Update and verdict

I’m still writing away, and it appears that 3Sum, the column that I contribute to in RedEye is going to be appearing online, so here’s the link, in case you’re interested.

And I’m also writing feverishly for National Novel Writer’s Month. I’m beginning to think that I’m crazy for this. I’ve been writing in Starbucks in Old Town, which can be a good place, but is also a people-watching extravaganza. The book itself is going slower than I’d like — it’s a hard story to tell for many reasons. I’m SO grateful for my saving grace, which is an anonymous blog that I wrote to document my mother’s illness. Without it, I would probably not remember the dates and details.

Anyhoo . . . thanks for the encouragement. I’m still writing this for the remainder of November.

To close the loop on my foot pain, I went to the orthopedic surgeon. He twisted my foot around, did some probing for pain, and ordered an X-ray.

Post x-ray, he examined the film and asked if I wanted good news or bad news. I replied that I just wanted news.

He said that the good news is that what I have isn’t a stress fracture. The bad news is that I’m in pain and he doesn’t know why. Here are my options:

1) A bad sprain, which we’re assuming is the problem, which means that I have to strengthen that foot with a bunch of exercises that the doctor gave me.

2) An occult fracture, which isn’t detectable in an x-ray, only through a bone scan or MRI.

The doc would like for me to do the exercises first, and said that my progress wouldn’t be measured in days — probably in weeks or months. But if it doesn’t get better, I’m going to have to go back in for an MRI.

I swear, my illnesses are never easy. But at least I got it checked out.

Writing progress, or lack thereof

Every time I take time away from my burgeoning novel, I feel guilty. The few minutes that I’ve spared to write this post is no different, but I wanted to write something that doesn’t have to do with the subject matter.

I think I underestimated the difficulties of writing about my mother’s illness. There was so much that I forgot, and quite frankly WANTED to forget. The good news is that it’s a cathartic experience for me, and will probably do me more good than any therapy session.

I’m a few thousand words behind, so I’m trying to do a few catch-up marathon writing sessions. Last night I managed to eke out 4,300 words — about 10 pages or so. It was a meaningful chunk. The problem is that today I have absolutely no interest in writing, or even looking at that book. Not good, because the point was to catch up, not burn myself out.

So, I’m sitting in Starbuck’s (aka my office), doing some “real work,” trying to coax myself into writing more when I’m done. We’ll see what happens.

Stress and stress fractures

Sometimes I intentionally give myself challenges that will stress me the hell out. Anyone who writes will probably know that November is National Novel Writers Month, where (insane) writers everywhere challenge themselves to write a novel in one month. And, of course, they’ve chosen one of the shortest months in which we’re to craft these 50,000 word works of art. I know . . . it’s only a day, but what a difference a day can make!

I’ve tried this once before, but I got off to a bad start after contracting the flu during the first week in November and was never able to get back on track. I’m trying not to get sick this time so that I can get through this torturous exercise. Besides, I have a better story this time.

I’m using this as an avenue to talk about something that I’ve been wanting to get out, which is the 10 months of my mother’s illness which led to her death. So already I’m cheating because it’s supposed to be a novel. Even though I’m technically fictionalizing some of it, to protect the innocent (or guilty, in some cases).

It’s not being written to be published, per se, but I’m looking at it as more of a cathartic experience. If anyone’s ever lost a parent, you understand the emotional wreckage and how you can look up one day and realize the weird ways that grief manifests in your life. Since, unless I’m angry, I’m not an overly expressive person, this could be the emotional detox that I need.

That said, who knows if I’ll make the 50,000 word requirement, or meet the 11/30 deadline? At least it’s the kick in the ass that I need to get started. And the best part is that, when I’m done, nobody has to read it.

To avoid driving myself and everyone else crazy (or crazier) I’m not going to provide regular updates about my project, nor willl I post excerpts, but I will check back in at the end of the month and let y’all know how I did. (And of course I’ll blog about other stuff intermittently. Not that I need to direct any writing energy away from the main project, but really? What’s life without a good rant?)

On another note, a few posts back I talked about an injury sustained to my left foot. Well . . . I’ve taken my commentors advice to heart and spoken to a few medical professionals about it. Taking into account my symptoms (the most telling being the gradually developing pain, particularly with any weight bearing activities) it is suspected that I have a stress fracture in either my 4th or 5th metatarsal (feels more like 5th). I’m going to an ortho surgeon to get x-rayed this week.

