MBLF: The Major Motion Picture

You've seeen the photos. You've read the stories. Now fall in love all over again with "MBLF: The Beginning," the new major motion picture! Yes, now you can get a tiny glimpse into the real-life origins of MBLF, complete with surround sound! You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll heave with disgust at the full-color moving pictures of C's left AND right legs at the height of MBLF-dom. Play the video below for a blast from the past and see what all the excitement has been about.

Annum

It's no secret the past year has been a very challenging one for the Barrys. J has had some job uncertainties, and I've apparently done all sorts of nasty things to my body. There were times I was truly uncertain as to what tomorrow would hold -- or, genuinely and with some cause, if there would even BE a tomorrow.

Last night, some of my dearest family came over for a bit of a surprise dinner to celebrate life and living, in the form of my 34th birthday. It was truly a treat to have them with us. J made THE most amazing dinner -- complete with linens and nice china and grilled steak & scallops and fresh rosemary bread and ... it was amazing. He wouldn't let me do a thing, working so hard to make it a wonderful evening, and he really succeded.

Joining us for the festivities were Matt, Monique, the Monkey, Kim, Dave and Cath: let me tell you, this is just a great crew. We ate (a lot), drank (a lot) and laughed (a LOT), and it was probably the best birthday I've ever had. And there were wonderful birthday gifts too -- gorgeous hats and classic movies and books and diamond bracelets and also, Patron! -- but the time spent was really beyond price for me.

This morning my kitchen looks as though it's exploded; I think we used every dish we own. I told J that we should have just ordered takeout, that would have been just fine, but he replied over and over again that he wanted to do this so that I would know how happy he is that I'm alive and still with him. I can only reply that, J, I already knew. You're the best partner anyone could ever hope for, in all ways: you make me feel valued and loved, and there is no more precious a gift. I'm thankful that I'm about to hit 34, but even more thankful that I have such an amazing family to see me through. Bring on 35 ... I'm ready to see what the next year has to offer.

Geek Rock

This weekend was a geek-filled good time. I enjoyed visiting with a number of friends throughout the weekend, and one of the major events was a gathering at our friend G's place. There was a lot of food and a LOT of drink (stories for another time, perhaps?) but I thought I might take this chance to give you a glimpse as to what geeks do for a good time on a raucous Saturday night. Behold ...

Rock Band!

From L-R, our friends L (vocals), D (guitar), B (bass) and K (drums) all take their moment of glory. As the night progressed and the Dragon shots proliferated, the Band members switched out and things got even more and more interesting ... but really, like I said, a story for ANOTHER time.

Phantoms in the Air

Today is gorgeous, breezy and 80 and sunny and low humidity -- a prefect summer day and a gift, indeed, after endless days of heat and rain and storms and incedible humidity that's so dense you feel like you need SCUBA gear just to walk outside to your car.

I have a bit of a tummyache, so I'm subsisting on white starchy carbs until things realign. The fact that I'm able to recover outside, reading library books and munching bagels in my well-shaded hammock, is making the whole thing much more palatable.

As I sit and swing, staring up at the blue sky, an intermittent roar fills the air, a beast prowling the clouds while looking for a place to land. I hear Sammy down the street hollering, "There they are!" as the roar grows louder, and suddenly four jets streak across the sky, breaking sound and speed barriers, those on the ground left looking up with squinty eyes and craned necks as planes swoop and dive overhead. Suddenly, almost as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone into the powder-puff of a passing cloud. The roar remains, but the jets are phantoms, elusive, only the occasional growl of the jet and a tell-tale trail of vapor to show us that the Blue Angels are, indeed, real and here in Rochester.

WARNING: Pride Ahead

Last weekend we ended up spending Saturday afternoon at the Rochester Gay Pride Parade. It's such an amazing, high-energy event, and we're always happy to be there and support our gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered friends, family and colleagues (and yes, we have a nice number of each of those).

So we parked over on Park Ave., right near Jine's. As we drove down the street, we saw balloons and floats and everything else being put together. People were everywhere, and the curb was slowly filling up with spectators, and the rainbow was everywhere: flags, beads, shirts, body paintings ... the street was in bloom with color.

We grabbed chairs from the car trunk -- me, Jamie and K -- and walked down the street a bit to the park where we were meeting up with B., J., and M. We had bottled water and chilled snacks (it was caliente) and comfy chairs and great company ... and also just so happened to be across the street from some friends of the B and co. who were hosting a little cosmo party. Nice.

We had a killer vantage point on the parade and we could see the light of the parade as it started and slowly moved down the street. First up were police, fire and ambulance crews, along with reps from the City of Rochester. Bon Jour, Mayor McHotty!

Next up came the celebrity marshall, Maya. No, I have no clue who she is.

And then came our first Parade Queen and King. There a bunch of those -- overall Pride Queen and King, club queens and kings, etc. Very regal.

This year's theme was a fairy tale type thing: "Happily Ever After," in reference to the fact that NYS is now recognizing same-sex marriages from other states, countries, etc. where they are legal. This is, of course, a big step toward legalization of same-sex (legal) marriages in the state. It's a Big Deal.

In recent years an interesting trend has arisen: the inclusion of many more politicians and churches. There's a real outreach to the GLBT community by these groups during Pride, which is nice. Of course, there are more religious protesters as well, but seeing groups in the parade is always nice.

And then one of my fave personalities comes rolling by: (s)he is a drag queen, always on wheels, always with a glittering, fab flapper-type dress and wig ... and always still with full-on mustache and beard. Love it. Love. It.

And as if the Roller!Queen wasn't enough (Love. It.), the Muthers float was right behind. It truly had something for everything: half-baked oiled men, Darienne Lake (work those curves, girl!), Pandora Boxx (how DOES she always look so damn fierce?! Geez.), and another fave, Ambrosia Salad (not shown, but she is a total riot and so amazingly TALL ... particularly when wearing spiked thigh-high boots).

God, I miss my hag days. Muthers, take me away!

And this Hansel-and-Gretel thing cracked me up. How leiderhosen were suddenly major, I do not know, but ... there you have it

Fun story: whenever we're out at Muthers or TilT or Pride with B., we always call him "Mr. Rochester" since he appears to know just about *everyone* in the community. First of all, the man is like lesbian catnip. As SOON as we hit an event, he is absolutely swarmed with dykes. It kills me. THEN, as if that isn't enough, it seems like he knew someone in every group going by in the parade: people are waving, queens are calling his name, cute little twinks are bringing over candy and a quick air kiss. It's a riot. It also means I get lots of nice, shiny bead necklaces, by proxy. I'm also hoping he can talk one of the dykes on bikes into taking me for a little ride one of these years ...

But I digress.

ANYhow, this year there was a guy in the parade dressed as a BDSM frog prince ("Happily Ever After," remember?). About 5 seconds after the below photo was taken the frog broke from the parade, RAN over to B, grabbed him, hugged and kissed him, and then ran back into the parade. It was surreal. When asked later why I didn't get a picture of THAT, I could only reply that I was so shocked at B getting molested by an amphibian that I totally lost my wits. The best part, by the by, was that at the end of the parade B confided in sotto voce ,"And I still have no idea who the hell that was." Hussy.

