In my defense...it was probably involuntary.

Hello all!

So as I continue my treatment of my faulty foot tendon, I've learned to overcome a few things that used to make me feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.

1)  I let my aging mother do more standing and moving around our Farmer's Market Booth on Saturdays because I've found if I over do it, I'm in pain for the rest of the day.

2) I simply do not navigate stairs if I can avoid them. Which means letting Hubby do the laundry.  Which generally makes me feel helpless and useless, but I'm sort of over it.

3) Again with the stairs: the other night, at a work function dinner, rather than skipping out because I knew we'd be seated upstairs and I can't deal with stairs at the moment, I called ahead, found out there was an elevator that went to the second floor from the parking garage, and didn't even make a comment about how a fluffy girl has to use the elevator.

But...the weirdest thing I think I've done and not blushed over is this:  I kicked my Physical Therapy Boy, and I don't even care.

Now I like to picture the kick something like this: 

But it was nothing like that.

No, here's what happened:  PPTB was starting to hook me up to the dry needling machine.  This would be the third treatment and so far, nothing terribly painful had happened, so I was flat on my back, on his moderately uncomfortable table with a really thin pillow under my head, and we were chatting about this and that. Movies, I think. I don't know. 

The first needle was no problem. But that second one...

The lower half of my leg and my entire foot felt like it was on fire. Not the "oh my foot is warm..." no, it was more like, "I AM ON FIRE RIGHT NOW!"

I started yelling, "ow, ow, ow" and that's when it happened.  I closed my eyes, because of the pain, and my leg, independent of my brain, kicked upward.

I gotta be honest.  I have no idea really WHERE my foot landed.  Gut...arm...chest...something a little more...um...lower. I have no idea. My eyes were closed plus I was lying on my back and for those of you who do not understand the anatomy of a fluffy girl, once she is flat on her back the only thing she can see is the ceiling or her gut.

I opened my eyes and PPTG helped me sit up.  I still had one needle sticking out of my leg, but he hadn't hooked me up to the electric box yet. Which made this weird to me.

"I must have hit a nerve," says PPTB.

"You must have hit all of them!"  I say in a loud voice. I don't care that we're in a tiny room.  I don't care that I just kicked him and he looks as pained as I do.  

I do, however, care very much that I can't straighten out my left leg.

That's when I start yelling "CHARLEY HORSE! CHARLEY HORSE!" 

He looks at my leg and we pinpoint the area of the most pain.  He rubs it a little and it seems to be better, so we decide to keep trying the dry needling.  

"I may have a trust issue for a little bit," says I.

Oh?

I can't even lie back down. The Charley horse in my calf is too much and my foot still burns. So he pulls out the one remaining needle and I sit up again.

That's when I remember I kicked him. I ask if he's okay. He says yes.  But, poor young one, I think he's more than a little worried about any damage we might just have done to each other.

"I think we're done for today," I inform him.

"You might be right," he responds weakly.

I'm supposed to go see him tomorrow. Now, one tiny evil part of me wants to cancel just to make him a little nervous.

Sarah has a breakdown and another cast member is added to the blog.

Good day all!

I'll admit it.  I had a bit of a breakdown yesterday. I know that comes as a shock to those of you who don't live with me, but trust me, I don't always find everything as hilarious as I make it seem.

And yesterday was one of those days.

I'm in the middle of one of those weeks where all my appointments piled up.  Showing up for a hair appointment, a mental therapy appointment, blood labs and a follow up with the iron doc all in the same week might not seem like a big deal to most people, but to me, with Franken Boot locked on my foot, I just haven't felt like going anywhere...

I did make it to my hair appointment (thank you Ms. Molly, not her real name, for working with me and my hair angst, and please don't take what I'm about to say as real...remember, I had a breakdown.) and to my mental therapy guy (where we spent most of the time talking about authors and their mental issues. Probably not the best use of my time there, given what happened yesterday. We probably should have talked about me for a little bit at least.)

Yesterday was a break in the middle of all the appointments. And yesterday my "Even up" shoe thing showed up.  I ordered it from Amazon along with a bra that I was convinced was going to be comfortable and make me look good.

I probably should not have opened the box in the middle of a week of appointments.

The even up thing is basically a thick platform (or two, as it turned out) of foam that you attach to your non-Franken Booted foot so you don't hobble around like Igor (see what I did there?) on uneven legs.  Good for the hips. Not sure why medical professionals don't know about this, but they don't and I got a tip from a friend.

So the first thing I did was open up the bra. I have been in dire need of a boost both mentally and physically and I figured this "active support" bra would do it.

It didn't.

