Change is the Only Constant

The old Greek dude who came up with that--clearly didn't have to pay $2400 a month for pink carpet and yellow Formica counters.

Throughout my life I've struggled with change. But really, who hasn't? And regardless of how many times you repeat it's "the only constant"-- It's still so damn hard!! We all want to hold on to something good, something we love or believe in. We'll even fight to hold on to something we only THINK is good. Or at least I do. Until recently, when I decided to change my fight against change--and totally implode my comfortable life in an attempt to unweave the past, and retread my future.

But now that I'm firmly floundering in the middle of my change mess--two months in--I'm seriously beginning to think Gandhi and that ancient philosopher with a name I can't pronounce-- were just assholes for making us believe. Maybe change isn't good? I mean, if it's the only thing you can depend on--like they said--why does it hurt so much? Shouldn't we shield ourselves from that? Stay the course! It's easy! It's familiar! Why change? Well I did. But now I'm thinking I bit off more than I can chew. Now I'm literally choking on change.

Before I tell you why I did this-- and stop speaking in code--I'm just curious. What was the last big change you consciously chose to make in your life? I’m not talking about the ones that are forced on you by fate or maybe this craptastic recession? I mean one you actually made a decision about, in an effort to push yourself forward? Was it a new hairstyle? As much as you loved that little last patch on your five-head, it was time to shave it off and boldly enter the world of male pattern baldness? (Positive Change.) Perhaps you got rid of all the clothes you haven’t worn in two years, and finally went out and bought fat pants that fit over the menopausal muffin top? (Necessary Change.) Switched from PC to Mac? (Cave to trend Change.) Whatever it was—I’m sure, the change wasn’t easy.  No I KNOW the change wasn't easy.

Recently, while sitting on my couch drinking yet another glass of watered-down Chardonnay,

(4 points) I decided it was time for a change. And nothing easy like the aforementioned hair cut--although now I kinda wish I had just gotten bangs. For the past several years, I've tried to hold on to something I probably shouldn't have. And it was constantly making me sad. So, this particular evening I decided that making one little change, at this stage of my life wasn’t enough. I decided to go for the total trifecta of life disruption. Quit my job. Pack up my house. And move out of the city that for the past six years, represented every hope and dream I ever had for what I believed to be happiness. (Hold for applause.)

Now don’t feel bad about only throwing out those size 6 jeans and telling people you’re making “change” and moving on--that's solid stuff. But what you're about to read is a cautionary tale of "Careful what you wish for" because it can all happen too quickly-- when maybe you're not ready for all that change Lynn you stupid, stupid girl who left her nice life because some guy didn't want her anymore? (oops did I write that out loud and without punctuation?) I digress. Sort of. If you’ve read any of my –oh—last 100 blog posts (I don’t have 100 blog posts but maybe you'll believe it) you’ve most likely read about my relationship and my temporary “McDonald’s” job—something I took until I could get another TV gig. IE: something I took to stay close to the guy who broke my heart because I still had hope that “maybe.”

Well that job and "maybe" wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I didn't fit in at McDonald's from the start. And while I had made lovely friends over the past six years, and adored my beautiful little house complete with ducky-filled park next door--I finally decided that staying stuck—as comfortable as it was—wasn’t the way to live my life. I heard myself secretly becoming one of those "why didn't that work out?" people. Sitting alone at home, waiting for the ex to get horny, nostalgic or both--and drop by for a "visit". So I quit “McDonalds”and pulled the plug on the Sacramento chapter—boxed it all up for greener—anythings. I didn't have a job lined up--I was ready to move home and just tough it out. Do a few producer gigs here and there--travel--bum off my sister and live in her Tahoe house. I had a plan. Well sort of. Not really. Just knew that I had to put myself in "harm's way" or risk becoming that lady with 25 cats and my own whiskers.

And just as I made this decision to pull up stakes and give my notice—magically, a job dropped into my lap. In the City I’ve been crying about returning to for the past six years. And this job isn’t at "McDonald's."  It’s with a major creative company. Doing video. No “burger flipping.” So sticking to my gut (wrenching) decision, that I need to rip myself away from the city I moved to for HIM--I took the job. And left. To live with my parents until I found somewhere to call home. Did I mention to live with my parents? Who are both in their seventies?

