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The View Is The Same. The Woman Has Changed.

10/26/2017

I started my walk this morning in 2017 and ended up in 1977.

It was a beautiful morning in New York City. I left my hotel at Park and 33rd to look for a good bagel before I headed to the airport. The storms yesterday made the breeze fresh but not cold, and the sun peeking out from the clouds made for glorious walking weather. Horns bleated, buses rumbled. The streets were buzzing with people hustling down the sidewalk, or darting into small shops – about half of them either talking or texting as they moved. This started out as just a trip around the block for me, something to clear my head after an extremely long work day. I didn’t know it would turn out to be a trip down memory lane, too.

I’m trying to be more mindful about my life lately. The daily struggles with work, health issues and financial changes have let the stress seep back in and it has been harder to find joyful moments. So each day, I try to take a few “snapshots” in my mind of the little things I’m thankful for.
Today’s list was pretty easy. After all, I was walking in NYC, getting to experience a perfect fall morning. The city didn’t disappoint me. Some midtown streets are just the epitome of the scenes we see in movies – brownstones with brass-railed stoops and tiny shops with little neon signs. So “Sex In the City”! In fact, I paid homage to Carrie and the girls as I passed New York Public library and Papaya Dog.

I dodged the tourists lined up to board the double decker bus on Madison, then blended in with them as we all jockeyed to get the best shot from the bottom of the Empire State Building. While waiting for the streetlight at 6th, watching people snap pics of the huge Macy’s sign, a memory whispered “you’ve been here before” from the back of my mind. Oh, I’ve been to New York many times. I don’t even know the exact number – over a dozen, I think. But this particular street corner took me all the way back to my first trip, and a hot NYC summer day, snapping a photo of that Macy’s sign with my cheapo Instamatic camera.

I still have the photographs. 36 of them, mostly blurry, pasted in a faded and peeling scrapbook saved from my teenage years. The Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center, the Twin Towers, the PanAm building, and a hansom cab ride through Central Park. I took most of them, but you can see me in a few – a young girl unsuccessfully trying to look all grown up in dresses and heels.

The reflection staring back at me from the window of the Duane Reade showed a woman now trying to look a bit younger than her years in jeans and boots. As I ambled towards Broadway, I made a mental note to drag out those photos when I got home. Then I wondered if that girl from 1977 would be pleased on how her life turned out. That was so long ago that I’m no longer sure what my expectations were back then. I’m sure I thought I would be successful, rich and famous one day (didn’t we all?) but it is harder to remember how I defined those things back then. I have a feeling that 15 year old might be a tad bit disappointed in our smallish house, but she might be excited that we’ve been on TV many times, even if it didn’t lead to fame and fortune.

As I turned back on Park, I decided to get a shot up at the Metlife Building (used to be the PanAm Building in 1977). I took one at 33rd but it didn’t match the one I remembered in my scrapbook, so I hoofed it back up the street, snapping a few more until I decided the view at 37th was identical to the original.

On my flight home, my window seat gave me the most spectacular view of Manhattan I’ve ever seen – I could see the entire island, the rivers, the bridges, the ocean, even the tiny dot of Lady Liberty. I was so enthralled with the view, I didn’t risk even a second of it to reach for my phone to snap a photo.

This evening at home, I did indeed go drag out that scrapbook from my first trip to New York. The blurry photos are still there, including the one of Macy’s. But I discovered that the photo I tried to recreate of the MetLife Building wasn’t really what I remembered it to be. The view in the snapshot is from the corner of Park and 54th – the other side of the building, about a half mile away.

And that makes it perfect. I’ve learned much since that first trip to New York. I’ve experienced new cities and revisited old favorites. So it makes perfect sense that this trip felt both familiar and fresh at the same time. I may have seen the same old sights, but a different vantage point gave me a whole new perspective. The girl from 1977 may have been excited to snap a photo of the view as she started down the street, but the woman in 2017 see things a bit more clearly from the other side now. And she is truly thankful for her journey.

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Dr. Pepper vs. the Size 6

7/8/2017

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I have never been a runner.

