future is now.

Days Like This

Down on Houston Street

My Monday was a mixed bag.  It began in the depths of despair but ended in the heights of hilarity.

(What hyperbole?)

The villain of Monday morning was a migraine, which made eating, drinking, working - anything really - nearly impossible.  Thinking it would pass at any moment, I stuck it out at my office, though I did very little actual work.  I split my time between sitting mutely at my desk, hoping no one would talk to me, and sitting on the bathroom floor, hoping no one would come in and assume I was a) hungover, b) pregnant, or c) bulimic.

After about six hours of this, things were looking grim.  But then my first hero arrived, just in the knick of time (as good heroes always do). Sweet, sweet, blessed Excedrin Migraine, you saved my day and stopped that villainous migraine in its tracks.  Hallelujah.

Six hours later, I had a date with a different sort of hero - The Improvised Shakespeare Company.  I know I've talked about this group before, but I don't think I can sing their praises enough.  They are brilliant and amazing, and if you ever have a chance to see one of their shows - you most definitely, verily should do so.

And so - to sum up:

From the bathroom floor, to the theatre stage -
Headaches and belly laughs were written
And tho' the migraine causeth rage -
By the improvisers was I later smitten.
And thusly ends our tale of highs and low,
Is not that just how Mondays go?

The Gimp Chronicles

Episode 7: Boot Sisters

Friendly Feets:

BANaNAs, Jolene & I pedi-posed on Martha's Vineyard last month

Today is the two-week anniversary of my reluctant alliance with Tootsie, the Surgical Boot. Two weeks down, and (hopefully) only two weeks more to go before my left foot can once again find freedom in flip-flops. There will be dancing on that happy day. Oh yes, there will be dancing.

Since I took up with my Tootsie, I've been seeing plenty of gals limping around the city with Tootsies of their very own. When Dr. Z initially handed down my diagnosis, he revealed that I was his 3rd stress-fracture case that day. And it was only noon! So I knew I would not be alone: there were others out there, step-clomping through the city alongside me.

As I slowly made my way to the subway that evening, I saw two women with boots. One of them had a cane. This made me feel better. "See?" I pep-talked myself, "You're not alone. And at least you don't have a cane."

Later that night, boarding a Manhattan-bound 1-train leaving the Bronx, I sat down across from another booted girl. "Aha!" I thought, "We are everywhere."

Friends have joined in encouraging me this way, as well. "Just saw a girl with a boot," my friend Tiff texted me over the weekend, "You are not alone!"

This afternoon, on my way to the library and lunch, I rode the elevator with a co-worker who - noticing Tootsie - commented, "I've seen so many people with those boots lately!" Yup, I told her, we're out there.

Out in force, it seems. A stress-fractured limpy-gimpy force with which to be reckoned.

Still, I really want out of this club. Eyes on the prize - two more weeks!


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 5: The Boot, in Perspective

Tootsie considered taking to the bottle, but I talked
her out of it with a healthy dose of perspective.

You may have heard me mention (if only in brief passing) about a little stress fracture incident. Perhaps you're thinking, "Gee, Kristy, I sure wish you'd say more about that!" Really? Well, ok! If it's medical melodrama you're lookin' for, then it's medical melodrama I'll deliver...

You see, I used to dabble in hypochondria. During my second year of college, I requested a Merck Manual for Christmas. My mom was not thrilled with this gift choice, but my dad seemingly couldn't say 'no' to his only daughter. And so, on Christmas morning, I found a medical reference manual of my very own, wrapped in pretty paper under the tree.

Wouldn't you know it? Just a few days later, I contracted a staph infection!

My mom, a former nurse, tried to debunk my self-diagnosis but the Merck and I would not be dissuaded. I curled up under a blanket on the couch and took to moaning pitifully. From the other room I heard my mom mutter, "Sam, I told you not to get her that book!"

I won't bore you with a list of the other diseases & afflictions that the Merck subsequently helped me to identify. Needless to say, the list was lengthy and the diagnoses were mainly unsubstantiated by medical professionals and by my mother, who probably got quite tired of repeating the phrase, "You don't have [diabetes/encephalitis/black lung]."

Despite my paranoid convictions otherwise, I have actually always been fairly healthy.* Never had stitches, never broke a bone, never required a hospital stay. My only forays into the E.R. were when I escorted friends and inebriated college roommates there to play out their own medical dramas.

All things considered, this body has held up pretty well for thirty-one years. I'm trying to keep that perspective in mind. Makes it difficult to bemoan my current stress fracture incident too too much, eh?