My first week at the (hesitant to say old) folk's home was rough. This wasn't my childhood home--thankfully. It's hard enough to move in with your parents at 49, I can't imagine having to go to sleep every night staring at my cheerleading trophies from 30 years ago. But this WAS where my much younger sister grew up. So instead of trophies--I am falling asleep looking at her Peter Pan and Annie collection combined with a pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. On the wall to my right? A giant pink Swatch watch/clock. Don't ask. (or offer $ for it)

My parents are older--and my dad's health is not good. So when I get up at 5:30am--I try not to make any noise so they can sleep. None. Nada peep. But I need coffee. Because I'm not sleeping well in the bed that is not mine, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera posters. To make that coffee--I have to fill the pot and get out my cereal bowl the night before--and then quietly sneak down the stairs in the morning, in the dark without waking up my parents whose room is on the ground floor next to the kitchen. Now, this is not good news, for someone who just recovered from the worst sprained ankle known to bones. (read previous posts) I am pretty sure the other ankle is in jeopardy each time I carry my breakfast up stairs in the dark, quietly trying not to trip on my bathrobe or make the hardwood floors creak. 

I moved my mom's coffee pot into the pantry to cut down on pot gurgling noise and cereal pouring noise. So that one seems to be under control. But what wasn't under control was my laundry. My mother, bless her heart--kept asking me if she could do my laundry that was piling up. I said "No, no, I'll do that. I want to."  Coming home from my fourth day at work I had an episode--the exhaustion of the new job, the early mornings, the no sleep and the stress of leaving my life behind--were all getting the best of me. So was the All-Tempa-Cheer. As I walked into my sister's shrine--I mean room--It leaped out at me. Sitting on the bed was my laundry, neatly folded. I screamed "Mom did you do my laundry?" And then lost it. I cried for an hour. And not just weepy stuff. I was a heaving, slobbering, uncontrollable mess. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I would throw up. And yes, I used the clean, folded towels on the bed to wipe it all away.

Now I know most of you would love to have your mother do your laundry. Especially those of you who no longer have their mothers around. Victoria and Lynn's Secret: I wasn't crying because she shrunk my bras or saw that I occasionally wear a thong--I was crying because I missed my life, so much. I missed my independence. I missed my house with my own washer--I missed my routine--and my friends and caring for myself. And yes--I even missed the guy who didn't miss me anymore. Had I made a mistake? Maybe I was okay with my life the way it was? Careful what you wish for!!! Be happy with what you have! (insert thunderbolt sound effects here)

The next morning, I tried to explain to my mom that I wasn't upset with her. But I hurt her feelings. She knows nothing different, than to care for her children. No matter how old they are. FF four weeks. I've been doing the job--coming home (?) and looking at Craigslist postings for overpriced boxes with pink carpet and yellow Formica. You'd be amazed what $2400 a month gets you--or in most cases doesn't get you in the Bay Area now. And it's competitive. Landlords only have to show an apartment for 30 minutes. And in those 30 minutes--there will be dozens of people all holding their folders of pre-filled applications and credit checks. I didn't know this either. I've seen about 10 places. And each of them has something wrong with them. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me.  Nothing compares to my cute little home in East Sac. A home I got a month-to-month lease on, because I was SO convinced I'd be moving in with Mr. Sacramento sooner, than later.  Look how well that change worked out?

I have twelve days before the movers have to take my stuff and put it SOMEWHERE. And I'm scared. Scared I won't find a place and I'll become "that" daughter who moved in with mom and dad and never dated again. I'm genetically predisposed for that type of shit. My dad's younger brother moved in with my grandpa--and never married. Which is why--today I decided to take a break from the online apartment search--and instead--switch to online dating. Seriously. Mr. Sacramento is happily dating a carbon copy of me and that's all it took to get me to change that one. Three years and one carbon copy later. 

Honestly--I think I'll have an easier time right now finding a husband than an apartment. I'm not stupid. Dudes have garages. I'm willing to put up with a little Monday Night Football--to have a place to park my car and unload groceries. Even if it means I gotta cook for them too. Kidding aside. I'm doing this because I'm lonely. Living with my parents, missing my friends, working in an uber-tech world where co-workers walk everywhere with their head in a laptop and have meetings via web cam--even if they're just down the hall from each other--I want to meet someone. And maybe that's finally the lesson of this change mess-- kicking in? One of the reasons I came to this changepiphany while sitting on my couch that night--I was lonely. Isn't it funny that while many things change--some things stay the same? Until you  make that choice.

