23 posts tagged “general plague”

No, not really.

So I ran, and it felt a lil' sore, and I got all cocky and went to the Mushroom Show. It was interesting to see all the different fungi and the ones that looked grotesque were typically edible, the ones that looked fine were typically not. They had stuff and things and when my knee hurt getting out of the car to the show I ignored it. Hey! I ran 8 miles!

Then we got back into the car and went to Trader Joes. Then we got out of the car and my knee said, "No, actually, thanks though!". So I hobbled around Trader Joes, leaning on the cart, and getting serially cranky as we debated whether or not we needed to get ONE or TWO packages of the Fearless Flyer listed Shrimp Etoufee.

By the time we made it home, I didn't want to go anywhere, or do anything. I spent most of the evening bitching about my knee, taking ibuprofen, drinking wine, and seeing dead people.

All of this is supported my behaving myself (in physical therapy terms) and doing things like obtaining new running shoes, making an appointment to get my orthodic$, and setting up my physical therapy appointments. I have two each for the next hundred million years. She spends hours and hours working on muscle groups nowhere near my knee, and then more hours doing things to my kneecap that make me feel like she's just going to pop it off and flick it across the room. I am not sure which is more torturous: the therapy or the fact that the "Today" show and "Oprah" and "Ellen" are consecutively on during this period. I don't know enough about anything to converse on those shows, and usually spend my time whining at the therapist.

Getting older blows.

Having optimistically signed up for the half marathon, I've been in physical therapy and today, I got taped.

The tape lasted all of about 4 hours in keeping my kneecap in place. My kneecap, which is apparently as stubborn as I, has undone itself from its taping. The PT is not there tomorrow, so I go for my regular run (flat) in hopes that I don't do something too painful to it. After all, I've been doing strength training for, um, five days now. I am armed with ibuprofen.

And I want my finisher's hoodie, dammit.

Today's little luxuries are sponsored by self-injury, inflicted in a small, damp parking lot in the Arboretum, while on the return trip from a run. I had run, in a completely acceptable fashion, the initial 3-and-change miles, and was coming back somewhere along miles 4.5-5.5 when my knee suddenly alerted me that 1. it had had quite enough, thank you and 2. no it really had, and it must be insistent now.

For the past few weeks my knees have been making un-encouraging crunching noises when I crouch down to do things. I've largely ignored them, because I don't like trips to the doctor when success is not assured. (I love trips to the doctor when success is assured: getting pregnancy and STD tests as a virgin was awesome!) I figured I'd wait until something really painful happened and then go to the doctor.

Karma's a bitch.

All I know is I was running. Then we stopped for a pee break. Then we took off again. Then I stopped and decided to walk, because when you put weight on your knee and your knee decides to go "ow" on every footfall, you walk. After a bit of walking the feeling subsided and I started in to run. The knee reminded me that it definitely meant business and visions of bone shards poking through flesh entered my head and I walked.

I walked the remainder of the "run".

I had plans to go to my folk's house (post run, post shower) and so I did, albeit late. Explaining my lateness due to the change of pace my mother instantly applied an ice pack. I really don't like ice packs (fortunately, my father agrees with me on this) but they are necessary (unfortunately, my father agrees with me on this), especially when you have a family history of bum knees (gee thanks Dad). I gritted through lunch and let the ice pack do its thing, which was namely to wet my jeans and make my knee an uncomfortable cold-sort-of-numb. After promising my mother I'd ice it more at home, I didn't.

That's right.

I came home and decided that this was my last "me" time for a bit, and I was going to bloody well enjoy it, knee issues or not. I employed the tried and true methodology of plying myself with a little red wine (yes, a little), some homemade open faced cheese sandwiches (sharp cheddar), and a DVR-enhanced Mythbusters marathon. And then I went into the hot tub.

I love my hot tub. Loooooooooooooove my hot tub. After having six people in it last weekend, though, the water was a bit low, so oh gosh unfortunately I had to sink neck-deep into the soothing, delicious heat in order to keep the highest jet from making that gasping fish noise it does when it doesn't get enough water. Eventually I was able to elevate my leg (see? I was being good!) on the edge and finished a 2nd glass of wine while reading Bill Bryson's Notes on a Small Island.

