This Plantar Ain't No Peanut

A few weeks ago, I started to experience a weird, sharp pain in the bottom of my heel in my left foot. It seemed to be the worst first thing in the morning and would get (mostly) progressively better the more I walked around on it.

So I walked around on it as much as possible.

About a week ago though, it started to get worse - to the point where it would take me a couple of minutes just standing still upon first getting out of bed before I could walk without crying out.

Three days ago, not even walking around helped much. It was just a constant stab and Stab and STAB every time I stepped.

So yeah. I finally went to the doctor.

Plantar fasciitis. w00t.

Luckily, treatment is easy...rest the foot as much as possible for at least a week, stretch, wear comfortable shoes with good arch support, and ice + anti-inflammatory medication as necessary.

Oh! Yeah. Easy. Except for the resting part. Not so easy right smack dab in the middle of preparing for audit. I swear I put a mile on my feet every day just walking to the printer and back.

I sense a cast in my future.

P to the M to the S-uckage

I awoke with a start, wondering why the alarm hadn't sounded. 4 a.m. not time. I laid there then, waiting, scrunching my eyes tight, wishing it were just that easy to go back to sleep. But it was too late. The anxiety, free-floating, began to swirl maddeningly...

Over nothing.

Keep calm. That was the mantra all day. Hormones working their way through my system, wrapping themselves around the anxiety, cocooning it, strangling it, causing angsty, purple thromboses to bulge out at each end.

I wait. And breathe.

I drive home, trying desperately not to deliberately piss off the drivers who've clearly graduated from Jackassery High. It's rough hoeing. They ask for it.

Home. I read. The Oatmeal. The Onion. Anne Sexton. And breathe.

I cook supper. I try not to snap the head off of Lex whose officially employed only part time now. My hormones are not his fault and he is, after all, doing the dishes. I idly wonder if he's going to gently encourage me to take some Midol this time. Breathe.

I listen to They Might Be Giants. And breathe.

Apply wine. Read. Hope to sleep. Breathe.

I think to myself, "Is it getting worse or am I just more aware?" I've started issuing warnings. "Mark this on your calendar, Matt. Just in case I forget to tell you." How sad is it that my BFF tracks my "new moon" as he calls it?

And I think about going back to the doctor...the doctor who prescribed Xanax for pms. Which didn't do anything to curb my ability to turn into a raving, maniacal lunatic but, rather, made me feel really OK with being a raving, maniacal lunatic.

I decide I'll stick to wine.

And then it hits me...

Estrogen pills and a bottle of wine. Dammit. He's right.

Lex sent me this. Source unknown.

Wow! I'm Already Annoying Myself - this Weekend's Gonna Be Huge!

It's Friday night and I have plans. BIG PLANS, I tell you!

Well, OK, I don't actually have big plans. I have, just, you know, plans.

But, instead of working on getting myself cuted up for the night, I'm lamenting the fact that I seem to have sprouted the world's largest pimple underneath my chin. And when I say the world's largest? It appears to me as though it's as big as Vinny the Wonder Cat's head. Although I haven't held him up to the mirror with me to compare.

Still...I'm disfigured making it difficult to type.

And I'm thinking, "WTF, Pimple? Seriously." Am I 39 or 13?

As an aside, 39 is totally divisible by 13 - which happens to be my favorite prime - and I so didn't do that on purpose but it struck me that it is and so I thought I'd point it out.

In case you couldn't tell, I've had a nap and now coffee and there's promise of bacon in my very near future. Thus, I'm buzzing and giddy from the combination.

I think I'll quit while I'm ahead.

But, one last thing, speaking of heads...if you see mine this weekend? Don't laugh and point at that thing under my chin. It's too big to hide and, while I'm tempted to paint a little face complete with mustache on it and call it my Valentine just for fun, I think I'd prefer it if we all just pretended like it wasn't there.

OK? Thanks!

And now, go read something so cute it hurts like, say, this post over at Fancy Tiger Crafts. Seriously. The cute! It hurts! Although it's probably really only cute if you like sock monkeys in hats and knitting cute hats. Still...so cute!

Taking It For Granted

So remember back here when I told you about my friend, Jonathan?

I got a chance to check in with him this afternoon and find out how he's doing with the new kidney.

I'm happy to report he is doing extraordinarily well! Having recently returned from a family fishing expedition to Alaska whereupon he and his family members caught in excess of 300 pounds of fish, he is full of vim and vigor.

What he's not full of is...pee.

For the last 8 years, he's not been able to travel much and the little he's done has been after major planning...ordering supplies for his home dialysis equipment, getting medical waivers to travel with the core machine, making sure there were dialysis centers nearby to act as a back up if anything went wrong.

Just a few months before he received the new kidney, he actually flew for the first time in 8 years. It was an epic undertaking. And, I'm sure, exhausting.

But now! Now he doesn't have to worry about that stuff anymore. Now he can actually go to the ends of the earth and not care whether there is sufficient electrical power to run the machine and the diagnostics.

Yay!

Today he'd stopped by my office on his way to make a liter of diet Snapple lemonade. The conversation went something like this:


Me: Why diet? Are you on a diet?

Jonathan: Everyone's on a diet. Only people who are trying to change themselves call it a diet though. But yeah. I've gained prednisone weight and I want to make sure I don't gain anymore.

Me: *laughing* Oh! I thought you said pregnancy weight.

Jonathan: Yeah, it's kinda like that.

Anyway, as the conversation went on, he mentioned that he had to drink several liters of water every day.

And it struck me.

Before he got the kidney, he had not peed in 8 years.

Let that sink in for a second.

Now, while at first that strikes me as awesomely convenient for so many reasons, it's actually not cool.

Not cool at all.

Cuz you know what I nearly always am?

Thirsty.

And do you know what you can't do a whole lot of when you don't have functioning kidneys and have to have a machine do for you?

Drink a lot.

And that includes not drinking a lot of, oh say, wine.

Or coffee.

Or gin.

And I wanted to ask him - but didn't because it is oh so not work appropriate - if he was like still giddy every time he had the urge to go to the bathroom.

Because I'm pretty sure if I hadn't had the ability to pee in 8 years? I likely wouldn't get over the wonderful sensation of it for a good long time to come.

So the next time you go pee, I think giving a little thanks to your kidneys is not only a courtesy but an obligation.

Let's try not to take them for granted. They do a bang up job in keeping the wine flowing.

Whereupon Our Heroine Screams Like a Little Girl

So I was finishing up my morning constitutional and had the toilet paper in hand ready to close the deal as it were, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

It was a big, juicy centipede and he was hanging out on the roll like it was 10th and Broadway after the bars closed...

You know, drunk and ready for a breakfast of, say, me?

And I am unashamed to admit that I dropped the roll and screamed.

Loud.

At least he didn't land in my underpants.

And that, internet friends, is being caught with your pants down...literally.