Of course, the parade had to come to a close and so the float from TilT ended things out with a bang: blaring dance music (Pride: the only parade with a kickass soundtrack), dancing queens, kings, rainbow balloons, and a sweaty, oiled go-go dancer shaking his ... groove thang.

Happily ever after, indeed.

Eulogy for a Nun

Tonight I write to honor my aunt, Anna Marie Petocchi, also known as Sister Mary Dominica, who died on Saturday at the age of 92. And I know I want (need) to write about her, but oddly I can't seem to find right words to express who she was and all the reasons she will be missed. It all seems like snippets in my mind.

• Every special occasion I would receive a card. It might be a birthday, a holiday, you name it, but about one to two weeks before the date, a card would arrive. It was often a computer-generated, dot-matrix printed card, always signed with "Pray for, your Aunt Anna" and invariably contained money -- not a lot, sometimes a few ones or a five, but always money. When I was in college and working several jobs to make ends meet, this would often fund my groceries. But it continues to this day, even as I'm married and working and making a comfortable living. No matter how old I was or what I was doing, I was never too old to be loved and taken care of.
• Each Christmas and gift-giving holiday, I would have the same conversation with Aunt Anna. She would say, "I need nothing, do you hear? Nothing. I need nothing." I would still get her something. However, Anna took her vows of poverty and charity very seriously, and one always knew that whatever was given her would instantly be regiven to someone else. We always joked, with love, when we picked out a gift for Aunt Anna, "So, do you think Cousin is going to like this?" And if she ever asked for anything (postage stamps, a phone card, a woolen winter hat) you'd better believe we got it for her! How amazing to want so little, to give so much, and to take such joy in the small things of every day life.
• Every birthday without fail I would pick up the phone or check voice mail only to hear a creaky little voice singing happy birthday. Followed by the words, said slowly and clearly, "Hello, Colleen and James. This is your aunt, Anna." As if we didn't know the one person who never, ever forgot.
• When she introduced me, she would say "This is my niece. She has a big job over at NC, you know. A big job. " Even the last night I had a full conversation with her, the night she was annointed, I was introducing myself to another nun at her bedside and Aunt Anna (who had been dozing quietly) suddenly piped up from next to us with "Big job at Nazareth" before going back to sleep. It's not a "big job," by the by, but her pride in us was amazing, and humbling. She took nothing for granted, and celebrated all steps, big and small.
• Anna had such immense faith, and she believed so deeply. She was always praying for one or another of us -- often all of us! -- and we knew that, if Aunt Anna was praying, things would start happening. I can't tell you how many people have told me they know my name from the prayers Aunt Anna offered up for us on the prayer list! How astounding to have such care and faith that, if it is asked, it will be answered.

There are so many other stories to tell: her hot water with dinner, playing cards with my grandmother (her sister and an unabashed cheater, which made Anna crazy!), sitting on the porch with her and Aunt Addie, picking her up from the Motherhouse with her eight million gift bags for other people, her exclamation of "Laws!" (never "Lord!" -- never to take His name in vain), fond recollections of her many years of teaching. I think that it speaks to what kind of person she was that so many of her nieces and nephews -- Peggy & Bob, Nancy & John, Susie & Freddie, Derrick, Bob, JoAnn, me & J, more -- came to her bedside immediately when she was in need and continued to be by her side until the end. Even more people -- cousins and former students and nurses and even the mail delivery person! -- came to the calling hours to pay respects. Not only that, but so many sisters came, touched her arm, held her hand, comforted her in some dark moments. What a person to inspire such love and devotion!

And so I realize that tonight, even through her death, Aunt Anna has continued give us the gifts we all need. I am so very thankful I was able to sit with her these weeks, spending last days and hours with her; it has been a gift beyond measure. I believe I can now say I know a little more about living and dying than I used to. In watching the other sisters as they held and comforted Aunt Anna, I am beginning to grasp the concept of grace. In observing the caretakers meet Aunt Anna's needs with love and compassion, I appreciate the value of service toward others. In time spent in communion with Aunt Anna and the other nuns, I have relearned a bit about faith and trust. And tonight, as I sat with my many aunts, uncles and cousins, and met some cousins for the first time, and saw with joy and humility my own dear friends come to share and support (Kim and Steve, I'm looking at you), I was reminded anew of the value of holding friends and family close, and the unbreakable strength that comes from that.

That was my aunt, teaching and loving even in her last moments, her last breaths. I am grateful for having known her, and I will miss her every day. That is all.

Joss Whedon is my King

Apparently Christmas comes in July now.

This is described as a "supervillain musical internet miniseries event." By JOSS WHEDON. Starring Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion. Can you hear the "SQUEE!!!!" coming from my living room?

www.drhorrible.com

Another Tuesday

With a quiet woosh the doors opened and out I went into the walkway where dimmed lights bounced off the worn, polished wooodwork. Women lined the narrow hall -- sixteen or seventeen ladies, some in wheelchairs, some with walkers, some helping others to stand or lean against the walls. No one smiled. A few reached out to grasp hands briefly as we walked by.

The fourth tall oak door on the left opened, and there she was: Aunt Anna, also known in the greater world simply as "Sister," smaller than I had ever seen her, a tiny broken doll of a woman, curled into herself on the reclining chair. She was covered in a hand-knitted blanket, oxygen strapped across her face, moaning quietly, a staccato "Oh. Oh. Oh." as she suffered through the cancer that had invaded her bones and now ate her organs one by one.

Cousin Peggy, eyes rimmed red and a beautiful smile in place, leaned over closely. "Aunt Anna, Colleen and James are here." Aunt Anna's eyes opened from mostly-closed to half mast. I hurried closer and grasped her hand, 92-year old skin like soft over-worn leather against mine. She squeezed. "Colleen. Colleen, good, good."

Her words were the softest I had ever heard her speak. All my life she had been forceful, known her mind and never hesitated to speak it. She was a teacher, of the old school: full of kindness but no-nonsense, direct, crisp, to-the-point. Now her words were softned and slurred, as if every syllable was a struggle. She held my hand tighter, suprisingly strong for such a small, wasted body.

"Glad you're here. God bless you both, Collen and James. God bless you. May you live good, long lives. A good life, a long life. God bless you." It was a final benediction, the last in a long line of graces this woman had granted me.

"Thank you, Sister." I took a moment. This was it. What to say? "Aunt Anna, I love you. I love you very much."

She looked at my, turned her head with eyes wide open. "Thank you," she said, voice firm and clear.

I sat for minutes or hours or days, holding her hand in mine. Through the door the hallway ladies watched in silence, in sadness, keeping vigil over their own. Occasionally the moans would start again and I would rub whatever part of her I could touch without inflicting more pain. Sister Fran came over with an eyedropper filled with liquid morphine, tucking it gently into Aunt Anna's cheek so she could swallow, a mama bird giving vital sustenance to its charge. A single drop of the medicine lingered at the corner of her lip, vivid purple-red against her gray pallor. I wiped it away.