So, what would a stress fracture mean to me? Well . . . according to everything I’ve read, here are my three treatment options:

Rest — I don’t even know what that means. Because of my knee, I’ve already been warned against running, or anything that could shock my knee. However, I’m assuming that speedwalking, tennis and dance classes should be off the docket.

Protective footwear – orthopedic shoes, here I come. I’ve often fantasized about abandoning my heels in favor of less attractive but comfy Naturalizers. This might be my chance.

Cast — perish the thought. That would be torturous for me in this season, with my dry skin issues.

Surgery — Ummm . . . SURGERY?? How is this cosmically possible?? With 6 surgeries already under my belt, it hardly seems fair that I would have to endure a 7th. Crossing my fingers HARD that surgery isn’t my best option. What they would have to do in surgery is insert an internal fixator, such as a pin or a screw, to hold it in place. It sounds evil and invasive. I want no parts of it!

I’ll post the final verdict, but I’m putting positive thoughts into the Universe that my treatment option is the least severe.

Jamaica Funk, that’s what it is . . .

It’s been two weeks, so let’s catch up.

First, I had a great time in Jamaica. (and yes, Damon, I did wear the bathing suit. I also wore the board shorts. ) The wedding was beautiful and the resort was amazing. We stayed at Couples Tower Isle in Ocho Rios, which is a couples resort (if you couldn’t tell by the title). The bridal party had to get special clearance to allow singles to attend. I wasn’t sure of what my experience as a single at a couples’ resort would entail, but I decided to go for it anyway.

Now . . . I have to admit that Jamaica is not my favorite destination. I went several years ago, and I never had any plans to return. While there the first time, I felt like I always had to be alert. From the moment I deplaned, natives were aggressively clamoring for my attention — ultimately my dollar. Several times while there, I was warned to be careful. I was so mistrustful and mindful of my surroundings that I wasn’t able to relax. If I wanted to feel that way, there are plenty of neighborhoods in Chicago that I can visit for free.

This trip was different. The resort is private and all-inclusive. I’d heard mixed reviews about all-inclusives. A lot of people complain about the quality of the food, or the activities. I was pleasantly surprised. The food was good and very abundant (a little TOO abundant. Like, I gained-4-pounds-in-four-days, abundant). There were endless activities — free golf with caddies, waterskiing, scuba, snorkeling, etc.

Essentially, the resort set-up shielded me from all of the things that I don’t like about Jamaica, and provided more of what I do like — beaches, warm weather and activities. And yes, I did manage to have jerk chicken a few times. At the resort, of course. And don’t give me shit, people! I wasn’t there for a cultural immersion. I was there to relax and enjoy a wedding. Which is what I did.

Now . . . being a single at a couples’ resort is better than I thought. When I told my friends that I was going to Jamaica — specifically to a resort with nude sunbathing options — there were mixed responses. Jen was repulsed by the thought of free-range nudists. Stacey was convinced that I would get lots of requests for threesomes by gruesome, bored couples. Others asked me if I was going to get my groove back, Stella style.

I reminded them that getting her groove back in Jamaica wasn’t ultimately what it was cracked up to be for author Terry McMillan. So I promised, instead, that I wouldn’t have any threesomes, nor would I flirt with any sexually-confused men who were several years my junior. I kept those promises. Which was easy to do.

At a couples’ resort, all of the visitors are paired up, so nobody’s flirting with you. Additionally, the Jamaicans were unflirtatiously cordial and helpful. Bonuses, all around. I was able to hang out at the beach and pool, without concern about my looks or having to pay attention to my environment. If I could sneak into a couples’ resort again, I would do so in a heartbeat.

Funny stories, though . . . upon arrival at the airport in Montego Bay, guests have to check in at the resort area, and then they’re piled into a van to head to the resort. I was on the flight with a friend and his date, so there were three of us in our party, along with a couple that was on our flight. Having taken a 6:30 am flight, we were all too tired to talk during the van ride. When we made a pit stop during the two hour drive to the resort, we told them that we were going for a wedding, and explained the situation. They confessed that they thought we were going down as a threesome, which I found hilarious.

