Basic Training

Friday I went to my first physical therapy appointment, where I learned that the muscles in my left leg and hip are much weaker than those on my right and that my left calf muscle looks, to quote my physical therapist Nola, "atrophied."

Atrophied - as if I weren't even using it.  What the heck? I walk several miles a week and run up and down the stairs of my townhouse approximately 50 times a day. I mean, it's not as though I am hopping on one leg to do all that. All I can figure is that the pain in my leg has been so severe that I was somehow favoring it and not using it as much.

But, still, STAIRS....how is that even possible?

My new BFF

Nola was right, though - when she had me do side leg lifts, I could feel the difference between left and right. She assigned me a page and a half's worth of exercises to do every day, and - well -what Nola wants, Nola gets.  She was going to assign me core strengtheners also (for my arthritic back); but I assured her that I was already best friends with my Kathy Smith tummy trimmers video. I had to promise to do that every day, also.

Breakfast of champions

All this training! Now I know how Olympic athletes feel.  I'm thinking that it's no coincidence I eat the same yogurt as they do.


Moral: If something is wrong with you, don't wait 6 months to get some help. You'll just  mess yourself up more in the meantime.  And you might end up with a physical therapist whose name makes this tune run through your head non-stop.

I don't think Nola would approve of those heels, though.


[Kathy Smith image: KathySmith.com]
[Yogurt image: Walmart]

Officially Decrepit

I went to the doctor today, in search of a physical therapy referral to help with my sciatica.

Gosh, I wouldn't blame anyone if they stop reading right there.

So! What I thought would take 15 minutes took an hour, what with their insisting on weighing me (I don't want to talk about it) and taking my blood pressure (which I made them do twice, because I didn't like the first numbers) and the doctor's ordering x-rays of my back and hips before she would put in the referral.

Did you know you have to take off your bra to do a lower back x-ray?  I was not happy.

Anyway, all that took an hour (which really isn't bad, considering the x-rays) and then I had to run out of there to pick up David from school; and my dinky cellphone, which only rings when it WANTS to, missed the call from the doctor, who left a voicemail telling me there were apparent "arthritic changes" in my back.

You know, I knew that already.  I could feel it.  But hearing it?  Really depressed me.  So now I am being forced to focus on the fact that I have become an arthritic, overweight person by age 50.  Oh, and the triage nurse, adding insult to injury, gave me a little present.

Personally, I don't want to read anything that contains the words "fecal sample."

That's a DIY stool collection kit that I send off to a lab so some lucky technician can search for microscopic traces of blood in my poop. Everyone who is 50 gets one.  Aren't we lucky?

Showering Like It's 1899

On Friday, our water heater up and quit.  QUIT.  I suspect it was seeking revenge for my so handily fixing the problem with our clothes washer.  You see, the washer wasn't spinning all the water out and kept flashing an error code at me, a problem which I managed to ignore until the door locked midcycle and I had to punch all sorts of buttons randomly.to get it to open so that I could throw the dripping clothes into the dryer (which, I know, is an awesome way to break that particular appliance).  As I stood there, staring at the recalcitrant washer, something whispered "washer filter" to me.

Look, all sorts of people start hearing voices in troubled times.  Think Joan of Arc, all right?

The magic door

Washer filter, it said.  Well, I thought, I don't know where the washer filter IS.  Dammit, people, I'm a suburban housewife, not a certified appliance repairman.  But then I noticed a tiny little door on the front of the washer and remembered that my dryer repairman (after his yearly lecture about needing to vacuum the insides of my dryer, and really, see above re suburban housewife) had shown me that my washer also had a filter that needed periodic cleaning.  I'm not quite sure what he meant by periodic, but once every 7 years seemed like a good bet to me.

So I opened the magic door and started turning some knob counterclockwise and water began pouring out.  Luckily, I had the vomit bucket nearby (empty, of course) and shoved that under the gusher and proceeded with removing what turned out to be the filter (ta-da!), which I handed to David (my trusty assistant) to clean all the gunk off of.