"Oh. Oh. Oh." Her moans increased as we waited anxiously for the meds to kick in. An ancient bright-eyed nun in a white shirt and pink cable-knit cardigan shuffled in with her walker, going to Anna's other side. She took Anna's hand and begin to rub it, massaging her arm in comfort. The pink Sister pressed her forehead against Anna's. A necklace of worn crosses dangled off of her neck. "Father, Jesus, Mother Mary, I am devoted to you," she intoned. "Father, Jesus, Mother Mary, protect me from pain." Line after line she prayed, tenderly rubbing Anna's brusied, marked arms with her own wrinkled, gnarled hands. Anna's cracked lips followed along with the prayer over and over again. She never missed a line. She made no sound. The moaning stopped.

Much later, after the nuns trickled away for the night, Aunt Anna finally slipped off to sleep, open-mouthed and barely-closed eyes, head lolling to one side. Her blunt-chopped white hair -- hair that, in my 33 years on earth, I had only ever seen out of her habit not even a handful of times -- was secured back in a child's yellow plastic headband, sticking up crazily in tufts and whisps from her face. Blankets were tucked gently around her shoulders, encasing and mummifing her as she shivered with cold in the 85-degree room. We walked slowly to the elevator, exhausted, wondering if tomorrow we would be back for more of the same or if tomorrow would begin the plans for Aunt Anna's final rest.

The elevator arrived and I stepped in, looked out at it all: the endlessly long hallway studded with tall oak doors, the family hospitality cart with its dixie cups and Saran-wrapped pitchers of cranberry and orange juice, the lone finch in its cage kept company by the little ancient nun in pink, feeding tidbits from a plate of salad scraps on her lap. She looked up and smiled. "Have a safe journey home, now."

The elevator dinged closed.

I Have Dreams Like This. But With Flamethrowers.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=pVKnF26qFFM

Not With a Bang, but With a Whimper

So. I'm done with physical therapy.

That's it. That's my news. It happened all-of-a-sudden, really, so quickly that I still feel a little disconnected from it all. When I last met with Dr. G in May, he told me to continue PT for four weeks at 2ce a week, and then four weeks at 1ce a week and then I'd be done, unless my therapist and I felt more was needed. Marching orders in hand, I continued therapy.

Last Wednesday (visit #2 in my "1ce/week for four weeks" phase) my therapist Sara told me that, as of this week (visit #3 in my "1ce/week for four weeks" phase), she would no longer be working with this therapy group. She, then, would be finished one week before I would, and I would have to have my last visit with another therapist.

I was torn. It just didn't feel right to end my therapy with someone else, and seemed kind of pointless for me to come in for my last session and have to work with someone who doesn't know me or my needs at all. I spoke with Sara and together we decided that yesterday was, indeed, my last day of PT.

I'm still using a cane and have a substantial limp so folks have asked me why/how I can be done with PT. The answer is that it's now all about pain and healing. I can officially do all of the exercises that I do at therapy on my own, between the tools I have at home and those at my gym. I have a limp because there's still pain, and the body won't let itself be injured -- it automatically tries to compensate for the pain so until I (A) get stronger (exercise) and (B) get rid of the pain (extended healing), this is as far as I'm gonna get. The work's not over by ANY means -- I'll need to go through my routines every single day -- but there's no reason for me to spend time and money on therapy anymore.

When I left RSPTII yesterday for the final time, I was in a really strange place mentally and emotionally. I hugged my therapist, said goodbye to Sam the Receptionist, and then took a moment to look around. It was like a graduation, a breakup, a relief and a sadness all in one. I'm glad to be done, will miss the people I've gotten to know there, am scared of whatever it is that the future might hold ... but the future will come, sure as anything, so my only choice is to stand up to meet it.

And the Award Goes To ...

Rachel, Jules, Sofia and me with our new shinies

It was a busy week at the ranch, indeed. My team and I (well, at least those of us not currently on vacation -- a semi-skeleton crew, truly) went to the Rochester PRSA PRism awards on Thursday, as we had sent in a number of entries. I am pleased to report that, out of six submitted entires, we took five of the awards in the not-for-profit area: three Awards of Excellence, and two PRisms (the top award). The Web team received both an AoE AND a PRism -- a sweep of the entire Not-for-Profit: Website category. It was quite a nice night! The College's president, our vice-president and our director attended as well, which was lovely. I was sad that my cohort Fran wasn't able to join us, but seeing as how the REASON he was unable to join us was that he's out globetrotting in Italy and Egypt as part of his honeymoon, well ... I'll try and hold back my tears on his behalf.

Hazy, Lazy

The weekend was crazy-beautiful: hot, humid, hazy ... all the things the preceding eight months were not. It was sunny and breezy and just all-around (HOT) gorgeous, so the tall man and I decided to have a few amigos over for a casual evening.

SO, last night six or seven brave souls ventured over in the evening to hang on the back patio and generally chill. There was a touch of the badminton and, of course, nibbles. We had crudite, chips, shrimp cocktail, radishes with sweet-cream butter & sea salt, and krispie treats. The gin and tonic bar was open, and a cooler full of pop and water and Mike's Hard Lemonade sat at the ready.

As twillight fell, bug spray was applied and chairs were brought out to the yard as we popped popcorn and passed jujubes in preparation for summer's first "Drive In," which we projected on the back side of the house. This year's season opener: the one, the only, the classic Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

All in all, it was a lovely evening. Sitting out in the yard, sprayed with (un)scented OFF bug spray. reclining on the futon, watching my friends by the flickering light of projector, I took a moment to yet-again be grateful for everything I have. All the good, all the bad, has led me to this moment and place, and I am so blessed: all the friends, all the laughter, the food, the life, the enjoyment. As I sat there and watched the heat lightning in the distance, listening to my friends make snarky comments about the film, I was yet again reminded to be appreciative for the thousands of amazing things that are in my life every day. I am so grateful for it all, and for the renewed ability to appreciate it all more fully in each instant. It was wonderful, and I could not help but smile.

And then, moment acknowledged, I turned back to the screen to watch a giant killer tomato eat little Billy. Poor, poor little Billy.

Stranger in a Strange Land

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? But hey! It's good to see you. How the heck have you been? How's the wife and kids? Come on in, have a drink. Cracker and cheese spread?

Some highlights:

My great aunt Anna, who is a Sister of Mercy, celebrated her 92nd birthday last month. We had a family pizza party and celebrated. It was really quite lovely.

And then ... hmm. Well, I've been crazed working, of course. My desk has been downright terrifying.

My fabulous teammate Fran then prepped for a most exciting event: his marriage to the wonderful Kelly. The Naz IA team threw Fran a wedding shower, and even made him a very special gift of custom-created bride-and-groom Nazareth Golden Flyers. In his wedding colors. Wearing cool shoes.

Of course, the shower was followed by the wedding, a truly gorgeous event. Fran and Kelly were both radient, and the team was honored to be invited to attend such an important and wonderful happening. We partied. A lot.