It was blah from start to finish. Blah look, blah color, and terrible fit.  Oh, and the straps dug into my shoulders.

Back in the box it goes!

Of course, being a woman and being a fluffy person, I don't blame the ill fit on the garment, I blame it on myself.  And it was in that frame of mind that I pulled the Even Up thing out of the box.

It's black...it's foam...it's

SUPER UGLY.

I strapped it onto my shoe, my cute sandal that I love I was hoping I could wear and this...this is what it looked like:

Thusly, BRIDE OF FRANKEN BOOT was born.

But that doesn't explain my breakdown.

See, the Even up...well, it didn't even up. It made my Bride foot taller than my Franken foot.  I was still hobbling, just the other way.

So it's UGLY.

I looked in the mirror.  That super kicky run hairstyle I got from Ms. Molly on Monday?  Well, paired with the ugly bra and the even uglier footwear and the fact that I had attempted to do my own hair that morning (with little success) let's just say I looked in the mirror and saw a whole lot of ugly.

I looked around my house...which is a mess and sort of smells funky because we have 5 cats, four adults, and it'd been super humid (cool, but humid) lately which makes everything a little damp and as we all know, nothing damp ever smells great.  I looked at the dishes in the sink, the laundry I haven't done because navigating the stairs is a problem, and  the grunge in the bathrooms because normally Peaches cleans the bathrooms but she's been working super over time the past week.

Bad house, bad bra, bad hair (not really, but it wasn't good the way I did it) and bad, bad, BAD footwear.

I shut my bedroom door and started sobbing.  Hubby came in, fresh from his long day on the road and tried to ask what was wrong...all I could do was sob, "I'm so sick of all the ugly!"

Hubby, being the great guy he is, let me sob and then take a 3 hour nap.

I got up, still bummed, but feeling better. I put the bra back in the box to return it.  I figured out that I could remove one of the layers of foam on the EVEN UP and I could actually walk nicely.  I figured out how to do my hair (oh, and Ms. Molly made Skippy compliment my haircut, which always helps) and I went back to my usual habit of ignoring how the house looks. (Because what's the point in cleaning anything until the kids finally leave?)

And Franken Boot and Bride of Franken Boot made nice and watched TV together last night.

So I'm back to having a messy life and being okay about it. I'm liking the new hair style, even if I can't quite get a handle on how to do it right, and hey, walking evenly is great no matter how ugly the footwear is.

So if you're feeling near the brink of a breakdown, take heart.  Also, take a long nap. A nap won't fix anything, but it'll give you a better outlook.

Open Mouth, Insert Franken Boot.

Happy Thursday everyone.

So this will be a quick little blog today because, well, even I can't expand what happened to make it more funny. It is, what it is.

Yesterday, I had a surprise session of physical therapy with PPTB.  I say "Surprise" because I was on the cancellation list and they called me at 6:54 AM and told me to come in.  I was too shocked by a pre-7 AM phone call to say no.  However, I was already dressed.  (This is important to remember as this blog goes on.)

I got to the hospital, checked in, (no fire alarm this time, but there was a guy who was really, really interested in flirting very awkwardly with the sixty year old receptionist), and got into the room with PPTB.

All is normal, right?

Sure.

He explained that we'd be doing the dry needling again.  I laid on the table, and waited for the almost non-existent pain of the needle sticks.  Except, I felt each and every needle stick this time, almost like PPTB was trying to hurt me on purpose.

"You were so much better at this last time," I quipped. He laughed.  It was a nice laugh, I think, not an evil one. Clearly, he didn't know what was coming.  But then, neither did I.

He poked me again and this time I felt a real electric shock, like I was already hooked up to the "juice box."  (His name for it.)

"So is this more painful because I have metal in my pants today?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was already dressed when they called me, and it's such a hassle to change with Franken Boot that I didn't get into sweat pants this time.  Is that why I'm feeling all this electricity more?"

"What metal do you have in your pants?" he asks.  

"Like the zipper and some grommets," I answer.  

Then I get snarky.  "Actually, I have metal stays up and down each pant leg. "

"Ha, ha," he laughs.

"Sure there's metal in my pants.  What do you have in your pants?"

And that's when PPTB completely lost it and I wanted to pretend the electric current (which hadn't started yet) would knock me out.  (For the record, he didn't answer that.)

Yep...open mouth...insert Franken Boot.

And while you're cleaning up the coffee you just spewed through your nose laughing at this, I'll leave you with this picture of Franken Boot, my shoe selection for my right foot today, and Franken Boot's new eyes.

Franken Boot, the Princess Bride, and a new character joins the blog.

Put on Franken Boot.