In short, I fixed it.  By myself.  DARE TO REPAIR, people.

So, when the water heater went out as payback, I marched into that furnace closet with my new-found handywoman confidence and stared knowingly at the latest miscreant.  Pilot light, maybe?  After reading the foot-long sticker affixed to the tank which warned me of all the ways I could blow the house up by trying to relight the pilot correctly, I gave up and called the plumber.  We all know how handy Larry and I are with pilot lights.

Monday, the plumber said.

Me, in the shower the past 3 mornings

Let's recap - we were coming up on Mulch Weekend, the weekend when showers are completely non-negotiable.  NON-NEGOTIABLE.  And there was no hot water.

Today the plumber came and fixed it.  "Thermocoupler, ma'am," he said.  "It's all fixed. That'll be $180."  Considering that Larry and I had spent 3 days taking freezing cold showers, farming the kids out to neighbor's bathrooms to get clean, and anticipating a $1000 expenditure for a new water heater, I was overjoyed by this news.  Hot water! Less than $200!  Glory hallelujah!

And THAT, my friends, was my weekend.  How was yours?

All Aboard!

Rachel says she feels WAY better now that she has thrown up. Just wanted to share that with you all. All I can think about is the looming nightmare that is Mulch Weekend, and how a badly timed stomach virus has the ability to lay waste to all our finely-tuned plans. Essentially, I am not going to eat until Monday.

Larry isn't even aware yet that we have just boarded the Stomach Flu Express. Poor guy, he probably thinks he has everything under control. Being the father of 6 children, he should totally know better, of course. But, despite his 22 years of parenting experience, he persists in thinking that - if he just plans things well enough - reality won't rear its ugly head and spit in his face.

That sort of naïveté is rather charming, you know? Like Don Quixote tilting at windmills, only more hopeless...

Just Call Me Czarina

Divorce lawyers love these.

Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time KNOWS that Larry and I do not work well together. We cannot shop for furniture together. We can rarely choose paint colors together. Home renovation projects? Don't even think about it. Over the years, we have developed a divide-and-conquer system to preserve marital peace. He does his thing, I do mine, and we rarely collaborate.

Hey, it works, okay?

So, when Larry started the boys in Scouting, I had no problem with it. A father-led activity, complete with monthly camping trips that left me home in relative peace and quiet? A yearly fundraising activity that did the same? Fine with me!

And then, my fatal misstep - I took over Hospitality for the troop, which job includes running the food tent for our annual Mulch Delivery Days. Still, there was a method to my madness - I figured that, so long as I had a major role in this fundraiser, no one could pressure Larry into taking charge of the time-consuming logistics of the whole mulch extravaganza - you know, the advertising, the processing of orders, the procurement of heavy equipment.  So long as I harangued people to show up with food and to staff the tent, I could prevent having our lives consumed by what had initially appeared to be a harmless way for our troop to raise some money.

Apparently, I neglected to share this theory with Larry.

Yup, he's running the mulch fundraiser this year.  Have I ever mentioned our problem with communication? Because, you see, he NEVER TOLD ME he had volunteered to be the Mulch Czar.  NOT ONCE did he mention it. Instead, I found out from another troop mom a month or so ago, who gave me a very strange look when she realized I had no idea that my spouse and I had become Mr. And Mrs. Mulch 2014.  NO IDEA.

Mulch delivery is this coming weekend. Considering that Larry had to almost physically restrain me from throttling last year's Mulch Czar when he stole one of my food tent ladies to be a driver instead, I am guessing  that our fellow troop parents will have reason to rethink the wisdom of allowing a married couple to run this fundraiser together.  And, just as payback, I plan to have the food tent ladies dress in uniform this time.

Just the outfit for our menopausal bodies

If my marriage is going to suffer, EVERYONE is going to suffer.



[Paint chips image: My Quilt Place]
[Destiny's Child image: Punching Kitty]