July 3, 2012 § 1 Comment
January 4, 2012 § 3 Comments
It’s that, when shopping for headphones, you cannot make an informed, accurate, confident decision unless you are able to listen to the song “Kids With Guns” by Gorillaz with the headphones under consideration.
I will argue this point to death.
Which makes it utterly ridiculous that Apple stores:
- Do not have that song on their “tester” iPhones and iPods.
- Do not allow customers to unplug the headphones and then subsequently plug them into their own, Kids-With-Guns-loaded iPhone.
- Allow their employees to look at you like you’re a crazy person when you try to explain how there is only one decision-making appropriate song for new headphones. HEY, YOU’RE THE ONE IN THE FAKE TORTOISESHELL GLASSES FROM FOREVER 21. YOUR VISION’S 20/20, ISN’T IT?? WHO’S THE ASSHOLE NOW???
You don’t charge a restocking fee?
So I could just take these home, listen to whatever I want and then mull it over for a bit?
May 26, 2009 § 3 Comments
My recovery is not going awesome. I am still not able to get a full bend or to fully straighten from my leg — I’m missing about 15 degrees of mobility in both directions. This fact that has my surgeon “concerned” and suspicious that I’ll need a second surgery to remove scar tissue. (I’ll know in a few weeks, after some more healing, a lot of anti-inflammatory medication, and another MRI.)
In the meantime, physical therapy, in particular, is not going awesome. There are apparently two schools of thought when it comes to regaining mobility after surgery:
1. Long, extended periods of stretching (10-20 minutes) with light weight.
2. Short, quick bursts of extreme pressure. This basically amounts to the PT trying to push or pull my leg into a fully straight position as hard as she possibly can, and is generally excruciatingly painful.
The PT I’m seeing is using a combination of both twice a week (and I spend an hour or longer do the stretches at home the other five days a week), and neither is particularly fun (nor do I really think either is particularly, you know, WORKING). At this morning’s session, she decided to mix things up — normally I start with the long, extended light-weight stretching — and go for the full-court-press first.
I have to admit, I screamed.
Normally I’m able to just writhe and grimace and ball my fists, but today I wasn’t ready for it, and I screamed. (The last time I was there, the PT told me how she tore her ACL in high school and used to cry at every single therapy appointment. Till now, I have been too proud to let myself cry on the table, but maybe I need to start crying mercy.)
Anyway. I screamed. I am relieved that it was a just a gutteral, angry, animal scream and not an expletive, because there was a sweet, grandmotherly woman at the table across from me having her shoulder iced. While I was panting for breath, she looked over at my PT with tears in her eyes and said, “Is that really necessary? You’re obviously hurting her.” I wanted to get off the table and hug her as hard as I could (without hurting her shoulder). Mercy, there was my mercy.
The PT smiled gently, ignored her and tried it again. Twice.
On a related note, these five songs have been on repeat in my head for the past three weeks. They seem fitting for some kind of I’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself knee surgery mix.
Help I’m Alive – Metric
Mr. Pitiful – Matt Costa
Could Be So Happy – Heartless Bastards
Be OK – Ingrid Michaelson
The Way We Get By – Spoon
Really? AUDRINA FUCKING PATRIDGE?
May 15, 2009 § 4 Comments
Yes, that’s me on a scooter at Target. Shopping for a chair to put in our shower. So I can shower.
When cats get older, and they start getting sick and decrepit, they stop cleaning themselves (i.e., licking themselves). They get ratty and dull from lack of care, and it shows.
I AM AN OLD, SICK CAT. That is the best way I’ve found to describe how I have been feeling post surgery.
My skin is flaking off endlessly.
My hair is a mess.
My clothes are whatever I grab first from the closet that’s either shorts or a skirt or a dress, because it’s not worth trying on 20 things to find something “fun” and/or “cute.”
My daily routine is basically, go to work, shower, do PT, go to bed. No energy for anything fun.
My MINI hasn’t been driven in 2 weeks.
Everything about me is just a little dimmer, a little less me, and a little more frustrating. I am trying to keep the self-thrown pity parties to an absolute minimum — and I swear this isn’t one of them (imagine me saying all of this in a Bethenny Frankel tone of voice, because after a marathon of Real Housewives of New York, I’ve totally stolen her every mannerism) — but riding around on a scooter in Target? That almost makes all this pain worth it.
May 13, 2009 § 4 Comments
Baby, can you bring me … (Percocets, a pillow, ice, a magazine, the remote, a glass of water, my laptop, a book, etc.)?
If you have a sec, will you … (Go get the mail, make me food, change the cats’ water, etc.)?
Will you help me (put my pants on, wash my feet, get in the shower, get out of the shower, etc.)?
Can I have a ride to … (the surgeon’s office, physical therapy, the movies, work, home, etc.)?
Chris Pine is so fucking hot.