A good friend called me this week to check on my apartment hunting antics. After listening to me cry about how hard it is--and saying I miss my old life and want to go back home--she said "You forget I heard the reverse whine for quite a while." And she's right. I said the same EXACT thing for the past 3 years about how I wanted to move home and find a better job. I'm glad she "reminded me" of that.  No matter how hard it is on me -- or my poor 71 year old mother. I made this happen. I chose this. And while it is really, really hard right now, I'm the one who quit her job in a downturn and got offered a groovy gig at a big tech firm. I wished for all of this to happen. So now--I gotta make it work. The silver linings have yet to show themselves--but I think they're coming. I hope they're coming. I'm getting tired of the clouds.

So yeah--be careful what you wish for. Some of us are lucky enough to maybe, have it all come true. Be ready when they "move the cheese." Or--just move it yourself because you DO deserve better. (I think that's Camembert right?) Change IS the only constant. Philosophic assholes. A warning label would have been nice. It may be the only constant--but it's gonna f*ck you up for a while. And take half your head of hair with it.

I Was Attacked by Tot Moms

Let me just say up front--I haven't really been into this whole Casey/Caylee Anthony story. No more than I think I should be, that is. I saw it on the news, read about it in the papers-- and of course shook my head like the rest of you every time I saw that picture of the adorable doe-eyed child. So I really wasn't aware there was a large audience of mostly women, clinging to Nancy Grace's every word on what became the American pastime called the "Tot Mom" trial.

As the Casey Anthony trial progressed, I did notice signs of a groundswell realityTVesq fascination begin to pop up--but still didn't pay much attention. I questioned why the cable channels were covering the courtroom drama wall-to-wall. I read stories of what appeared to be obsessed Floridians fighting in line to get one of only a dozen or so gallery seats in the courtroom. And then as I flipped around the dial while puttering along on my treadmill--I landed on the show open for HLN's Nancy Grace program. In one long-twangy breath she uttered the now-famous "Tot Mom" no less than ten times.

Why was this story getting so much media attention? Did I miss something? Sure it's a tragic murder mystery, but we hear about these everyday? Are we not concerned about the 1,000 gallon oil spill in Montana? Or the raising of the federal debt ceiling? These were questions I needed answers to. So, I decided to turn to Twitter. But perhaps I should have just turned to a bar tender. Because what followed, is a frightening tale demonstrating the power and personal haranguing of the #hashtag. A social media assassination, I'd like to present to you--my impartial jury--am I guilty of something? I feel I was innocently voicing concern and questions about the "show"--what I got in response, was a cyberlashing by Tot Moms. I present the evidence:

Exhibit A: My first tweet

Really? On @HLNTV there's a countdown clock to closing arguments in the #caseyanthony trial. Are we really that lame America? Go take a walk!
This 141 characters brought on several new followers who were closely watching the case. Including one woman who responded to me in this way:

@lemnosalt I yoga bike and walk as I tweet about #caseyanthony  also laundry dishes bill paying buying preparing meals et al
I was surprised to get the response from this busy person, along with the new followers. I didn't think much of it--even responded to the woman--"Well good for you, you get a free pass!" and decided to follow her back.

Exhibit B: Nancy Grace's lack there of OR My next tweets:
From the treadmill: Please stop saying "Tot Mom"! #click 

And after a few more minutes on my treadmill:
                                           
This Anthony family is a disaster. And yes, wait for it...#totmom
These brought on a few more followers. But no responses. Just me and my anonymous Twitter thoughts plugging along--which was what I wanted. The next day, things took a twitturn for the worse. Sitting at my computer writing, with CNN on in the background--I just got tired of all the pundits and legal eagles speculating and guessing what the outcome of this case would be. I feel for the family, the little girl, but seriously--there is so much else going on in the world! Why had we become so obsessed with this story? A few months ago a dad drove his son into a canal and while the LOCAL news showed the distraught mom and some candlelight vigils--Nancy Grace could give a rat's ass?!!

So--I dropped the T-bomb, and posted this I will now submit as Exhibit C:
Dear #caseyanthony Jury: Please hurry up. So we can get back to real news about the economy, jobs and what Princess Kate is wearing. #overit

And that literally, was all she (I) wrote. It was not however, all the rest of the Twitter world reading #caseyanthony tweets wrote. I immediately got "pinged" by Tot Moms from coast to coast. And these were mean tweets. Tweets about "not getting it." Tweets about being uncaring, insensitive, "obviously not a Tot-mom." One Tweeter even "outed" me to all her followers as someone who should be held in the same regard as Casey Anthony herself. The Twitter Trial began:
  
@angeldevil wrote: I wish you were married 2 Lorena Bobbit. You are heartless. :-( 
(Whuck? And yes I got a sad-twitter face)

@allison10 wrote: #nojusticeforCaylee @lemnosalt you must be a man

@ppi9 wrote: @lemnosalt Shut up #heartlessbastard

And those were just a few. My @lemnosalt suddenly lit up the Internet lumped into groups of baby-girl-haters. I immediately felt as though I had something to do with her disappearance? So I did what any misunderstood social media maven would do...hit DELETE. Oh and BLOCK. Immediately. In a nano-second I removed myself from the conversation. These Tot Moms were too powerful for me and my witty banter. I knew they would be able to find me, somehow, and leave flaming bags of poop on my doorstep. So I untweeted.