*There was that short-lived brain tumor scare of '07, but that turned out to be (in the words of my zany neurologist, Dr. S) merely "unresolved internal conflict." Oh, ok. Phew.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp ChroniclesEpisode 4: The Art of Bootraction

Here's a Monday afternoon question for you: What if - rather than receiving it as a sign of bad luck - we instead viewed my boot as a good luck charm?

(Also, what if - for the sake of this blog post - we pretend that I believe in luck. Which I don't. Not really.)

This weekend I tried to remain mindful of the good things that came my way as a result of being strapped to Tootsie. It's easy to maintain a laundry list of all the ways that the boot is annoying. It's also doable to keep reminding myself that the boot is not so so terribly bad - well, it's not the end of the world, anyhow.

But could it actually be a bearer of good things in my life? Let's see...

Cyn stopped by on Saturday to bring me these lovely "Sorry You Have A Stress Fracture" flowers... Good thing #1.

Then we ventured over to Cafe Frida for dinner, drinks, and this yummy dessert. (Kiddos, you gotta trust me that Flaming Plantano Macho tastes much much much better than it looks!) While we were finishing our meal, two people left the restaurant and paused on the sidewalk outside the window opposite us. One of those people was Anne Hathaway, presumably grabbing a quick bite before heading to work. Celeb sighting! Totally a case of bootraction. Good thing #2.

Since neither of us were heading to work, Cyn and I accepted our waiter's offer of a little after-dinner cognac on the house.

Yum. Free cognac. Good thing #3.

Later I hobbled down a few blocks to CJL's birthday party, where I ended up sitting next to a girl whose story I needed to hear, right then and there. Totally a shot of hope for my heart.

Call it Bootraction, call it karma, call it kismet, call it coincidence, call it what you will. I kinda wanna believe that it's maybe God's way of pulling me up by my bootstraps so that I can start to see the light again.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 3: Pirate Booty

The boot does its job by immobilizing my left foot. Because I can no longer roll that foot, my gait becomes awkward and slow. I get very little forward propulsion from my left leg now; my right leg is doing most of the work and the left leg comes clomping behind it.

As I get used to walking this way, I'm still trying to determine the most efficient way to move. Does it help to try to open my stride? Or is it better to take shorter steps? Should I be bending my knees more or less? Can I employ any of my figure skating skillz to help me here? (The answer to that last question is - of course - "no," but I always like to ask that in whatever situation I happen to be in.)

In addition to the ease-of-movement dilemma, I am also concerned with how my new walk looks. Vain, I know, but I can't help but be a little concernced that stilted clomping is just not how a girl goes about bringing sexy back. So I'm thinking about throwing in a little wiggle-waggle, toe-point, hip-sashay to class up the clomp, step, clomp, step routine.

Further, I've become aware that my new walk looks not entirely unlike how you might imagine a peg-legged person moving. Step, clomp, step, clomp, repeat. And I'm reminded of all the times I've callously told people that I was pretty sure my ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg. (Just this week, in fact, I told a friend that I was certain her ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg, too!) Not cool, Kristy. Having a peg-leg is a serious hindrance. I can see that now. I repent of my peg-leg insinuating ways.

See how this booty experience is already making me all sensitive and compassionate 'n stuff? I think it's a step-clomp in the right direction.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 2: Boot-ros Boot-ros, Golly!

After Dr. Z gave me the boot, I hobbled out of his office and limped east. My gait was awkward and halting. At this pace it seemed like it would take me forever and a day to get back to my office, so I reckoned I had time to make a few phone calls.

First I called MadDawg, because that girl knows a thing or two about getting the boot, having worn one herself fairly recently. Next up, I dialed my mother and told her my stress-fracture news. Still focused on my extreme self-consciousness about wearing the bulky boot, I was whiny and looking for sympathy.

“Are you getting enough calcium?” my mother asked.
“I eat a lot of yogurt,” I offered.
“Ok, what else?”
“Um…turkey sandwiches?”
“You really need to make sure you’re getting enough calcium.”

Right-o. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I heard her say that it’s medically necessary for me to start consuming a lot of ice cream. Finally – some science I can get behind.

“Sorry to tell you, kid, but you’ve got my feet.”

Well, I figured as much. Each passing year brings greater awareness that I am my mother’s daughter – I’ve inherited her green eyes, her tendency to cry during sappy movies/dog food commercials, her dislike of Neil Young, and now – her fracture-prone feet.

“Maaaahhhmm!” I whined, “What am I going to do? This boot slows me down! I walk everywhere – it’s going to take me forEVER to get places!”

“You can milk this thing,” she advised, “Get help. Get people to give you rides.”