All my life, I have felt very awkward running, shuffling heavily along like some toddler just learning how to walk.

In middle school, I could hit the softball, I could do a cartwheel. I even managed to get the highest score in archery, bowling and shooting (yep, I grew up in Texas, it was a sport). But I couldn't run those laps if my life depended on it.

So it is a surprise to me that I can drag my body out of the house three to four times a week and go for a run. Granted, it still isn't pretty. I saw my shadow a few times last winter, all bundled up in a parka and it looked exactly like Cartman from South Park running (Google it). And it isn't long - 1.5 miles is laughable to most runners. I don't even run the whole way some days, since those hills still make me huff and puff. But I marvel at the fact that I'm out doing it. Pretty amazing at my age (we won't dwell on that here).

I lost 20 pounds last year. I didn't do it on purpose. That sounds weird, I know. I had some issues pop up that literally sucked my appetite away. In fact, I have to be honest - the thought of food made me anxious and dizzy. I hardly ate anything for about four months. It was not a diet and I would never recommend anyone try it to lose weight. I stripped everything but the most basic food out of my daily routine - most meats, anything spicy, milk, soda, coffee, sweets. I don't even remember where it started - sometime around the time I broke my ankle and started worrying that I would pack on the pounds while I was chair-bound. I first noticed getting dizzy before a meal that summer. It got worse in a hurry.

I wasn't just scared of food - I was fearful of the whole world. Traffic, loud noises, the news...oh, my goodness, the news. Every day it got worse, so much that I didn't want to be in the same room as the TV when it was on. I got through Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners without anyone noticing that my plate was hardly touched. I'm pretty sure that I've never checked to see who cleaned their plate, either.

Of course, people did start to notice the weight loss. Lots of comments there. Even my doctor said it was a good thing (without once questioning if anything was wrong!). High irony to have people say "you look great" when I was feeling my absolute worst. They asked what kind of diet I was on and I didn't have an answer. Actually, I honestly answered a few people with "it is called the crazy diet - I'm a little crazy right now and can't eat". Everybody laughed - including me, but I knew something was off. I skipped the pills the doctors wanted to prescribe, but a few months of therapy helped me sort things out. Some sessions, I talked about the issues clogging up my head, all the while marveling at how thin my new thighs looked on the couch. It wasn't an overnight fix.

Once my ankle healed, I added a 1.5 mile walk to my daily routine. It was great taking a break and getting outside again. I studied mindfulness and added that into my walks. I used breathing techniques I learned in yoga to keep my body relaxed and nourished. Walking turned into running, even though I was fearful at first - afraid I would re-injure my ankle and once again be housebound. Afraid that I would suffer something tragic during my run and die on the sidewalk without anyone noticing for hours ("crazy" diet had turned into "crazy runs").

Running on, running on empty
Running on, running blind
Running on, running into the sun
But I'm running behind

I did enjoy watching the "yard wars" between our neighbors as they try to out-plant and out-water each other, and I liked counting the rabbits every evening on my runs - so many rabbits (the highest count was 17)!. I looked forward to smelling what the neighbors were cooking for dinner, and I knew what fences had barking dogs lurking behind them. Those walks gave me time to think. I replayed conversations in my head. I argued points long dead. I prayed. I sang 80s songs and show tunes. I memorized the sidewalk and the mailbox numbers. Slowly, I started eating again and my mind started to heal.

Where does the Dr.Pepper fit in? My favorite drink. I had given it up in favor of chamomile tea and copious amounts of carbonated water during this time. But one day, after a therapy session, I stopped at the Sonic and bought a Dr. Pepper. I drank half of it and it didn't hurt me. Something clicked that food wasn't going to hurt me anymore. I could eat and be safe again. I started going out with friends. I kept a journal and started a sketchbook (www.ColorsOfACowgirl.com). Restaurants stopped being scary. Dr. Pepper, queso, turkey tacos and goldfish crackers got added to my Target shopping list.

My mind is much happier these days, A year later, and I'm still running. Still doing yoga and mindfulness training, and I'm still praying :). But I've noticed that my "skinny" pants don't quite fit the way they used to. The same scale that marked my weight loss now shows a little bit bigger number these days. Wowee, and I had just gotten used to those thin thighs!