After the Tot Mom bashing ceased and I had a couple of glasses of wine, I decided to turn to my friends--ahem--my Facebook friends, and explain what had just happened. How I had been a victim of Twitter bashing. I simply wrote just that. Nothing about the case, the verdict, the baby. Just wanted to share my online attack for simply suggesting that MAYBE we're a tad bit obsessed with this story?
AND IT HAPPENED AGAIN! Only this time--my "friends" weren't attacking me--they started attacking each other?!! Sure--some just agreed with me--by writing "we're obsessed," "people are so ready to pounce," "the whole thing is nuts" -- but buried in those 22 Facebook comments were Tot Mom comments that got mean! So, I did it again. I hit delete. And was harassed once more--"Why did you delete my comment? What happened to freedom of speech?"

And so I rest my case. I guess this is ultimately about freedom. To write what you want. To say what you want. To be obsessed with what you want. But does it have to get ugly? With people you don't even know? To say I'm heartless--and that I don't care about this child, is just cruel. I only brought to the (my) world's attention--the idea that maybe we're putting a little too much focus on this one story--so much so--it's become a reality series, a soap opera. We all know there are many, many children in this world who are hurt by loved ones. Tragically killed by people they know. Where's the passion for all those kids Nance?

My only hope--and if I get my Twitter-chops back I'll post this--is that these passionate Tot Moms who care so much about what happened to this little girl, teach their own children about judgement and our justice system--and reasonable doubt. I know I have mine.

*and PS because I care about injuring people I don't know, I altered their Twitter handles. Mine however is correct, just in case you want to start the whole argument over again.

Same time last year

So it's May 17th. Two days until my birthday. And I've written two emails, one E-vite, a Facebook "event" invitation and texted three friends requesting input. The dilemma? What to do for my birthday in exactly 48 hours? The aforementioned writing exercises have included witty invitations to get together in a number of scenarios: a bar, my house, a yoga/wine celebration in my backyard. None have been delivered. None probably will be.

I re-read my blog from May 19th last year. I woke up that morning facing for the first time--having nothing to do on my big day. Hmmm. Are you beginning to see a trend? So WTF is wrong with me now? Why am I having such trouble planning something? Do you want a repeat of the torture that was May 19th last year? (A lot of unanswered questions.)

Let's admit it-- no one really likes to throw themselves a birthday party. We all (read: Lynn) have romantic ideas that we'll have some fabulous man who will set into motion some amazing plans for an exciting evening that includes roasting weenies on a beach, right!!? So if that' ain't happening--and it ain't--why spend it alone when spending it NOT-alone is within your power?

I think part of my conflict can be blamed on that old catholic guilt build up, that's clogging my free spirit and apparently my inner-Martha. See, I feel if you invite people to come together, you better damn well be feeding them. Oh wait--that's not Catholic guilt, that's Italian guilt--which, in my world is basically the same only one allows sex before marriage. Whatever the cause-- feeding party guests at a restaurant or even at home could cost a lot.

And that's because of conflict #2--who do I invite? If I'm feeding them--I can afford maybe a handful of pals? But If I invite this person, I have to invite that person to keep them company. And I need to invite these two, but then they won't know anyone, so I'll let them bring their spouses. (Suddenly we're up to 53) And what about the Ex? Should I invite him? If we're trying to be "friends" shouldn't I show him I'm more mature than he is-- by extending an olive branch? (54)

Really--It's all too much. And so -- here I sit. As pretty much everyone on my list is most likely in the midst of making some kind of plans for Thursday night that don't include the bananas bday girl.
Now, the the third factor truly holding me back from sending one of the 20 draft invitations --is a biggie--and that is--I'm not really feeling it this year. You should know by now--I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. I really do. I like for my birthdays to last for days--I really get into displaying my presents and cards and tell everyone I meet including the Safeway checker, "this week is my birthday"--it's a big deal. To me anyway. But this year...not so much. Happy funkday to me.