While at the resort, almost every woman in our large party managed to encounter a frequent guest named Fred. Fred’s claim to fame was having visited that resort 69 times — a number that sounded suspicious to me, but I didn’t question it. Fred and his large party were big fans of Tower Island, where all of the naked people hang out. (FYI, these weren’t the people that you wanted to see naked.)

Tower Island is about 100 yards off the coast of the resort. Close enough to see that people are naked, but far enough so that you can’t see specifics. There are boats that will take you and pick you up. The rule is that you have to be naked if you’re on the island. You’re able to walk to your seats in your bathing suit, but once you get settled, you have to strip down. Needless to say that I had no plans on setting foot on that island during nudist hours.

Fred lobbied for the contrary. And, by the way, I think there’s something a bit strange about going to a nude island with your spouse and 10 of your closest friends. Call me a prude. Whatever.

At one point, a woman in the naked party intimated that they did more than nude sunbathing on that island, but I didn’t want to go any farther with that visual. In fact, I still don’t.

Let’s just suffice it to say that I had a great time, and I was happy to watch one of my favorite couples begin a new phase of their lives.

Boy story – Indecent Proposals

Doesn’t it seem that everyone has their relationship cross to bear? The one trait that seems to be present in each new relationship potential?

Sometimes it’s a good thing. For example, I know a woman who attracts the nicest guys in the world. I don’t think she’s ever had a “bad” relationship. She still has kind words to say about her exes, although the relationships didn’t work out, ultimately due to incompatibility. Bully for her.

Others aren’t so lucky. I’ve known women who attract abusive men. Whether it’s verbal or, God forbid, physical, they seem to have special divining rods for men who mistreat women. Fortunately, I’ve never had that problem. To be fair, I have dated exactly two men whom I later learned had been abusive to women in the past, but those traits were never bared during our time together. (Obviously, those men wanted to remain alive, and keep all critical body parts intact.)

I also know women who attract possessive men. Not me. In fact most of the men that I’ve dated were devoid of the jealousy gene, and have been laissez-faire to a fault.

So, what’s my cross to bear? I attract cheaters, and men who are interested in booty calls. Not a great bunch, right?

Most of the men that I’ve dated have embodied some variety of both traits, because the cheaters eventually make booty calls . . . to other women . . . while we’re dating. Motherfuckers. (And since at least one of them has cheated with several women who have children, I mean that quite literally.)

But for the sake of this blog post, let’s discuss the booty callers. I can’t quite figure them out.

Now . . . if anyone is reading this, you might think that these callers are obviously people that I’ve been involved with. You would be dead wrong. Never dated, hooked up, or anything else with any of them.

Then you might be thinking that the BC Boys are men that I’ve somehow enjoyed flirting with or perhaps seductively scribbled my digits on the palms of their hands. Ummm . . . no. In fact when I receive the propositions, it’s out of the blue — tantamount to being hit by a toilet seat, flying mysteriously from the sky (yes, was recently watching reruns of “Dead Like Me”). After I graciously decline their generous offers of midnight lust, I scratch my head, certain that they must have misdialed or texted.

This has been happening to me for years, and I don’t know why.

The very first time I received a random Do Me call, I didn’t know what was going on. It was the middle of the night and I had fallen asleep after returning home late from a party. It was only after I told the guy that he couldn’t come over — sleepy, and confused about why he would want to come over at 4:00 am in the first place — that it occurred to me that I had received a booty call. The next morning, I was annoyed albeit somewhat flattered. I thought, “Wow! I never knew he was attracted to me!”

But after the haze subsided and I thought about it for a while, my ego deflated and I became insulted. If BC Boy were really THAT compelled, how about giving me a call before midnight on a Wednesday to see if I could go out to dinner with him on Saturday? How about telling me that I was “on his mind” without a slurred voice, and before consuming a vat of Jack? WTF?

I couldn’t have predicted that that very first BC was like ripping off the first square of a roll of toilet paper. After that first one, many ensued. I got them from surprising sources — men that I’ve known for a while, famous people, friends. Seriously? You’d be surprised.

It wasn’t that the callers liked me so much, but for some reason, I was perceived as a person who would be “cool with it.” I have no idea why. If I were them, I would be the last one to call. Or maybe I was. Who knows?