And I'm still walking, walking, walking. Still have the cane, but that's ok -- it's only a matter of time. Sadly my blood levels are pretty screwy; that therapeutic level for my meds? Not so much. The blood thinners aren't so much thinning my blood at this time, which is worrisome. I imagine my blood is more chunky, sludging through my veins slowly like ...

But that's ok. I'll survive, and still enjoy life ... and all that Rochester has to offer.

Last night, I spent the evening at local restaurant 2Vine, a favorite haunt of mine, hanging with my team and enjoying life. We sat on the garden patio and sipped drinks (Cosmo, with a wedge) and enjoyed the night breeze. It was good. Life is good.

What a World, What a World!

It's been an action-packed few days here in MBLF land. I've been hither and yon and hither again. The result is that I find myself having perhaps overdone things a teensy-tiny bit, and so am laid up tonight with a grossly swollen left foot that is strapped up and on ice.

To recap: Work has been more than the usual insane asylum, and I've been pushing it so hard that I've been feeling a tad beat up. Wednesday night I skipped PT and instead went to bed at 6:45 pm or so. It was lovely. The yesterday my mother JA arrived in town for the weekend. Of course, by the time I had made it home from work she had cooked, cleaned and basically "mommed" my whole house. We had a drink on the porch, had dinner and then went to the Christmas Tree Shoppe where I spent more than I care to acknowledge on mass produced junk. Colleen Brennan-Barry: supporting the economy since 1974.

After we shopped we decided dessert was in order so we headed to Read's Homemade Ice Cream. This place is beyond yum and is a little family business in Henrietta. They make all of their ice cream on-site, so it's fresh and natural. They also have fruit ice and ice cream cakes and custard, in addition to regular scoop. I had cherry vanilla; JA had vanilla custard and J had coffee with espresso malt balls and Heath crunch. Nice.

Today JA went to stay with my uncle, and J and I toddled off to work. I had lunch with one of my fave peeps and then went back to work where I hosted a wedding shower for two of my colleagues -- one of whom is the Web team's own Fran! He's getting married next week, and our colleague Mimi is getting married in mid-June, so it was great to have a gathering for the two of them.

And then I was supposed to have drinks and whatnot with some friends (hi, Steve!) but realized I had overdone it mightily these last few days and my leg was hugely swollen and in pain and perhaps the drinks and the whatnot? The drinks, and the whatnot, would have to wait.

Adding a Chimp Don't Make it Oscar-Worthy

Out and about with the geek posse last night during the (usually) weekly movie night. Last night was Speed Racer -- on Imax, no less. So it was me and the seven geeks (hee, sounds like a fractured fairy tale: "Web Girl and the Seven Geeks") filing in to the theater to be entertained. J and I played a little arcade action "Area 51" before the seating started; J ranked overall 6th on the game, and I ranked 8th (of course, J had played through an entire level before I jumped in so ... you know ... I'm just saying).

We hit the Imax and watched Speed Racer. It was a stunningly visual movie -- sort of like spending time inside a blender with a box of melted Crayola crayons. Everything was movement and deep primary-based colors, a constant sea of neon, frenetic action. By the end of the night, my eyes literally ached from all to which they had been subjected. One has to wonder, really, what that kind of intense, intense visual experience would be like while under some kind of chemical influence, because it was retina-melting while under the influence of just some standard Coca-cola product.
But I digress.

Plot-wise, Speed Racer was ... well, to be generous: lacking. It veered between total manga/animation and comedy and taking itself way too seriously. There was an interesting sensibility to the whole thing -- very "retro 50s-meets-the-future," as if the Dick Van Dyke Show was suddenly time-warped into the Jetsons' time frame -- but there were multiple sub-plots, some of which were just unnecessary.The movie clocked in at about 2 hr 15 min, about 30-45 minutes more than were needed. The cast was solid but really kind of wasted: I mean, you've got folks like Matthew Fox (Racer X) , Christina Ricci (Trixie) and Susan Sarandon (Mom), but the real stars of the movie were the effects. Sadly, the solid cast was rather wasted in that they were more one-note accessories used to get the cars and adventure scenes just where the directors wanted them. Add to this all some annoying characters (Speed's little brother Spitle and pet Chim-Chim come to mind immediately) and, well ...

I know this movie is getting bad reviews, and in inevitable comparison to Iron Man, I can absolutely see why. Iron Man is the far superior film; it's much less visual but the plot, writing and acting are top-notch. However, Speed Racer isn't as bad as all you might read. I wouldn't say it's a GOOD movie but it's visually strong and stupidly amusing ... as long as you have a big screen TV on which to eventually watch it someday, it's worth the DVD rental, but I wouldn't go out of my way to see it again.

Footsie

Today was an exciting day indeed, and since it's been a while since a MBLF-centric post, I think I'll let you in on my morning.

• 5 am: Alarm goes off. J gets up and staggers to kitchen to prep for first day of big new job at Kodak. Col resigns herself to never being able to buy the SLR she so desires, on account of wanting to keep J gainfully employed, and so rolls over and goes back to sleep.
• 5:01 am: Cat jumps on Col. Col swats cat.
• 5:15 am: Meow. {swat}
• 5:25 am: Meow. {swat}
• 5:45 am: Meow. {swat}
• 6 am: J rushes in and out of shower. Col stretches.
• 6:30 am: J off to work. Col grooms.
• 7:45 am: Col departs home and arrives at lab, greeted by the oddly disturbing statues of 6-foot tall male and female penguins dressed as doctors. Friendly neighborhood phlebotomist Karen begins the leeching process for regular PT/INR blood tests.
• 8:04 am: Col, lighter a few vials of blood, starts off.
• 8:24 am: Col arrives at Building D, also known as the home of the inimitable Dr. G. No handicapped parking spots are available. Col ponders the fact that Building D is ALL orthopedics: sports rehab, PT, hand and foot orthos, prosthetics, imaging ... and yet there are only eight total handicapped parking spaces for all us walking wounded. Odd.
• 8:30 am: Col checks into the Dr. G suite. Appointments secretary is first to say it: "You're walking! You look so good!" Extra bonus points: "Great cane!"
• 8:45 am: Glow-in-the-dark time. Nurse Gina: "You're walking! Look at you!" Col stumps into x-ray and has the customary three-shot. X-ray tech is taken aback at not having to give instructions on how to turn and position.
• 9:00 am: Photo op over; Col installed in spacious corner room with my cell phone and the latest New Yorker from home. Waiting for Dr. G.
• 9:10 am: Waiting for Dr. G.
• 9:20 am: Waiting for Dr. G.
• 9:30 am: The door opens and ... Dr. G. Col waits for the orthogroupies to enter but ... what is this?! Dr. G is ... ALONE!
• 9:31 am: Dr. G shakes hands and then goes *right* for the cane. "This is great," he says as he lifts, twirls, weighs and inspects. "WHERE did you get this?"
• 9:45 am: Col shows off new walking tricks, and then movesthe x-ray which shows some foot bones have fused -- nothing too serious but does mean some reduced mobility. All looks good otherwise. PT is perscribed @ 2x/week for one more month, then 1ce/wk for one month, then done. Footwear is discussed, and Dr. G extends handicapped parking permit, signs a waver to get Col back to the gym (WOOT!) and perscribes compression socks. With the wearing of said-socks, Col isnow officially 98 years old.
• 9:50 am: Dr. G and Col talk about the value of patience, and he begins the customary twirl out the door -- but with a joke (!) about next time Col seeshim, putting the cane up for sale on E-bay ... or not, because it IS a cool cane. And then he's gone, on to the next. A note: explore gifts for Dr. G involving a flame motif.
• 10:10 am: Col finally at work. Blood test results: 2.3 PT/INR. Ladies and gentlemen, we have FINALLY reached therapeutic levels! And a double WOOT!
• 10:11 am - 5 pm: Slavery.
• 5:00 pm: Off to PT.