So, what do you do - run harder and faster and possibly strain that still-wobbly ankle? Cut out the Dr. Pepper? Start worrying too much about it all and risk going down that wormhole again? It doesn't help that Mother Nature decided that this year would be a good time to also throw me into menopause.

I'm going to keep running. But I'll run because I like it and because it makes me feel good. I'm not running away from anything anymore. I was hesitant to write this blog because I know some of my friends and loved ones greatly struggle with weight and may roll their eyes. The last thing I want to do is weigh my pain against theirs - no pun intended. My story is more about the journey than the scale. Some of the pounds may have come back, but I now have tools to keep away the dark clouds.

And I'll treat myself to a Dr. Pepper now and then, because I'll trade some flabby thighs for a healthy mind any day.

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The new face goes out, but the eyelashes stay home

3/26/2017

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The things we do for vanity…

I’m vain. I’ll admit it.
This skin cancer scar has made me a bit shy about going out in public. I’ve gotten over it with some of my women friends. I can get to the grocery store bare-faced without worrying about it. I even forget about it most days, except for the time I spend in front of the mirror each morning and night, covering it up with makeup, or revealing it at night.

The angry red stitched-up scar has faded into a thick, stubborn, pink line, but the lumpiness remains. I can hide most of the pinkness with makeup, but the hard ridge isn’t easy to ignore, and it apparently isn’t going away any time soon (if ever). I’ve even learned how to outline my lips to camouflage the slight asymmetry that happened when they pulled the wound together.

I had an opportunity to attend the National Breast Cancer Foundation gala this week with a group of colleagues that I hadn’t seen since my surgery. Part of me wasn’t ready to debut this new face quite yet. But the part of me that loves all things fancy and fun won out! A little voice in my head reminded me that very few people actually take a hard look, anyway, especially at women, ahem, of a certain age. But that is a blog for another day…

So I started the little dance routine that women do when they are prepping for a big event. First, I raided my closet. The timing, as usual, was perfect - I just took an armload of gala-worthy dresses to a garage sale three weeks ago. I scrounged around and found an ankle-length skirt from a decade ago, plus a top I found on the clearance rack at White House/Black Market in 2013. Still fits, so this is the winning outfit. But shoes…I haven’t put on high heels over 2” tall since my pre-broken ankle days (see “Summer of Cast” blog series from 2015). Way in the back of my closet, covered in dust and dog fur (don’t judge), I found a pair of silver, sparkly shoes with an acrylic kitten heel. I’m not even sure about the year, or decade these are from, but they didn’t make my ankle wobble. They were spit-shined and put back into action.

After a quick trip to the hair salon for a trim and blow-out, I stopped to get some heavy-duty “spackle” to help me keep some confidence on my face for a few hours. Oh, the perils of a quick trip to Sephora!! I couldn’t help it. Every aisle screams “look younger, look prettier!” The lip gloss section was really loud, with promises to make my lips look like one of the Kardashians – I can’t remember which one, though. I almost made it out unscathed, except for those eyelashes. Sigh. I’ve never had long or thick eyelashes. My eyelashes are short and golden blonde - exactly the opposite of long, lush, dark and feathery that beauty standards recommend. I grabbed a beautiful pair of fluttery, wispy lashes and a tube of glue. How hard can it be? I used to wear them back in the ….uh, back when I did theater (can we leave it at that?)

The Sephora detour set me back a little on my schedule, so I hurried back home. I spackled, blushed, brushed, powdered and painted until I was satisfied that the pink line was as camouflaged as it could get. The hair fluffed out nicely. All I needed to do was attach the little wispy spider-things to my eyelashes. I scanned the instructions, then I did what we all do when we need to actually learn something – I googled it. Turns out, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of videos showing how to put on lashes. All accomplished it in about a minute, on expertly made up, perfect, young eyes. There really should have been a disclaimer on these videos – “your results may vary.”