Good evening!

Tonight we continue the saga of Franken Boot. For those of you who don't recall, Franken Boot is what I have to wear on my left foot because I'm fluffy, over 50, and decided to get off my couch and exercise.

In this edition of the Adventures of Franken Boot, we will check in on Sarah's first physical therapy session with a young man we will forever call Pretty PT Boy.

I preregistered for this because...well...that's something you have to do. I talked on the phone with a lovely woman named Barb.  Barb was new and quite possibly didn't do all the paperwork right. But then I talked to the preregister person, gave her my full name and date of birth and I was all set for appointment number one.

I am a person who picks her medical professionals not based on anything other than geography. If you are close to my house, I chose you.  So it was a no brainer when my podiatrist gave me a list of places to do PT and the local hospital (six blocks from home) was on the list.  And this is why, my friends, I wound up doing PT in the basement of a hospital.

I arrived, a bit early (I'm not used to how long it takes me to walk in Franken Boot) and checked in with an old woman who was NOT BARB. Not Barb gave me several forms to fill out (All asking me my name and date of birth). I took a seat near a guy in a wheelchair and started filling out the forms. 

That's when the fire alarm went off.

Now in a hospital, the fire alarm doesn't just go off. Lights flash, horns blare, a loud voice says, please do not use the elevators, and...oh yes...the fire proof doors close.

I had just gotten to the form that asked me if I felt safe at home. I wanted to write, "SAFER THAN I DO HERE!"  But I didn't. I wrote "YES."

But inside my head I was yelling, "I do not w

ant to die in the basement of the hospital with a guy in a wheelchair and NOT BARB.

So I'm sitting there, in a tiny, windowless, airless room, the fire doors closed, a horn blaring, lights flashing, and about a minute and half into the alarms good old ancient NOT BARB leans over her counter and says, "Don't worry dears. It's just a fire drill."

Finally the noise and lights stopped and the doors opened. 

Then Pretty PT Boy came out and led me back to an even smaller, even more airless room.

Yep, I was pretty sure this was how I was going to die.

The first appointment, for those of you who have not been through PT, is called the Assessment. This is where your PT person asks you questions like, "What's your name? What's your date of birth?  Do you feel safe at home?  Why are you here today?"

After swallowing the urge to beat Pretty PT Boy over the head with Franken Boot, I answered his questions, relaxed a little, and made him laugh with my jokes about being a fluffy girl.  He asked me what activities I enjoy.  I started with, "I like to go on walks," because that's what medical professionals want to hear. I walk, I job, I row crew semi professionally.

Not Pretty PT Boy, he said, "Yes, but what do you really like to do?"

I LIKE TO WATCH MOVIES!  I LOVE WATCHING MOVIES!

PPTB said he understood that, and he enjoyed movies as well. I had my doubts, but whatever.

We got to the end of the first session and PPTB said since I arrived early and his next victim...patient...wasn't in for a while...did I want to "try something?"

"As long as we have a safe word," I quipped.

He then explained a procedure called "Dry needling."  This is where he would stick needles into my leg and ankle and then send electric pulses through the needles.  Sort of like Frankenstein and his monster.  Except we're in a basement.

He had me lie down on the table and then showed me the needles he was using.  "The safe word," I said, "Is Octopus."

The cute young man just laughed a little laugh that did not help my confidence.

He started putting needles into my leg, and I have to admit, it wasn't that bad.  He's pretty good with a needle.

Not sure that's a compliment.  But he's a medical professional right? It's not like I'm telling some dude on the street he's good with needled. Medical people and tattoo artists should be good with needles, that's all I'm saying.

After inserting all the tiny needles and hooking them up to the flux capacitor, or whatever it was that was going to send juice into my leg, ankle and foot,  I asked to see it.  I didn't want to see him insert the needles, that would be weird, right?





I figured this was too gross for Face Book, but hey, this is my blog, I can post a picture of my leg stuck with needles, right?

I had PPTB take the picture. I told him I'm a blogger who chronicles my life so others won't fear falling down, getting medical stuff done, or just being older. I then explained that my post on my colonoscopy was well received.

And then I had to explain what a colonoscopy was.

To my PT guy.

Anyway....

He started with the electric pulses and one thing, only one thing came to mind...

So I said to PPTB, "Are you familiar with the movie 'The Princess Bride?'"

He was silent for a beat and then said, "It's NOT THAT BAD!"

Yes, yes, I can work with this. He understands The Princess Bride, I will continue my PT.

Will I do dry needling again?  I don't know.  That's not the point.  

Franken Boot and Sarah's Horrible Realization.