I sit here, aglow and pink from the 'tub, signing off for the night. I'm going to go read some more (oh, sure, I'll elevate the knee -- but I ain't icing it) and possibly have a cup or two of tea. That sounds just about right to me. 

When life hands you lemons, you are to make lemonade. I'd much rather make a lemon curd or lemoncello or lemon cookies, personally, but it's all about what you want to make with your base ingredient. That said, all of these things require a hefty amount of sugar to be provided with your sour fruit; the assumption is you have gobs of sweet stuff in reserve.

For a variety of reasons I'm under an enormous amount of stress and exhaustion right now. Most of it has to do with a personal situation with my son, his school, and his father; this will all sort out in the end and just requires a lot of energy to get ducks aligned and persons alerted. I have people, they are professionals, I am paying good money for them; they will get both zested and squeezed to make the very most out of that particular tart citrus.

One of the side effects of stress and exhaustion includes, perversely enough, insomnia. I have had insomnia about 5 out of every 7 days for the last 4 weeks now (yay, numbers) and it runs from a half-hour to three hours. At its worst I get up and start my day at 4am, at its best it happens on a Friday night when I can sleep in the next day and/or take it easy. It has gotten nearly predictable in nature; I am wondering if it would behoove me to do something more productive with it. For example, make a list of things I could do in that period of time that will be useful and yet help me go back to sleep. I could check in with work. I could balance my accounts. I could catch up on my book club books. And if I take my laptop to the bedroom with me, I can do all of this without getting out of bed.

The down side to this is that I would probably not go BACK to sleep, because once one part of my brain gets the message that other parts are definitely up for the duration, the initial part of my brain that got the message gets irked it didn't get the message FIRST and starts finding other things to pay attention to. The net effect is a stream of thought that sounds an awful lot like the costmetics section at a department store at noon on a Saturday; full of idle feminine chatter from the most inane of topics ("I wonder if that heinous mustard yellow color is going to come back into fashion") to the predictable ("If I take on this project at work it is an invitation to this other project that I really want, but I don't want to appear too desperate nor spread myself too thin") to the truly laughable ("I won't run today because of the insomnia but I'll still be able to run 13.1 miles in 2 weeks").

This morning I woke up at 3:30 and was unable to get back to sleep. After some serious negotiation, mind fidgeting, and cel-phone-web-browsing, I got up and headed in to work.

It's scarily quiet here.

As part of some energy saving initiative, none of the lights come on (and nothing else powers up) unless a motion sensor triggers it. Usually I stroll in about 9:30 in the morning, but today I was on my floor at 5:30. Imagine, if you will, the oddity of walking into black rooms and having the lights flicker on as you walk in. Walking by vending machines and hearing them leap to life, expectant that you will want a caffeine free diet coke this early. Walking by the copier and have it insist you are going to need to use it.

Today I have a walk through at a new school program for the C. It's at an elementary school in Kirkland, and, try as I might, I can find no documentation or literature on this program at all. I can find plenty on the school itself, but only touting the regular school information. I sincerely hope the program is good; I like to feel like I am making progress on things for the C. I'd feel better, though, if I could pre-assess this place. I have the oddest feeling I will arrive with questions and leave with more.

My chiropractor lent me a book called Brain Rules by Dr. Medina. I started reading it last night at 9 and couldn't stop; I ended up finishing it. It's the second book I've read to show a link between physical education (and activity -- and I mean the truest sense of both of those, at least 1/2 hour of aerobic exercise daily, and better yet twice daily, for kids) and scholastic improvement. The other one was Spark by Dr. Ratey; while Brain Rules is not just about phys ed -- it includes information as to why we aren't really multitasking, why men and women have communication differences (oh, really?), why IQ tests aren't really a good test of someone's intelligence or ability to apply it, etc., Spark is all about phys ed. Again, picked up the book, couldn't put it down, read the whole thing in a night.

And this is why I can't sleep. What is happening is as I frenetically whip from Doctor to School to Work and through Life I am not able to devote my brain, in any real sense, to any given thing at the appropriate time. When I'm at work I'm thinking about the C. When I'm with the C I'm thinking about his doctors or his school or his health (because I'm usually shuffling from one to the other with him). When I'm with GH I'm worrying about work, and the C. When I'm home supposed to be sleeping I'm worrying/thinking/humming about all of the above.