First, I needed to trim the things, since I placed one, sans-glue, on my eye (as they recommended) and it actually got stuck in my eyebrow, So I chopped about $4 worth of hair off the lashes, then I watched another video to make sure the first three weren’t lying about how easy it was. I put a little mascara on my real lashes to have something to “blend” the lashes into. Those little tweezer thingies they give you are hard to manipulate when your hand is shaking and you’re also trying to hold the magnifying mirror because you can’t see anything close up without it.

I got one lash centered on my eye and gently tapped down the outside corner, as they prompted. The inside corner promptly jumped up and tangled in my eyebrow again. I backed off and straightened it all out, then went back in. I tapped it down again, and started pressing along my lash line, until I pressed too hard and jabbed myself in the eye. I blinked hard, and when I looked up, the lash was gone.

My sink area is white and I have high-powered lighting around the vanity – you’d think a dark eyelash would stand out, but nope. I looked to see if it had adhered to my spanx, or gotten tangled in my hairsprayed locks. Nada.

After a minute, I found it on the floor - near my foot. Like everything else that gets dropped on my floor, it had a long dog hair firmly attached to the glue. At this point, I’m 15 minutes behind schedule and out of patience.

I stuck the lash back in the box, shimmied into my outfit and took one more look in the mirror to see if anything else had gotten out of whack during the eyelash episode.

Spackle intact. Hair still looks good.
Vanity has limits when the clock is ticking.
Eyelashes 1, Tam 0 (until next time).

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Can I Face The World, Part Deux

2/10/2017

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“If you’re going to have cancer, this is the one to have – and it is great that we caught it early”.
Somehow, the nurse’s words were not making me feel better.

I hung up the phone on December 28 and just sat for a few minutes to let those words sink it.
Cancer. Skin cancer. And on my face, no less.
This is the same face I so lovingly slather creams and potions on each night to stave off all those inevitable signs of aging (we all lose that race eventually). The face that my husband tells me is his favorite body part of mine.

My face – the one I use to present a calm and collected appearance to the world, even when everything is burning down around me. I do not leave the house – not even to go to yoga or for a run – without a bit of face cream, some tinted lip balm and some mascara. I have a lot of body parts I’m not too crazy about, but I’ve gotten a little attached to my face.

Crap. Double crap. And a bunch of other words that are bubbling up inside.

First, I was pissed off over all the money I spent on products with sunscreen that have obviously failed me. Then I started kicking myself over spending all that time in the sun, riding horses, going to the car races and just hanging out outdoors in my youth. It took a while to remember that we didn’t even have sunscreen around back then. The best we had was that sunblock – that sticky, white stuff you smeared on your nose. We actually spent money on products to attract the sun. I’m looking at you, Hawaiian Tropic and Coppertone! Not that it did any good to this fair skin. The only way you could tell if I had a tan was to also see me where I wasn’t tan.

In all fairness, this current dilemma is probably due to the fact I always seemed to have a job that required driving south to Dallas from Denton, Lewisville or Carrollton (catching the eastern sun in the morning and the western sun in the evening).

Then I got a case of the “guilts”, since I know so many others who are going through terrible health issues. I have dear friends going through tribulations so heartbreaking that I feel guilty even mentioning my small troubles. In perspective, this health setback is scary (to me) but relatively minor. Maybe I’ve placed too much value on this old mug.

So I find myself today, staring in the mirror at a three-inch Frankenstein-esque line of stitches traveling from my nose to my lip. The doctor said the actual cancer was only the size of a kernel of corn, but this angry red line is a bit more than I expected. The face I’ve grown accustomed to is going to look a bit different from now on. Do I have the courage and humility to adapt?

So, I can have a little pity party (oh, I still plan to do that in the bathtub tonight) or I can suck it up, buttercup, and try to find what God’s plan is for me in this new challenge. I do believe some roadblocks are put in front of us for a reason, even if we never understand them fully.

In the past two years, I’ve had to do plenty of soul-searching and self-help. It has led me on a weird reinvention path (truth be told, I fought this path, kicking and screaming, for most of the way). I felt like I was just getting my act together, but maybe He wants me to step back just a bit and re-evaluate one more time. My voice was just starting to return (yes, I’ve been absent from my blog for a long time).