May 7, 2009 § 3 Comments
I had my first post-op surgery appointment today, and if there’s anything this whole process has proved, it’s that I am not good at the sight of blood, especially my own. (The first time Scott helped me removed all my bandages so I could shower, I took one look at the incisions, broke out in a cold sweat, ripped off my shirt, said “Quick, get me a trash can” and parted ways with my breakfast.)
Today’s appointment was a lot of pressing and poking and “Does this hurt” and “YES” and then more pressing and poking. It was exhausting. And then the surgeon — who really, truly is amazing and awesome and so amazingly nice — was really excited today to show me some photos from inside my knee during the procedure.
The first one I saw was just white — glossy, shiny white. And, from what I remember, the conversation went something like this:
Surgeon: So this is inside your knee, the back of your kneecap. Looks good right?
Surgeon: Are you going to pass out?
Scott: I think she’s going to pass out.
Surgeon: Yup, she’s going to pass out. Lay back! Lay back!
For the record, I did not pass out. But I did come very close.
Meanwhile, I am improving. I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow — my parents are driving four hours to take me to it, because Scott has a meeting and they wouldn’t hear of me taking a cab to it (seriously, how can we possibly not have any unemployed friends to help out?) — which is the big concern now, because I have, over the past six or eight weeks, lost the majority of full bending and straightening ability in my right leg. I won’t be cleared to drive until I get a good bit of that mobility back, and I will be on crutches for at least six weeks, maybe longer, with full 100% recovery at three months, at the earliest. On the bright side — handicapped parking! On the down side: While it’s too early to announce my official retirement from hockey, if I’m completely honest with myself, it’s unlikely. I cannot imagine going through all this again — it’s easy enough, and fun enough, to swim and lift weights and go to the gym like regular people do. We’ll see, though.
May 3, 2009 § 1 Comment
Well, obviously everything I wrote and predicted about the Derby was wrong.
The only thing that ended up saving my bankroll was a hunch about Calvin Borel. The day before he’d ridden favorite Rachel Alexandra to a 20-length victory in the Kentucky Oaks; a little before post time on Saturday, I thought to myself how amazing it would be if he won the Derby the very next day on the biggest longshot in the field, and I threw down a $5 win bet on Mine That Bird, just in case.
When the 8 horse crossed the wire, just like everyone else, I had to consult the lineup; I frankly had no idea which horse it was. Ultimately, I ended up a little bit ahead on the day, but now I’m feeling (in addition to post-surgery pain), the post-partum depression that comes with the end of the Derby.
In retrospect, there was an obvious sign I missed when it came to Mine That Bird; and that was owner Chip Wooley trudging through the muddy track at Churchill Downs on crutches. Ones that looked exactly like the ones I’ll be limping on for the next six weeks.
My knee surgery on Friday turned out to be a more complicated procedure than the surgeon expected — in addition to extracting the ripped-off piece of meniscus, he also discovered that the bone in that area (is it the femur? I’m not even sure) had had its edges ground up a bit without the cartilage, so he drilled three holes in the bone, to make it bleed, to promote healing. The surgery was expected to take about 30 minutes, but ended up lasting an hour and a half.
I felt pretty good after surgery; this is the lovely camera-phone photo my darling husband snapped of me in the recovery room:
I have no recollection of this photo being taken, and I have no recollection of drinking that (non-diet!) Sprite, but I bet it was delicious (being the first thing I’d had to eat or drink in 14 hours).
The pain really kicked up a notch at bedtime, the Percocets didn’t work. I was up most of the night. Saturday morning, all I wanted was a shower, which I had — getting my bandages wet in the process; when we unwound the wet bandages to replace with dry and I saw the three incisions (bloody, oozy, and nasty) for the first time, I broke out in a sweat, tore off my shirt, asked for a trash can and immediately lost my breakfast. Blood and I do not get along. The rest of Saturday I dipped into the painkillers just a little bit, a jangle of Derby nerves. We confirmed with the nurses that it was OK to mix Percocet and Ambien, and Saturday night I was asleep by 9 p.m.
I woke up at noon today, Sunday, and have been in pain. So much pain that I paged the on-call doctor, who advised that, with such a more in-depth surgery and drilling and whatnot, this pain is not unusual. I have not been out of bed, I am almost all the way through both the Sunday Times and the Sunday Post with at least three naps in between. Scott couldn’t possibly be more helpful (he got me a bell). I couldn’t possibly be less enthused about being crutches for the next six weeks. But at 6:30, it’s time for another painkiller, which will make me dizzy and sleepy for an hour, and then maybe afterward, I’ll watch a little TV and drift off to another night of Ambien-assisted sleep. What I’ve learned: There is no such thing as a minor surgery.
Everyone is on their best behavior. Cats are being good; here they are in my recovery command surgery at 2:33 p.m. today; they are in the exact same spot right now.