So as some of you may know, I've been having issues with my left foot lately.  Since this is the year I made the resolution to stop ignoring what ails me and address all issues, mind and body, head on, I set up an appointment with a podiatrist.

Stupid new year's resolutions.

This is a doctor I saw three years ago. At that time she informed me, to absolutely no one's surprise, that I had arthritis in my feet and needed to wear much less cute shoes.

This time around the pain in my left foot warranted more x-rays, which she looked at for about six seconds. Seriously, it took longer to take off my shoes than it did for her to look at the scans. Btu that's not my biggest complaint with my appointment.

I don't know what that doctor expected my left foot to do, but she put down a puppy pad before she looked at it.

I'm not that familiar with all the finer points of the human body, but I haven't heard of a foot peeing on anyone.  

So I'm sitting there, letting this woman who is expecting some sort of podiatric (Is that a word?) urine on the floor fondle my foot. She pokes and jabs at the sore spots and then says something that horrifies me:

Let's have you stand on your toes just on your left foot.

Really?  Sweetie, if I could stand on my toes on BOTH FEET, we wouldn't be standing here.

But no, she was serious.  She had me stand next to a bar and assume the one footed position.  I picture is like some sort of horror film where an aging ballerina is told she must get on point or her fluffy little child or dog or whatever will be slaughtered.

I'm not sure what she was expecting, but I know the howl of agony that fell out of my face as I braced myself on the ball of my left foot.  She made me hold that position for a lifetime...okay like ten seconds.

"I believe I know what's wrong. You have PTTD," says she.  "And the good news is I think we can fix it."

You think?  And that's the good news? And what is PTTD?  Why do I have to look stuff up to know what I have?  Why can't you just say, "You have a screwed up foot because you're old and fluffy and started an exercise program you foolish woman."

"The bad news is that you're going to have to wear a boot."

That's when she walked out of the room and another woman came in holding a huge plastic moon boot.  "Don't shoot the messenger," says she as she straps me into FRANKEN BOOT.

I'm not going to shoot anyone, but I did ponder giving her a good swift kick with my new footwear. (An urge I had to fight again when I went to schedule my next appointment at the front desk and had to explain to the receptionist what I had and why I had to see the doctor again. This involved me showing her the page in the multi paged packet the doctor gave me. Whereupon the receptionist was able to enter that information into my file.  I mean...)

Anyway, the boot lady did point out that it's a good thing it's my left foot. At least I can still drive a car.  

Oh, good.  I work from home.  Driving is the least of my worries.

The doctor informed me I was to no longer do any "excessive walking."

That's the horrible part about all of this. I've been walking for 30 minutes 6 mornings a week for the last month or so.  It's been good for me. Gives me energy to get through the day without napping, and gives me the strength to do a second walk later in the day, thereby burning calories, hitting my step and active minutes goal, and getting healthier over all.

And now I have to stop that for the next 4-6 weeks.

On the way home from the doctor's I stopped at the store to pick up a couple things. Navigating with Franken boot was one part awkward and one part painful. I watched a woman drive one of those motorized shopping carts around and thought maybe I should give that a try the next time I had to shop, you know, when I needed more than two things.  Yeah, a cart like that might be a good idea.

I posted the picture of Franken Boot on my face book page and immediately my wonderful friends had helpful suggestions for continued fitness during this time.  Upper body stuff, hand weights, that sort of thing was the top suggestion.

Hmmm, I have hand weights.  No problem, I can work with an all upper body thing.  That's a good idea.

Wait...why does this seem familiar?

Upper body work out.  Motorized shopping cart.  Vastly lost mobility.

Oh good lord.

Paging Dr. NOWZARDAN!

I've just become a star of a TV show!

Well friends, this is going to be a ride to say the least. Stay tuned!

It Can Only Happen to Sarah!: "House Hunters" or Bra Shopping? Same Thing!

It Can Only Happen to Sarah!: "House Hunters" or Bra Shopping? Same Thing!: WARNING:   This blog contains a frank discussion about bras and what we put in them.  You have been warned. Wow, this month has...

"House Hunters" or Bra Shopping? Same Thing!

WARNING:  

This blog contains a frank discussion about bras and what we put in them.  You have been warned.

Wow, this month has just flown by!  I can't even blame writing this time around because it's marketing season and I'm out and about doing events instead of writing.

Oh, wait, so I have been busy!

Anyway, I was sitting down, taking a moment for myself (okay, I was lying on the couch, four hours into what would turn out to be an eight hour TV marathon of nonsense) when an episode of "House Hunters" came on.