I'm on my own little motion sensor circuit, but it's misdirected and being turned on by someone coming in way too early.

This is the motto of my company, and I am certainly doing so. I left my laptop at home, so this email comes courtesy of a real, authentic mexican PC tower and mexican keyboard. There´s different keys here, see? Like ñçª º ¬ ¿

On day one we arrived. Travelling itself actually sucks, the fun starts when you get there; but we got here around 2pm local time and had a beer (or three) and settled in. Day two GH went snorkeling and I went diving, and saw a manta ray swimming by as effortlessly as a hawk flies; the general attitude on his part was yeah, I get it, you´re diving. Have fun with that.

We did go to my favorite dive spot, Los Islotes, and dove with the seals and eels. My fears about getting back in the water were grossly unfounded, I had effortless buoyancy control and the divemaster was surprised when I told him it had been more than a year since my last successful dive.

Day three GH stayed back and held down the beach (brave man) whilst we went off to El Bajo, the Fang Ming, and Swanee Reef. I did not get down in El Bajo because once I hit 80 feet or so I realized I was going to throw up in my reg (got a little seasick on the way out there). I did a regular ascent, complete with safety stop, and managed to get on board and de-geared before I fed fish. The next two dives (the Fang Ming is a large wreck and the Swanee is a nice 30-50 foot shallow reef) went wonderfully.

Day four found us meandering the downtown area of La Paz (I had got up early --6 am local which is 5am home-- and ran into town and back, about 5 miles), about five blocks back from the malecon (a large paved boulevard that runs about 3 miles along the waterfront). We had a lunch, I had a little drama with X on the phone and a low-rent pedicure (hey, it´s in the country). I had by this time managed to dicker cabs down to 50 pesos (about 4.5 bucks US) to get back to the hotel (they try to take you for 80, sometimes more). We stayed at the hotel for dinner that night, the previous two having gone out to Ajibre (a nice upscale place, tourist-oriented) and Bermejo (a nice upscale place, locals-oriented).

Yesterday we held down the beach, as neither of us felt particularly good. I suspected it might be Montezuma's, but as I got better, GH got worse. In fact I didn't dive yesterday nor am I today, because GH is really not doing well. However, divers can be counted to carry all variety of medications and with said meds we have got him in a better state and I get the chance to baby him, which is always fun. There is a big barbequeue tonight here at the hotel and we intend to join up for it a bit, if I can get him presentable. Tomorrow is our last day and I am hoping he feels up to going into town so we can get the needful (shirt for the boy, etc.). But aside from this discomforture we have had a great time and intend to return (although perhaps not with a large group of mostly acquaintances: I can see a small group like CC and McG and Cyn and myself and GH or something).

I´m off to the hotel gift store. Probably no more posts from Mexico :)

I didn't run today. I was going to. I retired early from my birthday party, pounded a bunch of water, and was passed out by 11:30pm. I had a water bottle, I had procured Gu, and while I did in fact get drunk (I wasn't eating much) I knew I was still within safe limits (for me -- at least, safe from getting sick. The mouth does tend to run so when inebriation sets in...)

I awoke at 4am, extremely dehydrated (more water pounding) and feeling way too hot. I couldn't get back to sleep for two hours, and when I finally did the alarm went off. I texted Christine and told her I was just not making it -- the dehydration was my sole hangover symptom but it was enough, with the lack of sleep, to make me realize I was in no shape to circle Lake Union.

I slept in until 11am, which I haven't done since before C was born.

I did get quite a bit done today (even though I have non-running guilt): I mowed the lawn, I voted (got my absentee ballot yesterday), put up some trellis, etc. I had a birthday dinner at my parents which ended with my brother asking my dad, "Speaking of taking baths, how is your portfolio?" I discovered I'm not down as far as my dad is, percentage wise (I didn't say it out loud).

I am blissfully home, waiting for the C to pass out so I can do the same. I am old.