Iron Man

First of all, in the spirit of full disclosure: I love Robert Downey Jr. He was astounding in Less Than Zero , Chaplin,Natural Born Killers and hell, even Ally McBeal; when he's on the screen he's just riveting and tragic and amazing and funny and moving. And also, if I'm being honest, hot as all get-out. Whatever else you want to say about the man and his many trials, he's always been just a top-notch actor, and that hasn't changed.

All that said, my love of the man notwithstanding, I went to see Iron Man last night and here's the truth: it was seriously a kick-ass movie. The explosions were nice and all -- lots, and bright with booms and bangs and fire and whatnot -- but what really made the movie was the intelligence, humor and characters. Downey's Stark is a total charming bastard -- not mean, but completely into his own head and life, to the exclusion of connections with anyone else. However, you just can't help but like him. At first he's glib and fast-talking, but then (as you know if you know ANYthing about the genesis of Iron Man) he's captured and suddenly ...


It's an interesting story about redemption, about life-changing moments and finding connection and clarity in a world that doesn't offer it easily. Downey has great chemistry with his supporting cast (I even liked Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper Potts, and I NEVER expected that), the dialogue is fresh and funny (apparently director Jon Favreau let his cast ad lib quite a bit in-character -- a choice that pays off nicely), and well, Downey is in a tight, sweaty tank top a lot. In summary: this is a movie worth spending your $8.50 (US) on. I highly recommend.

Oh, and a hint if you DO go: the credits are really quite long but if you're a geek like me I strongly, strongly, STRONGLY recommend you stick it out to the end. That is all.

December 4, 2007

It was late at night --perhaps even early in the morning, I had lost track of all time and place -- and I lay on the gurney trying not to twitch, not to breathe, not to move in case the new movement jolted my leg and caused a fresh wave of pain. The pale yellow walls were painted with decorative murals depicting cheerful little bunnies and deer and other woodland creatures as they flitted through the forest. Overhead a truck exploded as the muted tv replayed yet another episode in a never-ending Mythbusters marathon. In front of me, past the remains of my twisted feet, were racks of medical supplies, stationed next to the doorway leading to the emergency room's main medical station. Brushing lightly against my right arm and my I.V. drip of blessed, blessed morphine, was a closed curtain made of white netting and faded, generic pastel-swooshed 1980s-inspired fabric.

From behind the curtain, a faceless voice moaned.

J and I, waiting for the next in the night's procession medical folk, looked at each other. Another moan, this one more of a groan/whimper.

"Dammit! Dammit, this fucking hurts," a deep male voiced from inside the void. "Anybody? I gotta have me some pain meds."

J and I looked at each other again. Were we supposed to do something? Another groan issued. "Goddammit. GodDAMmit!"

Nurses and doctors hustled and bustled in and out of the room, grabbing supplies from the racks. No one looked in the Moaner's direction.

The Moaner moaned.

In fact, it began to sound like a symphony of the damned in there, behind the circa-1985 institutional drapery. Moans and groans, shouts and yells, our friend the Moaner was in rare form. He was a virtuoso, a regular Mahler of the moan, a Bartok of the bellow. He started slow, working the lower octave range, but soon begane to punctuate his overture with louder outcries and pleas for drugs, liberally peppering the score with profanities and invectives. Jesus was referenced regularly, as were some of His lesser relations. Most adjectives were NOT complimentary.

I looked at J again. What the hell was going on in there? Was my roommate dying? Had he lost a body part? A finger? A limb? MY GOD, was my roommate HEADLESS? Was he a HEADLESS, LIMBLESS SHELL? In my pain-exhausted and narcotic-infused mind, worst-case scenarios began to form.

A doctor wandered through and I, already stressed from the hours I had spent broken, stopped him. "My friend," I said, gesturing to the curtain, "appears to need some help." And for a blessed moment, the moaning ... stopped.

The doctor nodded and stuck his head out the door. Soon a little school of medical types appeared, waddling in behind the doc, as a line of baby ducks, snapping on fresh latex gloves with precision. One by one they all disappeared behind the mysterious Curtain of Doom, until, like the Moaner, the only signs of their presence were the music of their voices and the barely-containing bulging of the drape.

The drape twitched.

"Onto your side," ordered an officious voice.

Rustling. Someone's back, covered in curtain, pressed into my I.V. I shifted over.

"Hmmm. I need the (murmur murmur murmur)," said Officious Voice.

A nurse fluttered out from the Curtain of Doom, blood dotted across his gown. He grabbed something from the supplies and bustled back.

Silence. Then ...

"AH! Ohggodohgodohgodohjesuschristohlordhelpmejesus." A new fact: the Moaner was very religious, indeed. Christian, even. Except,

"FUCKING HELL."

Ok, well. Maybe not.

More rustling, more movement. And then, the nurse uttered the phrase that I will remember for the rest of my life, the words that gave us at last a dreadful, terrible glimpse into what lived behind the Curtain, and what kind of horror could be visited there:

"Doctor, do you want the 3" to tape back the buttock?"

Oh the abomination. The sheer terror of it all. The Moaner wasn't without a finger, a limb or even a head. No, it was worse, a million time worse. It wasn't that he lacked something he was naturally supposed to have, it was that he had something he SHOULDN'T. And I share with you, dear reader, one of the saddest reasons ever to have to go to the emergency room: my roommate, the Moaner, had out-of-control hemorrhoids.

I looked at J as the Moaner revved up, the nurses bustled and the tape ... taped. And for a moment, despite the stress, despite the needles stuck in me and the whoomphing pain pulsing up my legs, despite the fact that another human was suffering just inches away from where I lay, I let the drugs do their work as I gave in to the ridiculousness of it all and laughed until I could laugh no more.

It's Going to Be a Bright, Bright, Bright Sunshiney Day

So. Let's see. Hmmm, it's been a few days so I'm sure SOMEthing has happened. Let's break it down, old school, shall we?