This is the show where a couple or a family decide to move from their home to another place in the US.  (Or, you can watch my favorite alternate in the series, "House Hunters International").  At the start of the show, the home buyers sit down with a real estate agent and tell them what they want. That conversation sounds something like this:

Home buyer one:  I'd like four bedrooms, a remodeled basement so I can work on my interpretive dance, an in ground pool, out in the country but close to neighbors.

Home buyer Two:  I want to live in the city, two bedrooms, old world charm, a fully remodeled kitchen, a four car garage so I can park all my toys in there. Also, and this is a deal breaker, I must have an extra deep soaking tub in the master en suite bathroom.

Home Buyer one:  We don't need a soaking tub. I don't even care if there's a bathroom at all, as long as we are way, way out away from everyone except neighbors who live close, but not too close.

Real estate agent:  And what is your maximum price point for this?

Both homes buyers together:  $300. We absolutely refuse to pay more than that to purchase a home.

Oh yeah! And in that sexiest of all colors...beige!

Yeah, so that's a bit like my recent attempt to buy a bra.  I looked into the depths of my lingerie drawer and was underwhelmed.  To call what I own "lingerie" is...optimistic.  Face it, I'm in my 50's, I'm fluffy, the clothes I wear that people see are all about coverage and comfort. Do you think the stuff you don't see is going to somehow be glamorous?

I've talked about bra shopping before.  It's just the worst.  And yes, I've gone and gotten measured.  (Here's a hint to minimize the humiliation of that:  Go to Lane Bryant on Black Friday at about 2 in the morning.  No one is in the store and you'll get all the help you need.)  The problem is, much like everything else in a woman's fashion world, one company's size is not the same as another. And sizes can, and will vary from style to and style color to color within a company. Sort of like jeans shopping, only more naked and therefore more awful.

But how is bra shopping like "House Hunters?" you ask.  I'll tell you.

I go into a store or go online thinking:  I want a bra. I want a bra in my size with a racer back. (Because apparently women who are my size also have shoulders that are six feet wide. I do not...therefore my straps fall down unless it's an X-wing back.) I want an under wire. (To keep the glands pointing in the same direction.) I want a front closure. (Because getting into a X-wing back without a front closure involves acrobatic moves of which I am no longer capable.)  I want it lightly padded or lined with a smooth front. (I don't like "poke through" and I don't like showing off a lacy pattern through my "Be Nice to the Author or She Will Kill You in Her Next Novel" shirt.  Sort of takes away the fierceness.)

Now, if you've been in a retail clothing store lately, you know that the bra section is like a wide forest of tightly packed bras of all sizes (except mine...general retail simply doesn't carry a bra beyond a size 42 in any cup. Now, if I were a 36 but needed a triple D, well I can find fifty of those in all colors.  But I'm round all the way around...not just up front.  I'm balanced, not top heavy.) and styles.  You'd think that somewhere in there I'd find one that would work.

And you'd be wrong.

Here's a basic (very basic) chart of different styles of bra:

Go ahead, study it. I'll wait.

Women understand this, but for my male readers, let me note that this is, as I mentioned, a BASIC chart.  This does not take into account the many variations of style and structure. This is the home brewed Taster's Choice coffee of bra selections.

I've given up on retail shopping.  Victoria's Secret laughed at me when I asked then for a 46C.  They don't make anything that big. I laughed at Lane Bryant when they asked for $70 for a bra.  "These are not magical boobs," I said, "They don't do tricks. They don't need anything quite that fancy."  (Yeah, I'm a huge hit at Lane Bryant.)

So I hit the online stores, and by that I mean Amazon.  I type in all my requirements:  Racer back, 43C lined, under wire, front closure.  Under $50.  

You'd be amazed at what comes up. Hundreds and hundreds of bras.

And none of it is what I want. 

So, much like the people on "House Hunters" I have to ponder what I really, really need in a bra.  Am I willing to take the racer back without a front closure?  Can I go without under wires?  (The older I get, the more often I answer that question NO NO NO!)

Ultimately, something has to give and it's generally my patience.  Unlike "House Hunters" I don't limit my search to three places and there's no real estate agent to call and "WORK HER MAGIC" on the price when I decide I'm willing to pay an extra 50% over my stated budget because I just have to have stainless steel appliances...oh, wait, I mean...stainless steel under wire.

I envy those folks on "House Hunters" I really do. At least they solve their search in 22 minutes.  For me, finding a bra that fits what I'm looking for is taking forever!

Oh, and in case you'd like to get in on the fun (of "House Hunters" not my bra shopping.) check out this game:

Enjoy!

Try not to think of my...girl glands...the next time you watch the show.  (I know I've ruined it for at least three guys...)