I’ll find it again. It is hidden behind the stitches for now, but I’m sure the selfie moments will return again soon.

I’ll have a fresh outlook.
A thankful attitude.
And a slightly different face.

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Earth Day Story

4/22/2016

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In celebration of Earth Day 2016, I decided to enjoy a small breakfast out in the backyard on this beautiful spring day in Texas. What to eat in honor of earth’s bountiful harvest?

Looks like a good day to try out an impulse buy I found in Target last weekend (shopping while hungry never turns out well). So I popped an organic, Fair-Trade certified Toaster Pastry (come on, y’all, this is a Pop Tart) into the toaster. http://us.naturespath.com/product/frosted-cherry-pomegranate-toaster-pastries.

Somehow, the word organic makes it seem like a sensible and nutritious breakfast. I made a second cup of coffee while waiting for it to heat up.

Maybe the organic ingredients made it cook quicker? Within a minute, I could smell it starting to burn, so I hit the ”eject” button and grabbed for the tart before it could start smoking.

Big mistake.

Instead of the traditional frosting pictured on the box, this lovely, natural pop tart had a brown sugar-like substance on the top, which caramelized into a bubbling schmear of lava, fresh out of the volcano. A tiny patch of it adhered onto the pad of my index and middle finger as I tried to pinch it out of the toaster.

I flung the toaster pastry (POP TART) onto my napkin and did a little ouch-y dance right there in the middle of my kitchen. I had to run water over the sugar to get it off my fingers. After an ice cube cut down on the redness and pain, I resumed making my coffee and took the toaster pastry back outside to finish my breakfast in the peace and quiet of my tiny backyard.

Other than a leaf drifting into my steaming cup of coffee, the dogs and I enjoyed a peaceful ten minutes of Earth Day before my email started erupting with tasks. I give the organic pop tarts a 6.5 on the taste scale, but I did have to deduct points for it not being labeled as a hazardous food product.

CAUTION: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT AND CAUSE PAINFUL BURNS WHEN GRABBED DIRECTLY FROM A RED HOT TOASTER. DID YOUR MOTHER TEACH YOU NOTHING?

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Oh, dear. I mean, oh, squirrel.

9/15/2015

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I may have just committed "squirrelicide". I truly feel bad.

My dogs have a love/hate relationship with that squirrel, barking and howling at him for hours each day as he hops from tree to tree in our yard.

Maybe it isn't just one squirrel, maybe it is a whole gang of them.
(We go on a brief hiatus here as I look up what to call a bunch of squirrels, which turns out to be a "scurry"). Of course, here in Texas, you might argue that you can call them a "mess", as in "I'm gonna cook up a mess of squirrels tonight 'cause them's good eatin'."

I digress.

This story only involves one squirrel. He has been my adversary all morning as I try to move from room to room while on conference calls, trying to block out the barking. At one point I ended up sequestered in the downstairs half bath for 20 minutes and had to stuff a towel under the door to finally drown out the ear-splitting squeal my Cojack dog, Wrigley, lets out every time he spies the squirrel outside the window. After the call, I stomp outside to see if I can quiet my crazy two-pack of dogs (too few to really call a pack, but too loud to call just a pair). I find them near the back fence, behind the air conditioner, clawing away at the back gate.

That dang varmint was clinging onto the wall above the fence by the bedroom window, chittering away. I don't know why this particular squirrel isn't too scared of my dogs. He hovers on the lowest limbs, just out of reach, or spreads out to take a nap on branches just outside of my living and dining room windows. As usual, the dogs were going batshit crazy. I think the neighbors hate us.

I picked up a few pieces of bark from below the tree and chunked them at him. Of course, they barely made it over the fence (no major league pitching arms in this family). So I tried a small rock and it came closer, but I worried about the bedroom window - my aim is as bad as my distance. He tsk-tsk-tsked me (whatever that little sound is) and kept flicking his tail at the dogs.