"You have a special foot", she said, as she proceeded to twist it and turn it and apply pressure that ranged from "uh" to "OW!". My feet are special, you see, because 1. they have no arch and 2. my Big Toe is shorter than the toe next to it. These two, plus an uptick in uphill running of late, plus me needing inserts inside my already decent shoes (and not getting them just yet) equates to foot pain. She grabbed a tuning fork, struk it, and applied the head to the base of my pinky toe. As she slid it toward my ankle, I leapt off of the table: "Ow!" I howled. "Yeah, honey, you've pissed off the nerve."

I get to go see a podiatrist on Thursday for those inserts. I'm not terribly thrilled about it, but it's time I (wo)manned up to the fact that I wasn't born perfect. Sigh. Soooooo depressing.

However, with the help of anti-inflammatories and a nice bit of ibuprofen and a couple day's of resting the foot I am feeling much better and intend to go for a quick run today, about 4 miles. I need to map it out. We have one very large hill just outside of work here, which I hate, but after that I should be able to run mostly flat.

Footed, that is.

I am convinced I have a metatarsal fracture or tendonitis on my left foot, because Google told me so.

I went for a run Saturday morning and while my foot was a bit sore for Saturday day, it wasn't anything to write home about. However, shooting pain Saturday night while I was trying to sleep, coupled with a severely stiff and sore foot Sunday morning, gave me pause. I am still hobbling.

Naturally, last night I spent my internet hours researching what this could be, and this is what I found, and then this, and after reading this I really want it to be tendonitis because that means I can still run. I *like* running, I actually had a period during my last two runs where it was more difficult to STOP than to just keep going, and I...uh... was having fun. Despite hills. I like that I can eat whatever I want and drink whatever I want (and what with the C's adventures in school I hereby admit my alcohol intake has spiked here and there) and not gain weight; in fact I have lost 2 inches and 2 pounds as of Sunday morning. In spite of pumpkin pie, and everything.  Most of all, I managed to do 8.4 miles apparently on Saturday and if you had told me in August I could ever, ever run 8.4 miles I would've told you to lay off the chiba.

I have an appointment with my doctor at 1:15 today, and here's hoping we get this sorted. But while I'm there, I will also bring up all of the other issues I have. Going to the Dr. isn't bad or anything, it just means I have to spend time doing it; and I can spend that time on Other Things, like trying to track down Sugar Skull Kits. Not that I have many medical issues: I don't get migranes, I don't get weird cramps running (I got to witness one of these this weekend and it looks horrible), I don't have GI issues (well, aside from GERD, and I can take meds for that), I don't have cardiovascular issues (except for Raynauds', which is just unpretty and uncomfortable but certainly not anything to worry about), and my pre-diabetes has receded. Actually the only other thing I need to bring up with her is a weird itchy-tingling patch in my lower right back neck area, which feels like it *should* be a skin issue but there isn't any rash or discoloration or bumps or anything.

Maybe I'll go google that and see what other sort of issues I have...

Welcome To Troutdale, the sign said as we edged up on it in the black of night (9pm PDT last night). We crept up on McMenamin's Edgefield, as there weren't a lot of signs and there wasn't a lot of light. We had a devil of a time figuring out where we were to park, and the initial reaction was, "oh, this kinda sucks". Tired, with an air-conditioned sore throat, and (in my case) a little worn down, we arrived to our room, the Pauline Bailey room.

Every room here is named after, and decorated in honor of, one of its previous inhabitants. Edgefield, you see, was a poorhouse. Pauline Bailey lived to 100 (or more), was widowed twice, and was a dressmaker for Portland's elite back before the turn of the century (the one before LAST). The room has the typical white sheets/carmel colored blankets; with some kicky red chintz throw pillows. The windows have blackout curtains that open to a nice view (and a balcony), and the walls are painted both with the story of Pauline and a turqoise, purple and gold tromp'loeil. It is not nearly as tacky as it sounds, in fact it is a wonderful room. I slept very well.

The one down side is that the set-up is European, the baths are down the hall so your midnight potty is done as a bathrobe scamper. The toiletries are LEADED, e.g., soap dispensers in the shower; but there are clawfoot tubs to be had and a gift shop that boasts espresso, sundries, and neat shiny things.

But, I must go -- I am hungry and I have checked in with work, and GH is spotting me breakfast.

Good man.