Let me try to explain. (Sigh) I'm turning what I consider the last year, of the last decade, I can probably get away with being considered youthful. Youngish? Okay, on the northern side of old. I will still have a  year before turning a really, really scary number--so you're probably saying--why worry now?!! Well I am. That and the fact that nothing--nada--not one little thing--has changed in a year since we last had this birthday conversation. I'm still single. I'm still looking for a groovier gig. And I'm a year older-- to make that ALL feel even better. It's my own private Groundhog B-Day nightmare.

To appease Oprah--I know I should be thankful that I have friends suggesting--no--prodding-- me to plan something. Really--I'm lucky I have friends at all. I've been in such a foul mood lately--post ankle bust--post $3K car fix--post "we're sorry but we've decided to go another direction x 5". Somehow, I need to pull myself out of it--if only for May 19th. I know we're not guaranteed another birthday. And I know I should celebrate my grooviness with people--not my TiVo.

If you're buying all these excuses--then I've done my job as a creative writer. Or I've done my job convincing myself it's really about logistics or not being into it this year. But I think we both know--I'm just not comfortable with attention. Strange too, because I picked a very attention-getting career and have always been involved in some sort of lime-like-light. But the thought of inviting people to come celebrate--just me--without any reward (read: food) is really hard for me. And I don't know when that started. I always loved my birthdays when I was younger. The more cackling girls I could pack into my room the better. More presents! More attention! Queen for the day. Somewhere along the path of being told "you're not good enough," I started to lose my love for being adored--even if only once a year on the day you're supposed to be.

But there's an upside--that Dr. Phil crap turned me into more of a more of a giver than a taker--someone who'd rather throw you a birthday party with all the trimmings! BUT after the third year in a row of having to get creative when May rolls around (it's been that long since I had my own party planner)--is it too much to want to have someone else pull the trigger (wrong analogy for this post) and throw you a little get-together? Someone else do the planning? I've been planning all my life--I'm a producer--I'm exhausted! Can someone just please get me a damn birthday cake?  Or do I have to "produce" that too? If only I could write that script. I know it would be fabulous. I would lap up any and all attention thrown my way. And yes, weenies would be involved.

So...here I sit. Still faced with the multiple invites with five different guest lists. I'm tired and going to bed--so none of them will be sent tonight. Maybe I'll just push it one more day--don't give people a chance to think about it. Just a random drive-by-birthday party--they'll get the text as they're leaving work.What did you do for your birthday this year? Someone did all the planning, right? Right.

My Song for Japan

So this one won't be too long or too funny. But still remarkable when it comes to shit you or I-- just can't make up. If you check my Facebook profile, on March 10th at 6:37pm, I posted this: "SUPERMOON! Bring it. And anything that comes with it. (I ain't scared!)" and a link to an article about an astrologer who predicted the upcoming large full moon would cause major earthquakes or disasters. A few fellow moonies "liked" the post or commented. But the next day--a lot more added their two cents.

March 11th. Regular morning routine, which means coffee and Matt Lauer in my bathrobe. But the minute the TV came on, I realized it wasn't a regular morning for the rest of the world. Images of the massive earthquake and tsunami from Japan had me frozen in front of the tube for an hour. Such horrible devastation, destruction and loss--to a country and people I love and admire so much.

Six years ago, I took the trip of a lifetime--covering a story for National Geographic Channel in Japan. I loved everything about it. (except the really, scary long flight there and back!) I loved the food, the history, the neon signs (Good Coffee Smile!) but mostly I cherished--the people. And one in particular--our guide and translator--Kunio.

Kunio was an older gentleman who made the crazy-busy work trip, memorable. He always took the time to point things out and describe their historical or spiritual significance. Even if we were just walking from one location to the next. "Lynn, this is a cedar ball--hang outside when fresh sake being brewed!" Then he would laugh his special Kunio laugh. He loved to joke about his wife. When we went to shoot at Osaka castle, he told me how his last name meant "gatekeeper" - and that's what his family did centuries ago at castles like this one. I felt bad when I went to tell him we were ready to leave and walked into his hotel room with my shoes on. (a no-no in Japan) He made sure we stopped to pay respects and pray at a streetside shrine downtown.

He was my voice during every interview and helped me understand what they would say in response to my questions. Kunio and our raucous Scottish Japanese-speaking grip Jeff, who dressed like the last samurai--will always be happy memories of an amazing trip. I have always hoped to go back and see Kyoto with Kunio!

After an hour of watching the news from Northern Japan, I had to leave for work. Saddened by the pictures of people searching for loved ones, I thought about our trip and the kindness and strength of the Japanese people. I grabbed for my keys as I opened the door and noticed something fell to my feet. I looked down and saw the little red key chain our guides gave me when I boarded the plane to leave Japan. It had been on my car keys since I fastened it on the plane ride home, six years ago. And it broke and fell off--TODAY.