• Work: Work is insane. I have no other way to put it. If my head doesn't explode by the end of this calendar year I will be absolutely ASTOUNDED. I am in meeting after meeting after meeting about the large projects we are taking on, and just the *meetings* are a lot of work. We haven't even gotten to the real "work" of the projects yet! Thankfully I have a amazingly great team (Hi, K, J, A, S, M, F and A!). On Friday a few of us revived one of my favorite traditions, the "Ice Cream Benches," where we grab ice cream and then go sit on the little hidden patio down the hall while enjoying the summer warmth. Thank goodness for these sanity-saving kinds of moments!

• Home: I'm able to get around the house much more easily, as evidenced by the fact that on Friday night (gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous!) I was able to get into my beloved hammock -- with J's assistance, of course. It was amazing, actually. The weather has been beyond beautiful the last few days, sunny and 80s. We worked in the yard yesterday (ok, *J* worked in the yard as I sat in the hammock and directed) until we were actually sweaty, and plans for the summer home improvement season are slowly taking shape.

• Friends: It was a great weekend to get together with friends. Cath came over for a visit and dinner at the King & I (Cath would say I still have squid breath from my dinner choice; I beg to differ). After, we listened to 80s club music and journeyed to Garth's to meet up with J and Kim and Dave and the assembled Geeks for a small get-together. There was "Rock Band" and munchies and visiting, which added up to a lovely evening. I didn't even get home until after midnight -- like a real grown-up!

• MBLF: Like I mentioned, I'm moving around a little more easily and am not hurting quite as much as I had been. I'm icing a lot because the swelling is a little intense but PT is helping the leg get stronger and my therapist isn't too worried that I'm hurting myself. I'm just going to keep trucking along!

And now J and I are folding laundry and watching that 1988 cinema classic Sorority Babes at the Slimeball Bowl-a-Rama, which just issued the memorable line "I have your pants." A meta-statement for us all, really.

Chillin'

And so a quiet Sunday morning. I'm sipping cocoa, with cats Bina and Ramad curled on the bed next to me, sleeping. Rarely do they look this sweet and innocent, so this is lovely. Yesterday I had a bit of a crazy day: visited the nurning home and saw my grandmother, went to Target (good sale on sunhats, y'all!), and generally tooled about. Then I spent the evening with an iced, elevated foot so today I can walk again.

Snow is in the air, sadly, but by the end of the week it should be spring again. Soon I'll dislodge the cats, arise, and go to Wegmans so my little family has food for the week. It seems a good day to bake, so I think I'll do that as well ... almond cookies, anyone?

Oot and Aboot

I turned my face to the right and the sun shone a golden red through my closed eyelids, the warmth almost like a scald after months of nothing but distant, pale, watery white light. The passenger-side power window whirred downward, unused to the movement, and the wind swept in abruptly, bringing the smell of wet earth and growing green things. My hair whipped wildly, plastering itself across my mouth and tangling ferociously at the ends so that soon my fingers would not be able to comb through more than an inch or so before becoming snarled. I clutched my iPod, listening as Prince's voice came over the radio (volume at 8) and told me that he didn't want to stop 'til he reached the top because baby, you know it -- he's a star. It was evening. It was painless. It was spring, and I remembered.

Earlier in the day, I had tea with my friend Barb. We chatted about the weather, her children and granddaughter, our pets. At one point, we talked about our weekends and the gorgeous weather we had enjoyed. I told her that I had spent my Sunday working in the yard, even had a little pink around the edges of cheeks and on my forehead from the sun. The warmth had soaked into my sweatshirt, into my skin, until even my bones had a blazing moment of radiating heat for the first time in what seemed a century. I had stood, I told Barb, in the grass and mud, with my eyes closed and barely-steady legs planted, face tilted toward the sky, feeling the sun burn into me, baptize me, with it pure, pale-pink mark.

"The thing is," I told her. "The thing is that, ever since everything happened, I appreciate it all more. I understand it all more. I don't take it for granted, not a moment. Not a second." I felt embarassed to admit it; I felt even more embarassed that such a common event like standing -- standing! -- in my yard made form, even now in the retelling, a rush of hot tears behind my eyes.

Barb was silent for a moment, and took a long sip of tea out of her Eeyore mug. She looked at me. "What a gift," she said quietly.

Call Me Lefty

An exciting 24 hours here in Brokenleftfootville! To whit:

Wearing the Shoes

Dear Das Boot:

This is so hard to say after our close, long-term relationship, but ... I don't need you anymore. It's not you, it's me. I need to stand on my own. Aww, don't cry, baby. We've had our time, but now it's time to renew some old acquaintances with my friends Chuck and Chuck below. Sorry. Keep in touch, ok?
Taking the Stairs

Up the down staircase, that's me. A landmark today was that I actually walked up my front walk and stairs! Just don't ask me to go DOWN the stairs, because gravity is a bitch.

Wielding the Cane

I am no longer 112 years old! Now I'm merely in the retirement age range -- i.e. I no longer use a walker but a cane (and, you know, wheelchair for long tours). Jaunty, no? Now all I need is my new top hat and tails, and we're off. (Semi-)Vertical at last!

Ha. Hahahaha. HA!

http://tinyurl.com/2shz2s

Energizer Bunny

It all started on Friday ...

.. when we woke up and faced a landscape ripe with snow. Suddenly, the trees were heavy and budding branches looked like delicate lace carvings. As I told J, it was rather like living inside an Ansel Adams photograph for a day.

It's been a busy week at work, so Friday night J and I fetched some groceries (hot date night!) in preparation for Saturday A.M. because ...

... my mom arrived on the scene, up to visit for the first time since January. The last time she saw me I was about 48 hours out of the hospital, post-pulmonary emboli, so I'm pleased to report that she thought I looked a great deal better. I was even able to show her how I "walk" (and again, I use only the loosest definition of the term here) with my little old-lady walker and Das Boot. Very sexy, no?

We trolled along Saturday afternoon, visited my great-aunt Anna (more on this in a separate, later post) and then met the fab K & D for my first real dinner out at Ristorante Lucano. It was ... magnificent. For those unfamiliar, Lucano is a little Italian restaurant that lives in a tiny strip mall at the corner of East and Winton. From the outside it looks like nothing -- literally, a hole in the wall, perched near a dry cleaner's and a Subway restaurant. But inside? There are three small rooms and perhaps 18-20 tables, total. It's homey, intimate, a little upscale and oh, lord. Real Italian food: SO GOOD. I had this amazing creamy potato garlic soup, followed by osso buco (a house speciality) and then some ice-cold limoncello. And to finish? A piece of the homemade tirimisu. I learned later from the owner that her mother was the one to make the tirimisu, and it showed. Yes, it was gorgeous, but you could see that this dish was not all about the flash and the sauce swirls and the little pretty embellishments placed just so, but was about the FLAVOR: liquor-soaked lady fingers, marscapone, sweet whipped cream, bitter cocoa powder. And knowing some wonderful little Italian grandmother made it, that this was real and wonderful and amazing? Made it all that much more sweet.