So I picked up the hose near the gate and turned on the water. I sprayed him good, too. He scampered up the wall and clung to the molding above the window, really jabbering away at me. I backed off on the spray since the window and wall were quite wet now, and I and figured he'd have to get down as it got too slippery. He made a desperate attempt to get on the roof, swinging by one claw and scraping for purchase with the other. I've seen moves like that on American Ninja Warrior recently. I have to give him credit for really making an effort - so much effort that I started feeling sorry for him.

And then he fell. From underneath our second story roofline.

I heard a splat. And then I heard nothing.

Oh, man. I didn't think that through, did I? I could just hear the conversation with my husband as I tell him I'm rushing a squirrel to the vet because I tried to kill it and I didn't do a good enough job, so now I'll try to save it.

Instead I just turned around to go into the house and noticed it was weirdly quiet in the backyard.

The dogs have finally stopped barking.

update 9/16/15: squirrel appears to be just fine and is back to jabbering outside my window

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Here She Comes, Just A-Walkin', er... Hobblin' Down The Street

7/18/2015

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Summer Of Cast is winding down. Today, I ventured out of the house without the crutches. Yay me!

The ankle still feels pretty sore and stiff, and due to something called Carsel Tunnel Syndrome, my heel feels like I’m constantly walking on a pebble.

I’ll take it.

Being housebound and hobbled since Memorial Day has taken a toll on my mental status (if you don’t believe me, just ask my husband). My exposure to human companionship since Memorial Day has been limited to the people at drive through windows (seen from the passenger side), two family visits, doctor appointments and one wonderful lunch outing with a dear friend. Let’s just say I’ve been extra chatty at dinner - the exact time my husband needs time to decompress for the day.

So today’s outing to the doctor and an-honest-to-goodness sit down restaurant was a refreshing change. I never remembered to ask for the temporary handicap sticker, so my husband dropped me by the door and I inched my way up the sloping sidewalk and into the vestibule where they had benches.

Rough terrain has a brand new meaning when you are dealing with unsteady ankles and feet. A six-inch curb, cobblestones, gravel, loose dirt – all menacing obstacles just waiting to send me back to my cast. The benches just on the other side of the door were a welcome sight. In my normal state, I breeze by these little staging areas, usually filled with older women arranging shopping bags or new moms packing strollers, with hardly a glance. Today, I have a newfound appreciation.

Once hubby arrived and we started down the long hallway, he offered his arm to help me over the tiled floor. I couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscious. Don’t we all want to be viewed as young, healthy and strong? Women my age always seem to be teetering on the edge of that black hole I call “middle aged invisibility”. That awful threshold when you graduate from turning heads as you walk by to people looking right through you as if you don’t exist.

I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the shop windows we passed. It was just a pale shadow, one very tall man helping along a short, shuffling woman. I sighed and looked up at Chuck.

“Oh my gosh – it’s happening. I’m suddenly that limping, slow, obstacle everyone has to go around. I’m becoming that old wom…”

We both veered a little at this point as we came face to face with an older woman coming around the bend in the hallway. She was hobbling slightly with a gimpy leg and carting several shopping bags on her right arm. And in her left hand, she had a cane.

But she wasn’t shuffling along. She was in a hurry and had her eyes firmly set on the door. We were in her way and we did that little bypass “dance” to pass in the hall. It stopped my words and I hoped she hadn’t heard my lament. My husband and I exchanged a quick glance as she passed and we waited until the vestibule doors slid shut before we let out a little giggle.

This woman? Hobbled like me (!), shorter, a little heavier, my senior by quite a few years. She wasn’t leaning on her husband’s arm. She wasn’t casting a worried glance in the shop window. She wasn’t even leaning on her cane. She was brandishing it like a baton – waving it in the air like a Jedi knight, carrying it like a scepter, not a burden. Not invisible. Strong. Fierce.

Thanks Karma. I needed that.

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“Cast Away” Actually Means You Don’t Get Off The Island

7/11/2015

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Getting the cast off your ankle doesn’t always mean you can now walk. Ugh.

Six weeks of healing an ankle can do all kinds of damage to other parts of your body. Once I was free to start putting weight on my foot again, I find out that I…can’t.