The key chain has a picture of a frog--which Jeff said in Japan is very popular because "the frog never leaps backwards, only forwards." It became my new favorite animal, because of that. When I asked about the Japanese writing on the back--Kunio said "It says home. As you travel from my home to yours. Remember us."  That morning I did. And I couldn't help but feel some strange cosmic connection--the coincidence was too strong. I'm sure they were both okay--but I believe I did tap into that global wave of grief, so powerful--we could feel it even here--and maybe that broke my precious keepsake? I put that little frog in my pocket and touched it with my fingers all day--as I watched more images from Japan.

Oh. And that supermoon comment the night before? I don't want to say I had anything to do with what transpired the next morning...but next time--I'll be a little more cautious in choosing my words on Facebook. "Bring it" may have been just a little too strong. I know all these things were just strange timing--odd coincidences--but Jung always believed there are no coincidences. Things happen for a reason.

Today I believe that. And the reason here, is to share my thoughts and prayers for sweet Kunio, Jeff, their friends and family--and all the lovely people in that beautiful country. We have much to learn from how they face this tragedy with courage, faith and kindness.

My Christmas Cankle - Pt 2 "Stronger, Better, Fatter"

There are times when you ask a higher power "why?" And then there are times you just have to say "WTF." (not sure what movie that was from--but I like it.) This was one of those times where I said both. A painful opportunity to learn multiple lessons while eating cup-a-soup with a spill-proof lid on my couch. As you may have read in my previous blog-rant, I fell. A very special Christmas on crutches. And as good as I got at hobbling on sticks-- I did take another tumble. Week 2. Crutching around in the morning. The slipper on the good foot got stuck in the bad carpet--and down I went, again. I felt something pop and sat there crying, harder than I've ever cried before. Not so much for the pain. But because I couldn't do this alone anymore. I cried because I was tired of these stupid, deadly, metal messes. I thought they were supposed to hold you up? Be my support? I needed a crutch---but clearly a different kind.

Sitting on the floor, I reached for my "crutch purse" (I got smart and secured a little Coach bag to one crutch so I always had a cell phone and some style.) I thought--who can I call? I need to go to the doctor's again because it felt like I sprained the sprain. I called a co-worker. No answer. I called my old pal Matt. No answer. The landlady was at work. So I did it. I called the Ex-crutch. I would like to think this qualified under the category of "don't ever call me again unless it's an emergency like you're dead on the side of the road!" Right? I actually got him on the phone. He told me he had jury duty. (I plead the fifth.)

Stubborn and alone as ever, I drove myself to the doctor. And this time--they gave me the boot. Literally. Years of avoiding bunion surgery because I didn't want to wear that damn UGLY black walking boot--and I get it by default. Sure it's better than crutches, but nothing says "Hey look at me! I'm an old spinster with bad feet!" --than this piece of sexy footwear.

After a couple of painful weeks trying to sleep with that hardware on,  I was referred to a sports med specialist (not that falling with chairs is considered a sport) who said, forget the boot--meet your new brace. He also ordered an MRI. Apparently my little sprain wasn't so little. As I waited for my turn at the giant magnet, I started talking to a man who was waiting for his wife. He asked me why I was there--I told him about my foot. I asked about his wife. "She was in a car accident. Hit and run. She hit her head. That was a few years ago." By now my interest in this story made me nearly forget I was sitting in a hospital gown wondering why they made me remove all the metal on my body. "They did a little surgery back then to fix a cut--and found out she had a massive brain tumor. She didn't know. So basically, if she didn't get in a car accident--she'd be dead! They removed the tumor--this is just a yearly check up. Isn't God great? The way he works?" Wow.

They called me in, so I shook the man's hand and said that I hoped his wife would be fine. As I limped down the hall to my own MRI, I thought--why the hell am I complaining? A sprained ankle? This guy finds grace in a hit and run and I'm sad because I had to go xmas shopping at Rite Aid?! I breathed a sigh of relief when the technician said they think I can do the open MRI for arms and legs. "As long as we can get your foot inside this tube." Come hell or high water--I was getting my foot in that tube. I didn't want to be in that whole body Xray coffin for an hour. (I was blessed not only with hypochondria but claustrophobia as well. God is good!)