We decided the night was young and so, post-dinner, made our way to Barnes and Noble to close the place out and then finally crashed for the night. The next AM we were up bright and early and at it again, this time heading to James Brown's Place for breakfast. In addition to the standard breakfast of eggs and toast (over-medium and Italian, respectively), I also had the JB Porridge. It changed my life in meaningful ways, and I usually don't even like this stuff! But it was thick with cinnamon and granola and nuts and dried fruit, and it came in a lovely little cup with a tiny pitcher of cream, a little dish of brown sugar, and another little dish of nuts and dried fruit. There are no words for how damn good that was, and I strenuously recommend it to anyone and everyone. And also, I plan to go back for more as soon as I can talk J into it.

And then, to finish out my mom's visit, we made one trip to every good Italian's mecca, as it were:

Savoia Pastry Shoppe is just a killer bakery. You can smell the sugar from a block away, and as soon as you enter you are just seduced by the smells and the sights of Italian cookies and breads and pastry, lined up in glass-fronted displays and stacked on wire racks. We scored some St. Joseph's bread (for tomorrow, you know) and a multitude of other yumminess, including my favorite petit fours.

And then we finally staggered home, clutching white paper bakery bags, tummies full to bursting, so Mom could get on her way home and J and I could mainline some Pepto and recover. Vivia la weekend!

Cel-e-brate Good Times -- Come On!

Today is a great day for many reasons, but the one that makes me smile most is that TODAY IS J'S BIRTHDAY!! Yes, that's right: today J turns 41 years old. As his much, much, much younger wife, I want to take this opportunity to wish him a wonderful day and an amazing year-to-come. Baby, I love you. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend and partner in this crazy life of ours. You're the greatest.

Happy Ham Day

We had a lovely Easter ... J's folks came over for the ritual overeating to celebrate the Resurrection. We had the traditional ham, which has always struck me as odd: who decided that eating baked pork would be the appropriate meal to celebrate the greatest miracle of Jesus, a Jew? It seems like a somewhat poor and disrespectful choice. Just sayin'.

ANYwhooo, we baked the pork and the green beans and mashed potatoes and all sorts of other things, and gorged. For the first time back entertaining since MBLF, it went really pretty damned well. Perhaps the most fun thing was the dessert, made by my mother-in-law: a birthday cake for J (coming this Thursday!) which was a lovely yellow cake with cream cheese frosting ... decorated with Peeps. Strange and funny and true.

In any case, to all of you who celebrate: Happy Easter. And love and peace to us all.

Spring Has Sprung (?Question Mark?)

Today is the first day of spring -- huzzah!

However, you'd never know if based on the view outside of my window. The trees are starting to bud, but there is strong, cold wind and snow in the air. On the ride home tonight I saw the very first robin red-breasts of the year ... they sat, almost motionless, eyes wide in my neighbor's front yard. I imagine that they had been elected as lookouts for the the rest of the robins -- advance scouts, if you will. I also imagine that they were wondering what the HELL they were doing back here when it was so obviously still January and also? Where was the spring? The sun? The prancing, leaping fluffy bunnies? Instead of coming back from their winter vacation (The Carolinas? The Keys? Boca? Who can say?) to a warming earth gracefully sprouting greenly back into life, they were standing in mud amidst icy piles of blackened snow and weathering a storm. It had to be a bit of a shock.

If I were a robin on the first day of spring, I have to believe that I would be hella pissed.

Ciao Italia

There's a place in the northern part of town that I love to visit. It's a store, and for me going there is like visiting a cave of wonders.

It's a true old Italian grocery, filled with sights and sounds and smells that take me back to my childhood. Hand-made gnocci and imported penne fill aisle one. The cantucinni cookies my Aunt Rose used to slide me under the kitchen table are in aisle two, next to the 15 varieties of espresso, the ameretti, marinated anchovies, toothpaste tubes of tomato paste and half-gallon jugs of extra virgin olive oil. On aisle three we find an abundance of riches: large tubs of almond paste, creamy toblerone, bulk pignole and ceci beans, jordan almonds, fresh loaves of crusty bread, homemade bread crumbs.

Finally, aisle four. AH, aisle four. Here we encounter the backbones of Italian cuisine: the butcher and the cheesemonger. Sausages stuffed with fennel; deep red meats, rich with creamy veins of marbling; slabs of white, flaky bacala; tins of fresh-made ricotta, whey dripping down the sides; enormous hanging rounds of provelone and parmesean; salumi glistening red and sweet under the florescent lights; prosciutto cut to order by the pound (three types: U.S, Canadian and imported Italian) ... it's all there.

Old men in suit coats, felt hats and black canes resting quietly beside them, sit at little tables, sipping espresso and speaking as much with gesturing hands as with accented voices. Cannoli line up insider display cases, dotted with candied orange rind and rolled in chocolate chips. A tower of bimbi, rich in shining foil wrapping, sit next to the cookies-by-the-pound, awaiting Easter.

And the smells. There really are no words to describe the smell of tens of years of cooking sauce and fresh grated parm and roasting meats and drying herbs and All Things Good. The smell clings to my clothes when I leave, and invariably on the ride home I find myself burying my face in my sleeve to catch one last whiff of heaven.

Once, not long after my grandfather's passing and the sale of the family home, I walked in with my husband. As is my custom I paused just over the threshold to take a deep breath, feeling my muscles relax into the familiarity, and my husband, as is HIS custom, said his ritual phrase: "Smells just like Grandma's house." And it did, the smells of my childhood, the smells of my family, many years past, history soaked into the walls and floor of the house on Holley St. And I knew at that moment that phase of life was over, never to be revisited, and that this moment just inside the grocery store doorway was as close as I would ever get again. And surrounded by the hustle and bustle, standing underneath an old and somewhat faded Italian flag, I took in a deep breath of the past and wept.

The Fun Never Stops

I am fully expecting the plague of locusts at any moment now.

Seriously.

See, my tooth has been hurting. And I? Am not very fond of oral pain. So, like the wuss I am, I called my dentist, Will Hurtt DDS (and yes, that's his name. No lie. I even asked to see his ID the first time I met with him.), and set up a time to wheel in and take a look.

Dr. Hurtt is very clearly aware that I am a total, absolute baby when it comes to dental work. He is aware of this because I have told him so in no uncertain terms. Hey, I have a phobia ... and Dr. Hurtt knows that, as much as I enjoy him *personally*, I absolutely hate having to see him. So today, once he had taken some images and evaluated, he phrased the bad news thusly: "Colleen, I think we need to emotionally prepare you for what we have to do here."

Nothing good ever comes of this phrase. Because the news for which I needed to prepare essentially is that on Monday I have to go see a lovely endodontist and have a ROOT CANAL. And if that doesn't give me the total heebies and the jeebies, I don't know what does. See what I mean about the freakin' locusts? Any second now ...

Not only that, but I couldn't go to the first doc referred because his office isn't wheelchair accessible! So I had to find another doc, and now I'm locked in for 11 am on 3-17. Happy St. Patrick's Day to me! Is there an Irish soup I can eat to celebrate Monday night?

Pooped

Today was yet another big day: my first full day back at work (whew) and my first physical therapy appointment (double whew).