“This is New York City, Mom. No one has cars. The only people who are going to give me rides are cab drivers, and I’ll have to pay them.”

“Well, aren’t there services for the disabled?”

“I’m not disabled!” I shrieked into the phone.

The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. I took some deep breaths and let my mom try to pep-talk me back to an even keel. After we hung up, I continued the pep-talk with myself. I reminded myself of all the ways that the boot did not represent the end of the world. I reminded myself of the blessings I could identify in this situation. I thought of bigger things & grand schemes, which made this seem like a minor little stumbling block. And I reminded myself that awkwardness and embarrassing situations make great writing material, and I resolved to spill out the details here on the ol’ bloggy-blog.

And whaddya know? Me and the boot (who I’m thinking of naming “Tootsie”) went on to scale great heights that day…

The boot and I conquered 120 steps in the Bronx. How do ya like that, Dr. Z?!

[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

Accu-queasy

This morning I saw a commerical for Accu-chek, a glucose monitor that diabetics can use to monitor their blood sugar levels. One brief scene showed the Accu-chek in action, drawing a small sample of blood from a user's finger tip and displaying a quick reading. Great news for the Accu-chek user, but bad news for Kristy. I got completely queasy just from watching!

After putting my head down and breathing deep for a few seconds, the queasiness passed. What remained was a firm resolve to do everything in my power not to get diabetes. If the commerical for Accu-chek makes me nauseous, imagine what actually using an Accu-chek would do! I'd be passing out all over town and 8 ways to Tuesday.

So I'm going to dedicate a few solid work hours to researching ways of avoiding diabetes. And I will certainly keep you posted on my quest to not get diabetes. Wish me luck.

Yeah, what's up now, Doc?

Victory was mine today at the doctor's office. I returned to finish the bloodwork that my fainting spell interupted a few weeks ago.

As I waited for the doctor, I tried several strategies to calm my nerves and ensure that I would remain conscious.

First I tried: "Just focus on Jesus, think about Jesus, it's going to be fine, imagine Him holding your hand through it all..."
Then I tried: "Think about Mom, she was a nurse, she's very practical, what would she do?, imagine her holding your hand through it all..."
Then I tried the Jesus thoughts again.
Then I tried: "Ok, just look at your split ends, don't think about anything related to blood, or anything really, just focus on the split ends...split ends...split ends."
Back to Mom.
Some more Jesus thoughts.
Split ends again.
Interlude of wondering why doctors always keep you waiting.
Brieft moment of panic when I feared I may already be hyperventilating.
Deep breaths...deep breaths...

Finally the doctor arrived and starting pulling all the bloodwork tools out of various drawers. And I thought, "Ok, there is no way I can do this. I need to leave. I'll just tell her I need to leave, and that will just be the end of it. I'm fine, I don't really need bloodwork, I'm sure I'm not anemic or anything, so I'll put it off till next year, and I'll just be going now..."

But I was too scared to tell the doctor I was leaving, so I decided to be brave and stay. :)

And it was fine! The winning combination in the end proved to be: **lie down** (sitting up is no good!), look away from the needle, deep breaths, and think of Jesus. Then afterwards, call Mom to tell her how you were a big girl and didn't faint.

At times like these, who can believe I'm 28 years old!?

What's Up Doc?  (my favorite movie, and the title of this post)
As my day of departure from work draws near, I'm trying to make as many doctor appointments as possible before time runs out on my health insurance. Today I went to see my PCP for a check-up. She asked the usual doctorly questions (for which my answers are always "no" and I worry, unreasonably I suppose, that the doctor either thinks I'm extremely boring or lying).
Then Dr. L asked if I was under any stress. I said sure, work was stressful, but not to worry, because I am quitting soon. She inquired as to what I would be doing after, and I explained what I want to study eventually (Old Testament studies) and what I would be working on in the immediate future (learning Hebrew). She seemed pretty intrigued, and mentioned that she had enjoyed learning some Torah when her son went through his Bar Mitzvah.
She thought for a moment, then asked how much time Christians spend reading the Old Testament, in proportion to the other scriptures. I said "Not enough!" and explained that's why I wanted to go to school for it, so I could teach others how to read and enjoy this portion of God's word that is so often over-looked and under-studied.
Again I felt affirmed in my decision to take these steps to seminary, and the appointment went along swimmingly, until I brought shame upon my mother (a former Nurse) by completely passing out when they tried to draw blood. My mom tried to reassure me, tonight on the phone, that lots of people get faint during bloodwork, but in her heart of hearts, I know she is bewildered how she came by such a hyperventilating hypochondriac for a daughter. :)