Ouch.

Apparently swelling takes it’s toll on nerves and joints. – mine didn’t bother to sync calendars with my ankle bone to make sure they all had this week blocked for my return to walking. So my #SummerOfCast continues for a while longer, without the cast.

I did have a breakthrough moment this week, kinda like that scene with Tom Hanks in Cast Away when he made fire for the first time. I was able to get in the bathtub without assistance. This was definitely a breakthrough and also a little sad (read my “Love Is A Hot Bath” post if you want to know why).

I’m looking forward to the end of this “alternative summer” journey. While I’m not ready to call it finished yet - don’t want Karma to come knocking on my door - I can feel the finish line getting closer. I’m storing up little nuggets of knowledge that might serve me well on days sans cast.

You can’t cross a wet floor on crutches. Nope.

Love is …having a husband who will reach out and fix your “croppy” when you are wearing a sundress while on crutches.

Waving a crutch at a barking dog is no longer an effective threat after six weeks. Once they learn you can’t throw/won’t throw it, it’s over. However, throwing dog food is a sure thing to get their attention.

Once you are downstairs, anything left upstairs will stay upstairs unless you need it to breathe.

I can go six weeks without buying anything. No clothes, no shoes, no beauty products. Imagine the money I can save if I keep this up. Expect Target to show a loss for this quarter.

It is impossible to make up the bed on crutches.

My husband can make up our bed like a fancy hotel. He may regret showing me that he has that skill.

Six weeks without cooking or cleaning is kinda nice, even if it does make me feel guilty.

Blessings should be counted, no matter how small they are. My behind may be spreading but my arms are getting incredibly strong.

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Love Is A Hot Bath

7/4/2015

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People either love baths or they hate ‘em. A hot bath to me is a little piece of heaven. I love almost everything about it – warm (hot!) water, refreshing scrubs, wonderfully scented soaps and body washes, fluffy towels. Most of all, it is a little bit of “me” time I can look forward to that caps off my day.

So spending the first few weeks of Summer of Cast without my nightly bath was not fun. Sponge baths and quick showers with a cast bag were not met with the same amount of enthusiasm, especially since I got the bathroom incredibly wet and slippery every time, making more work for my sweet hubby.

We both thought that the walking booth I got ten days ago would return our nightly routine to normal. That was before my first bath attempt. Even though it is called a “walking cast”, I was given explicit instructions NOT to walk on it, since my ankle break had not yet healed. Even so, I hobbled between the bathroom counter and a chair placed by the bathtub, trying to prepare for my return to the tub.

And I couldn’t get in.

Being one legged, slightly off balance on the edge of a tall oval tub doesn’t exactly make you feel secure. I have no handrails, nothing even remotely sturdy surrounding my tub. My tub slants nicely so you can recline, but it also means that when you’re injured, you can slip faster down the incline and crash into the side of the tub near the glass shower.

Hubby had to be called back into action. For me, having to ask for help is similar to going to the dentist – I’d rather suffer through the pain. But, dang it, I wanted that bath. So every night, my sweet hubby helps me get out of my clothes, the brace, the walking boot, and he hands me gently into the bath.

I would expect most men to then go about their business and wait for the call to come reverse the process of hauling their woman out of the tub. At least that’s what I expected the first night.

Not my sweetie. He turns down my bed, gets me some water and retrieves a towel, sometimes fresh from the dryer.

And then he sits down by the tub and we talk about our day.

It is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever encountered in my life. He isn’t preoccupied with going back to his video game, and he doesn’t rush me through my warm bath. We laugh and talk – mostly about nothing. Sometimes about how lucky we are to have each other. And sometimes, we have conversations that no one else in the world would understand, like this past Wednesday.

I was telling him about a conference call I had that day with a vendor in London whose name was Alastair Digby (how English is that?). And how, all through the call, I couldn't help but sing the guy’s name to myself, always to the tune of the Beatles “Eleanor Rigby”.