The technician gave me headsets and asked if I wanted music. "Any preference?" I'm guessing my 'no rap please' response and my year of birth on the chart, must have forced his selection of the Golden Oldies. The giant magnet began to whirr. Thankful to have any music to drown out the scary sound--I rolled my eyes and chuckled at the first song. "Hey, Hey Paula, I wanna marry you some day." I laughed louder when it reached the second verse--or the "girl" verse--"Hey, Hey (the male version of Paula that is also Mr. PP's name) I wanna marry you some day..." Seriously? I'd settle for a ride to the doctor's office. I closed my eyes and thought about that lovely husband and wife I met in the waiting room. And how you never know how something will turn out.

Three months, 2 Xrays, an MRI, 2 torn ligaments, a boot and a brace later--I've finished my physical therapy and have learned more than any other kind of therapy could have taught me. I've learned that 1. no matter how "in control" you feel--crap happens--and things change. Just when you think things are plugging along--God throws a wrench in and changes up your plans. So how do you deal with it? I've been there before. With the guy. Instead of saying "okay, this has happened, now what?" I fought it. Questioned it. Not this time. So I can't work out and I put on a few pounds. So what?

Lesson #2 -  no matter how careful you are--you can get hurt. And when you're hurt--you need someone to help ease the pain. We are put on this planet to care and be cared for. While my friends and family did their best to care for me long distance (especially my BFF who drove two hours with her kids to bring me a spaghetti dinner) this entire ordeal has taught me --I'm done with being alone. Sure--I can do it alone--but I don't want to. So even if I have to learn to love old and ugly or suffer the humiliation that is online dating--I'm gonna love again! I want to take care of someone--and dammit--I deserve someone here 24/7 to care for me and clean up the crutch spills.

#3 - I need balance in my life. My physical therapist is teaching me to balance again --on my feet and oddly, in my life. First it was all career all the time. Then I let it become all relationship all the time. I didn't balance both very well. And that's when you fall hard. A few months ago I cried at the cruelty of losing my guy, my gig and now maybe my passion--yoga. But this whole thing has been yoga. It may not be on a mat, but I've been balancing--taking care of myself and practicing patience and healing. And sometimes that takes a really, really long time. But you DO get stronger--you get up and walk again--and yes--eventually you'll get that heel back on the floor in your awesome downward dog! I'm not there yet--but I'm close.

Mind the gap

So....CLEARLY there is a massive gap in my blogging. I have only one excuse for my silence: Me fall down go boom. Yes--It's been three months of ankle-busting hell. And sure you may be thinking "What? Does she type with her toes?" (helps if that comes out sounding like a Jewish Bubbie) No. I've just been in a bruised state on my couch--icing, elevating and wondering. Not really in the mood to share. If you've ever hurt yourself--I'm sure you can relate to the stages: Pain. Pills. Pleas. Peas.* Pathetic. And finally--Perturbed. So now I'm back and ready to re-live the trauma--because I'm (mostly) over it. And I can sit at my desk without having to prop my ankle up on a trash can. So hold on to your seats. (or pretty much anything to keep you upright) Cuz the way this went down (or I went down) -- you really can't make up.

I love Christmas. Doesn't matter what's going on in my life--good, bad, completely ugly--anything fa-la-la puts a smile on my fa-la-face. I got my tree early because I knew it would make me happy. My good friend Matt helped me put it in the stand--so I couldn't do that annual "you're supposed to help me" Ex blame game that goes with me trying to wrestle a six foot tree all by myself.                                          

The next day I went to San Francisco with my mom--first the museum--then Union Square for Christmas shopping and lunch. As we walked into the restaurant--an elderly man was exiting the door at the same time, so I opened it and held it for him. Sadly, he took a terrible fall trying to walk through. We helped him up. And not five minutes after being seated at our table-- the woman sitting next to us stood up and took a tumble too.

At this point--my mom and I started joking about people falling--"too much Christmas cheer? The stress of holiday shopping?" That quickly turned to talk about "watching where you walk." My mom fell and badly broke her ankle five years ago. Since then, I've been so worried about her--always telling her to wear non-skid shoes and hold on to railings. As we walked to see the big tree in Union Square I said just that-- "hold on to the rail--don't slip the stairs are wet!" Now I don't want to say I "willed" what happened next upon myself--but seriously? From my mouth to God's ears. Or at least that's how it felt.

After that lovely day with my mom, I went home early to attend a holiday party--one of those ornament exchanges where your gift can get "lifted" from another guest? Leaving you with something that really doesn't "go" with your tree decor--like the proverbial holiday-glitter-bra ornament? I was twenty minutes late to the party and even thought about turning around because I was tired and running late.** But I'm trying hard to not be an old maid who sits at home too much. So I kept driving. 