Work was basically the same as half-day, but doubled. I got to experience trying to get lunch from the cafeteria via wheelchair (Jules and Alicia helped -- thanks, girls!) and also just juggling double the amount of ... stuff. It was good, in a way, though I was beyond exhausted at the end of the day: I think full days are going to help me feel more like I fit in and am still part of the team, something I've been struggling with. My team ROCKS and have been just awesome to me, but it's hard to fit into a Colleen-shaped hole when the Colleen-shape itself has changed. And that? Was a totally sucky metaphor. Sorry, I'm tired. Let me try again, in plain English: I've changed (it would be hard not to have, honestly, given all that's happened), as has work, and I need to figure how the "new" me and the job fit together now.

Man, I really AM tired.

OK, on to a new topic: physical therapy ahoy! I started PT tonight, and am excited. It hurt, but it was good. I stretched and have new exercises, and actually walked 10 feet or so with no boot and a walker ... if you consider "lurching across the floor inch by inch as though possessed by the spirt of Frankstein's monster" to be walking. As of late I've really learned to count my blessings so I DO count it, even if it took me approximately five minutes to walk those 10'.


Once the stretching and lurching was done, I was attached to the electrostim machine where little electrodes were stuck to my ankle/foot and delivered continuous electrical "stim" (aka "shocks") to "stimulate" (aka "ouch") my muscles. See my leg attached, above.

While I was sitting being "stimmed" (aka "No, really -- ouch"), I noticed this blue bad boy on the wall. This, friends, is the BAPS board. Remember that name, because I can almost guarantee I will be spending large amounts of time with that blue devil before all is said and done.

For the record: I hate the BAPS board. It works, but it sucks.

Eventually, after working for nine hours and PT-ing for one, I finally made it home with some Chinese takeout and a yen for sleep. Which is where I'm headed now, actually, but I wanted to share this photo with you. It's me -- or, rather, my feet. Both of them, broken left and slightly twisted right. On the floor, together, no boot. No nothing. Just me, my feet and the floor, standing, the way it should be.

Amen.

Rise Up, and Be Healed!

Today was the big day -- the pivotal appointment with the fabulous Dr. Gorczyca. Let me walk you through it
This is the building where my doctor lives, or at least practices medicine. It's building D, and it's dedicated to orthopaedics and rehab. I go upstairs, check in and then ...



... J and I park it in the first of several waiting rooms. This is the big lobby, where a cast of dozens sits in casts, braces, splints and bandages. Eventually a tech comes for me, and I wheel into the radiology waiting room (yes, my doc's office has it's own, fairly large radiology suite. How cool is THAT?). After my usual series of three x-rays (front, turned left and turned right), I'm wheeled out and ...


... now we're in waiting room #3 of the day. Each waiting room has gotten progressively smaller, and now we're in the little 10-seater. There are a number of doctors in this particular practice, and each group has its own internal waiting area. This is the area for Dr. G. Before too long, my lovely tech fetches me again and we're off to patient room 5. It's small and cozy, and J and I will be there hanging out for a while. Interestingly, my new x-rays have been put into the system already and are pulled up on the room's computer screen. I couldn't resist so ...

... voila! The inside of my broken left foot, views 1 through 3. Just in case you can't see all of my shiny new metal, I took a close up:

Note the ankle hardware from the '97 surgery, and the new foot screw holding things together from the '07 surgery. Pretty, no?

Dr. Gorczyca comes in at this point with his little entourage. Hands are shaken all around, and Dr. G asks what I've been up to. My answer: "Healing." The two orthopaedics groupies go over my case, look through my CT scan and previous x-rays. There is much oooh-ing and ahhh-ing but not in a good, "look-at-how-cool-this-is" way. Dr. G says "This was a very bad injury." I hate it when Dr. G, as chief orthopaedic resident, says that stuff. He looks through today's x-rays, and then ...

"IT'S HEALED." And just like that, the world opens up again. Dr. G believes that finally, 13 weeks after surgery, the bones are healed and in good position. He doesn't know how well I'll be able to walk, after all this: in the spirit of full disclosure, he tells me that walking may ALWAYS hurt. I may always limp. I may always need a cane. It's the way it is. However, I'm determined to get back as much as I can. And, you know, also procure the coolest canes I can possibly find.

So, I'm cleared for weight-bearing (just a little weight for now, increasing as we go), and PT will be twice a week. As a matter of fact, I'm starting PT tomorrow night: no time like the present and all that. Again, Dr. G has basically warned me that PT is going to be ... un-fun. I expect the pain, and it's ok. I'm sure I'll bitch about it, and hate it a lot, maybe even cry a little, but in the end it will teach me to walk again and to live again, so it's ultimately ok with me.

Dr. G wrote me a prescription for PT, and shook my hand. "You've made it. I know it was hard, but you did a good job. Congratulations, you're healed." And with those words, Dr. G and the G-ettes are off, and I'm on to the next phase of living.

Inside, It's So Delightful

It's been a very cozy indoor type of weekend for me. Friday night my dear friend Holly (aka "Fishy") came over for some nibbles. We had chips and veggie sub and whatnot, and spent the evening listening to the 80s music channel and giggling madly. We said "Hello" to Lionel Richie and Wang-Chunged and basically had a fun time.

By the time Fishy left it was really snowing and when J and I woke up on Saturday A.M. it was blowing and dark and there appeared to be lots and lots of snow. The day was spent indoors (my wheelchair and snow are not friends), puttering about. We were basically rutabegas. Our friends the Lugers called to stop over, which was lovely: we always enjoy seeing them and spending time catching up. Jun had made the most AMAZING steamed buns ever - the ginger flavor was intense -- and so we visited and ate. Man, I could eat those things all day, every day! Thanks, Lugers. Once they left J and I put our feet up, listened to some mellow tunes and sipped cocoa. It was a nice way to close the day.

Now it's cold and the snow has ended -- it's very, very sunny but only about 20 degrees (wind chill is 9). There are about 14-18" of snow out there, with much more in the drifts. J is out with the snowblower, and I'm making a grocery list, planning what cookies to make this evening ... we are nothing if not the very PICTURE of domesticity.

Tomorrow is the big appointment with Dr. G, and also marks 13 weeks since surgery (14 since the initial injury, 10 since the broken lungs). Keep your fingers crossed that the doc has good news and that we can start rehabbing MBLF!

Wednesday is the Hopeful Day

Wednesday IS the hopeful day, isn't it? Half the week is gone, and just a few days remain until the shining, shining weekend. I do love me a Wednesday ... but not as much as I love a Friday. :)

Today finds me hanging in my "home office," editing away and catching up on millions and millions (ok, 26) of work e-mails. My Bina-cat is curled up next to me on the pink comforter, just chillin' and being all cat-like. Every now and again she uncurls to bat at my bracelet or give a yawn that seems to unhinge her jaw entirely. It's a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

I also have boot off ... my foot needs a teensy-tiny break. The foot actually looks a little better, I think, but I'll let you be the judge.

Outside is all snow and ice, but inside I am toasty and warm and also, craving a whole-wheat english muffin with strawberry jam. Must go, carbs are calling.