While I never took the plunge and accepted any of their kind offers, I began to wonder if someone was being malicious, and spreading the untruth that if you wanted non-committal midnight nookie, I was your girl.

I had a brief respite from booty calls while I was in a relationship for a while. After I broke up with my ex, they took a while to ramp back up again, and fortunately never grew to the same volume as before.

It had been so long that I thought my BC days were over, until a few weeks ago.

I was on Facebook (where all evil begins), and I received an IM from a friend. He and I have been friends for years, and we’ve spent a lot of time discussing our individual relationship issues, etc. We’ve had many laughs over bad dates, and had never, ever discussed dating possibilities with one another.

So . . . we exchanged typical pleasantries via IM, until he asked when I was planning to visit him. He lives here in the city, but in an area where there is no parking within a 6 block radius, and for that logistical issue, his place is never a fun destination. Regardless, I told him that he never invites me. He replied that I have an open invitation. Then, joking, I said “Yeah, I have an open invite until one of your hotties shows up, and then I get kicked out.”

He insisted that I would never get kicked out, and assured me that I would be the hottie. I found that to be a bit weird, but I got distracted by the phone and didn’t reply right away.

About a minute later I received another IM. It read “you should come over and spend the night.” I paused, thinking at first that he typed that message in the wrong IM window.

I could go back and forth with the exact dialog, but since we’re at 950+ words already, I’ll spare everyone. The long and the short of it is that I told him that I was surprised at his “offer,” asked him where it was coming from, and he said that he’d liked me for a while and just wanted to see me.

I informed him about a little thing called a “date,” and then asked if he was angling at becoming my FWB (friend with benefits). He said that he doesn’t like labels. (I found it hilarious that he couldn’t put a label on a completely uncommitted non-relationship.)

Bottom line is that we’re still friends, and will remain platonic friends going forward. which I think we’re both okay with. (And if you’re reading this, I TOLD you I was going to write about it! )

What I’m also hoping is that his proposal isn’t the start of a new upward trend.

In denial

Weird story, but it’s on my mind, so here goes.

A little over a year ago — on September 24th, to be specific — I had knee surgery. It was my third. I had my ACL reconstructed from an old college quasi-sports injury.

As an aside, I sincerely wish that I originally hurt my knee doing something meaningful, fun, highly athletic, or even kind of kinky. Nope. For the record, it was powder puff flag football that did me in. But I digress . . .

So . . . two nights before my surgery, I had drinks with an old friend at the Four Seasons bar on North Michigan avenue. When I left, I decided to walk down Michigan for a while, anticipating that being one of my last long walks for the foreseeable future until my knee began to heal.

I didn’t get far. I was busy thinking about how glad I was to have reconnected with him, stepped off the curb at a weird angle, and felt the tiniest snap in my left foot. I screamed loud enough so that people next to me asked if I was okay. Embarrassed, I claimed to be okay, as I limped over to lean against the closest building to assess the damages.

I couldn’t see anything (as though I expected a bone to pop out of my foot), but I was clearly in pain. Nearly unwalkable pain. I hobbled into a cab and went home. I limped in and made an ice pack for my foot, convinced that ice would be the remedy for whatever I had done. I prevented any real swelling, did a little self-diagnosing on WebMD, and determined that I didn’t have a broken foot. If I had to guess, I would say that I had damaged a ligament attached to one of the lesser metatarsals (toward the instep on the top of my left foot).

The pain persisted, and I thought of making an appointment with my doctor for the following day. But here was the dilemma . . . I had hurt my left foot, and was due to have surgery on my right knee. A bum left foot would be a recipe for major incapacitation. Aside from that, I was afraid my doctor would think I was crazy. Well . . . crazier.

So, I had a little conversation with myself. It went something like this: “Woman up, you clumsy bitch!” (It was a short conversation. I mean, what would have been my retort??) I decided that whatever issue I was having with my foot would soon pale in comparison to what my knee was about to endure. I iced and practiced walking until I was limp-free, and put it out of my head like the denial expert that I am. I kept telling myself that if I didn’t address the problem, it didn’t exist.

And once the scalpel hit my knee a day later, I barely remember having hurt myself.
Over the next six months, if I had foot pain, I didn’t realize it. I was too busy healing and rehabbing on the right side.