So we both finished out my bath that night talking to each other in an English accent – or maybe it would be best to call it “our” version of an English accent, complete with subtle Texas twang. My husband does it so much better than me – he sounds exactly like the cartoon Wallace and Grommett, if you’ve ever heard of that one. I remarked that ”Perchance one could relieve the rubbish pail of its contents?”

He turned around to look at our overflowing bath trash can and gave me a sideways glance “no, mum, I don’t believe one would like to partake in that”. But I persisted, since the last thing I placed in there was a shampoo bottle and the can was so full the lid was standing up a good two inches above the rim – yuck.

He walked over and ever so gently tipped up the trash lid with his toe. Unfortunately, when he brought his foot back, a long piece of toilet paper was now stuck to the bottom of his bare foot and trailed out over the floor. He didn’t break from the English accent.

“Now, that was exactly what we had wished would NOT happen, wasn’t it”?

He leaned over and grabbed some fresh paper off the roll, then scooped the offending paper off his foot, all without losing his balance or putting his foot down.

“There now, all chipper again. Right. Are you ready to get out of the bath, my love?”

My cup (and my heart) runneth over.

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Life Hacks I’ve Learned During “Summer of Cast”

6/24/2015

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I'm trying to stay sane and not go crazy bats%$t around here while I'm on the mend. I think I'm getting on my family's nerves. Heck, I'm getting on my own nerves by the end of each day. At least I'm finding out a few little tricks to make tasks at home a little easier.

1) Keep a small container of dry dog food near your laptop to use as a bribe to keep your dogs entertained and quiet during impromptu conference calls. Don’t mistake this for your cup of granola.

2) Small plastic bags come in handy. Tie one around one crutch to carry small things, or place them around the house (tied onto drawer pulls) to use as trash cans or stash bags to help you remember what to take upstairs. Rethink how you use the term “Bag Lady” from now on.

3) Clip your crutches together when you aren’t using them. Those rock climbing carabiner clips work nicely (doesn't everyone have one?) Crutches just can’t be lazily leaned against countertops, tables or walls. They will slide sideways, and they always slide away from you - especially when you are precariously balanced on one foot (and up on your toes on that foot) trying to reach the clean coffee cups. Why can’t they develop a gyro-balanced crutch that helps you balance and won’t fall over when you drop it or stand it in a corner? Segway crutches. Seems like insurance should even pay for it if they approve those scooters (no, I haven’t gone there yet).

4) Set up camp in a few areas of your house. I can just handle getting me and my daily totebag of “stuff” up and down stairs maybe twice a day. I only visit my home office (upstairs) when I have an important conference call, so I have taken over a few spaces downstairs. I now have a space at the kitchen counter with a high stool and everything I need for morning coffee within arm’s reach. Each night, I place my laptop and charger on the counter so I can work during the hour it takes me to get coffee, breakfast and a grip on another day of cast-dom. I can do a quick switch of most of my items to the dining room table – all while balanced on one foot, hanging on to a chair. When my foot starts to go numb, I move to the living room couch where I can prop up my leg for a few hours. I have a charger, lap desk, pillows, water bottle, protein bars and hand lotion/lip balm all with reach of the couch. No blanket is needed since I always have two dogs to use as foot warmers here. If I’m feeling really adventurous, I can dump my laptop, cords, phone, water and note pads in the tote bag, and move to the patio. This move takes 45 minutes and involves maneuvering crutches around a door, two rugs, two dogs and two patio chairs. All while trying to keep hold of the tote bag. I have to be pretty desperate for a change of scenery to psych myself up for this. Most days, I am.

5) Declare A House Rule: The person in the cast gets to rearrange the small appliances, the furniture and the items in the fridge. All other occupants in the house should heed this rule to avoid another trip to the ER.

6) Anytime you are in the vicinity of a bathroom, take advantage. Trips to the bathroom require thinking ahead. Don’t be surprised when you start paying rapt attention to the Poise Pad commercials you used to make fun of a short four weeks ago.

Counting down the days to my next x-ray on July 7.

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Unabashed redhead learning how to reinvent herself to keep up in this world. How in the world did you find me here? As long as you dropped by, you might as well stay awhile.

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Life Hacks I’ve Learned During “Summer of Cast”

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