When my friend opened the door, she informed me I was the first to arrive and asked if I'd mind helping her finish setting up--by moving her dining room chairs upstairs. Now, I'm a helper. I don't mind helping. Especially someone who is courageous enough to throw a party in their home.*** Without blinking an eye--or apparently using one--I picked up the heavy chair--and headed in the direction of the stairs. What I didn't see--was the gigantic step down into the foyer that led to the staircase...and down we both went. Me and the heavy chair.

Embarrassed beyond belief--I sat on the floor in a WTF just happened daze. I quickly realized it wasn't the embarrassment--but the pain--that paralyzed me. My frantic host-friend ran over-- are you okay'd me-- and continued to take the chair upstairs. She was concerned but had 15 guests arriving soon. I couldn't stand right away--so I knew I did something. I found a way to upright myself--and thought--well? It hurts like hell--but I can put weight on it--how bad can it be? They say if you can step on it--its not broken. At least that's what they taught me in Girl Scouts. So I stayed. For the ornaments, of course.

Two hours later and after opening my little wooden carved zoo animal "ornaments?" with twine hangers, I realized I couldn't feel my foot. So I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I could barely pull my Uggs off. **** Once I painfully removed the shoe--I was horrified by the grapefruit-sized massive swelling on the side of my ankle. I couldn't get the Uggs back on. After being given a bag of frozen peas and told "you'll never get into an ER on a Saturday night"--I decided I couldn't stand the pain enough to wait for the party games (no comment) and drove myself 20 minutes to the ER by my house. Drove. With a right foot now resembling a holiday pork tenderloin.

I thought, "If the parking lot doesn't look too bad--I'll go in." Happily--even though it was 8pm on a holiday Saturday night--it looked empty. They quickly brought me back, registered me and gave me some ice. And there I sat--FOR FOUR HOURS. With a dripping, melting ice bag...and no help. Apparently these people didn't drive there. They arrived by ambulance or paddy wagon. Hence the empty lot. Behind the ER curtain I heard a drunk guy talk about getting in a fight. I heard a homeless woman bitch out a nurse who told her she has a UTI and then I heard TMI about the men she was having sex with on the street. I called my mom even though the sign said "circle-red-line-through-cell-phone". I didn't cry--but we both could not believe our conversation about falling, just hours before. We were both a little scared.    

About hour 3.5 I hopped off the bed and did some bitching of my own at the nurse's station. "I realize a bad ankle is low priority--but I have insurance that will pay! Real money! Cash! All you want!?" They brought me into Xray and finally gave me some Motrin. In the midst of what was coming and going in the ER that night--my little fall wasn't so important I guess. At 12:48 am, the doctor told me nothing was broken--they fitted me with some crutches and told me to ice and elevate. Sent me home. No help to my car. Having never used crutches before--and juggling my purse, shoes, ice bag and release papers--this was not such an easy task. Couldn't they even have wheeled me to my car? NOW I wanted to cry.

I hate to break it to you, but those TV images of new moms on Lifetime and Gray's Anatomy patients being wheeled out by a smiling orderly--aren't really real. You're on your own Lynnie. Just mind the gap.

And these were lessons I had to learn over and over in the coming weeks. Taking care of yourself on one foot is a challenge. You don't realize how your feet effect everything. Forget about walking or working out--I'm talking about making toast, turning over in bed, answering the phone. Couch-bound in my little house with no family in town--I had to rely on a co-worker, my land lady and Safeway delivery for my existence and my sanity. After a couple days--I learned that using frozen blueberries wasn't a good icing option (when they melt they stain) and I thought I finally had the incessant spilling under control. I shifted from glasses and mugs to an adult sippy cup. I thought I was a genius when I used my Starbucks coffee travel mug for everything--including wine. But somehow--my crutches managed to knock that over too. I got pretty good at getting in and out of the shower--first sit on the toilet. Slide the good leg over the edge of the tub. Grab the faucet and pull with all my might. It's amazing I didn't slip and break my neck. Balancing on one leg in the shower is probably NOT recommended for sprain patients. Neither is shaving your legs.

(Yikes this is getting long. Up next, part 2... or "Oops I did it again.")

*I still can't bring myself to cook with frozen peas. And I love peas.
**Lesson: Always listen to your gut. Always. Even if it means sitting on your couch feeling like an old maid.
***Just say no to moving furniture when you're a guest. Stay a guest. Lift a glass instead.
****Uggs are uggly and deadly. Your foot is basically flipping around in a giant cotton ball with no support.