Fast forward to now. My knee is fine, and now my foot is KILLING me. It doesn’t hurt so much when I walk or wear heels, but the dull pain is always there.

The new dilemma is what to do about it. Here are the possibilities:

1) I go to the doctor and get hundreds of dollars of tests done, only to find out that I had fractured something last year and it healed incorrectly. The only way to fix it is to re-break the bone and re-set it.
Let me tell you right now that THIS option? Ain’t happenin’!

2) I go to the doctor and get hundreds of dollars of tests done, and the findings are inconclusive. He recommends physical therapy.
Not a tragedy, but I’m not looking forward to any more physical therapy. Ever again.

3) I go to the doctor and get hundreds of dollars of tests done, which makes him think that I should have an MRI, which proves that I strained a muscle/ligament in my foot. Not much recourse here. Physical therapy, maybe? Surgery?
He lost me at MRI

4) Leave it alone and suck it up. I admit that, although I’m whining about the pain, this is the most appealing option. And the only one devoid of major medical expenditures!

Okay . . . I think I’ve sufficiently answered my own question. On to the next dilemma . . .

How to stuff a wild bikini

My beach items should arrive soon.

I ordered board shorts. Nothing fancy, but they do the trick (and they have pockets, which is a BIG plus for me!):

And while I was at it, I thought I’d give myself a little incentive — a new bikini!

If this isn’t incentive to get back on the workout wagon, I don’t know what is. (Because if I don’t, this suit will never get any airtime) And, by the way . . . how many bathing suits do I need for a four day trip? I have four. Is that overkill??

Who else is over it?

Maybe this should be content for the other (yet-to-be-launched) site, but I’d like to put it up for discussion over here. At least five times this week, I’ve heard people say that as far as relationships go, they’re “over it.” Either recent experiences or an accumulation of experiences over time have caused these people to check themselves out of the game. For good, as far as they’re concerned.

So, I’m wondering . . . how many of you are done? If so, what was your defining moment (to the extent that you’d like to share), and what, if anything, might bring you back to the land of relationship hopefuls?

As for myself, I’m not really sure what it would take. [But then, I'm a different case. Analyzing/writing about something is a recipe for wanting nothing to do with the very thing that you analyze. And then there are the experiences that reinforce the feeling.]

Overdoing it, board shorts, etc.

I’ve already managed to burn myself out on the exercise in preparation for Jamaica.

Well . . . not really, but I’m so sore that I can barely stand due to the power lifting I’ve been doing.

Okay, so I can’t REALLY call it power lifting, since I don’t work out with any more than 25 lb dumbbells at a time. In fact, some would call me a sissy!

But I’m sore nonetheless. I’m determined to work through it, but I’m moving slowly.

My problems may be solved, though, as my friend Susan has given me a good solution for my butt-thigh-coverage issue — Board shorts! Love them, and I can waterski in them! I will be ordering a few pair, should my workout plan prove ineffective. I hope they arrive in time.

Because I’m getting accused of neglecting to announce this, yes, I’m in the October issue of Essence in a Pantene ad. It’s amazing what a lot of makeup and Photoshop can do.

Counting down until swimsuit

The thing that’s been looming over my head — haunting me — is a destination wedding coming up at the end of October — mere weeks away.

It’s in Jamaica at an all-inclusive couples resort, and I’m actually looking forward to it. I love the couple that’s getting married, and I’m anticipating a fun group of guests. I don’t even mind that, as a single person going to a couples resort, it’s a more expensive trip for me. I’m just happy to be there to party with the bride and groom, and celebrate their nuptials.

But here’s the problem — I have to get into a bathing suit. Gaaa!

It’s one thing to go to an island and get into the bikini with people that I will never see again. But with people that I KNOW??? Brutal.

I suppose I COULD arm myself with a few beach muumuus and remain covered up the entire time — under the guise of protecting myself from the harsh UV rays. But who am I fooling? I never met a water activity that I didn’t like, and the minute the water-skiing instructor appears, will rip off the coverup and go running toward the boat.

So, I’m working out. I’ve been trying to be good all summer, but now I’m getting my Biggest Loser last chance workout in — for the next 30 days.

If you see me and I’m grumpy and sore, you’ll know why! Also, if you see me stocking up on sarongs, you’ll also know why!