Oh Fran...you do make life interesting

Last week my Uncle Henry had a heart attack. He was in the hospital for a few days and moved into a nursing home this past weekend. My mother assured me he was fine, the heart attack was minor. I didn't need to drive up on Thursday to see him -- it would be fine to wait for the weekend.

I would call home everyday and check on him, check on his condition, and also check on my parents. My mother has gotten completely absorbed in taking care of Henry, as I've reported in recent posts, and then playing the sympathy card for herself. All along she assured me he was fine, doing well, responded positively to the idea of assisted living, etc.

Imagine then, my surprise, when I actually saw him in the nursing home on Saturday afternoon. Unshaven, hands and face bruised and cut from when he fell the night of his heart attack, his eyes glazed over, weak. He was alert enough to know who I was, to talk to me, to tell me to be careful driving back to Ithaca, etc. But he was not the same man I saw a month ago when I went up to get some stuff from my aunt's apartment.

My mother showed him the layout of the assisted living place, where he'll be going after the nursing home. He seemed disinterested, kind of a "whatever" attitude. Also in direct contrast to the way Fran had portrayed it to me. "He said he'll go wherever I tell him."

So I pulled my sister-in-law in the hallway and asked if he was okay with going to the new place. She said, "I don't think he has a choice." Well, maybe not, but he should at least think he does. And it bothered me that my mother is speaking to him as if he's a child.

He mentioned that he was going to take a nap after we all left. That quickly got translated into, "you finish your coffee and snack and then we'll put you down for a nap before we go."

Put you down for a nap! This man is 91 years old -- not two.

And she keeps rationalizing his moving to the assisted living facility. "I don't know how much it upsets him to open his door and see Aunt Marion's apartment right across the hall. It upsets me."

First, of all, I'm not exactly sure how often he actually opens his door, unless he has someone coming to visit. Secondly, this is not the first person he's lost. His wife died and he was able to manage living in their house for another 10 years or so.

So now my poor Uncle is turning into a shell of a man, because my mother is treating him like an infant, because (probably) he feels like he has no control or decision-making powers over his own life. And my mother is the master puppeteer. Scary, indeed.

She's apparently been going to her head-shrinking sessions, and in the car the other day, asks, "When you were growing up, did you think I put dad ahead of you kids, or you kids ahead of dad."

I didn't even really think about it. "Us first."

"Hmmmm....that interesting, because Sammi said that she thought I put dad first."

"Well, that makes sense. All the older kids say that they were raised by a different man than I was. Why are you bringing this up?"

"Oh something that came up with the doctor the other day. He said that dad is sarcastic because that's his way of being heard, because I put you kids first."

I let it go at that. My father is sarcastic, because that's his personality. And I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one of the eight of us who feel that she put us ahead of my dad. The next youngest was five and in school when I was born. All the other kids are only a year or two apart. Different circumstances, different issues, different hardships.

What any of this is going to accomplish in her therapy is anyones' guess -- it's just one more way for Fran to be Fran, and Fran to play the hero or the victim, or whatever role she feels will get the most mileage out of.

Note: I know this sounds terribly harsh. I do love my mother, and I do worry about her -- but at the same time, she brings so much bullshit on herself, so much drama, and there is so much manipulation. It's one thing when she "frans" one of us -- it's another when she's playing with someone's life.

An Apology

B: do you have a minute right now?
ellie: sure
B: are you and I ok? (we can talk about this later / in person / not at all - but I wanted to ask)
ellie: we're fine
ellie: but we can talk about it if you want
B: Clearly our friendship seems to have been affected to some degree, and I'm sad about that
ellie: i think to some degree, but to a minor degree
ellie: honestly i still adore you
B: and I you
B: I apologize for anything I did to make things more uncomfortable - I'm a complete moron when it comes to that
ellie: you're just a boy (and I mean that in the best possible way)
ellie: clearly i have a need to take care of people
ellie: and sometimes that gets me in trouble in my own head and the way i take my feelings too far
ellie: and you’re so easy to take care of
B: and I have no cautionary filters in my behavior
B: hehe
ellie: exactly
B: I kind of just want to hug you and see you smile
ellie: thanks
B: I really love having you as my friend
ellie: me too
B: ok - I'm glad I said something
ellie: me too
B: now I'm all verklempt or however the fuck you spell that
ellie: let's plan to have lunch or something soon
B: ok
B: I would like that -- hug* thanks again
ellie: thanks for bringing it up -- i never would have :-)
B: :-)
ellie: and oh by the way...
ellie: i'm normal
B: how do you mean? hehe
ellie: jenn told about your conversation
B: which? (I'm still not clicking in)
ellie: that i try to think i'm normal, but i'm not, that i’m more altnerative or something, and that think that people at work don't think you're as alternative as you are
ellie: ring a bell?
B: hehe
ellie: yea, i'm normal
ellie: and you used to be alternative...
B: I think I said that you have a side that you don't show at work
ellie: that is until you bought the family wagon
B: haha
B: it's because I'm a rock star baby
B: I need to tote my goods
B: I am alternative
B: I am I am
B: hehe
ellie: yes you are
ellie: and i'm the epitamy of normal
ellie: like Donna Reed normal
ellie: i could so have a house in the ‘burbs, two kids, CEO husband
ellie: it's just that i'll be jenna jameson in the bedroom
B: hahaha
B: that is wonderful
B: for some reason the word normal bothers me
B: I don't think of you that way
ellie: thanks
B: how about special?
ellie: ok
B: in this day and age you are very special ;-)
ellie: aaah thanks
B: :-)

Hallmark Friends

I've lost one of my friends. I don't mean that she's literally lost, or she's passed away. Only that time and geography have drifted us apart from one another. The irony is that I think we were closer when I lived in Baltimore than now, only a mere 90 minutes away from each other.

We used to e-mail each other at least a few times a month, occassionally we'd talk on the phone. I've been in New York for nearly two years now -- and I've seen her only once. Now granted, I've not seen many of my other Rochester friends more than two or three times, but with her, its different. I talk to them, I e-mail them -- and I get a response back.

I could make more of an effort, certainly. I could try harder. Hell, I could even pick up the phone and shoot the shit with her. But something holds me back. And I think that thing, that thing that holds me back is that I have tried. I've e-mailed her specifically, when I heard a song that reminded me of her. Last month, I sent her a page from my page-a-day desk calendar -- Lady and the Tramp -- because she loves that movie and always had me save those pages for her when we worked together. I never did get a response. I wasn't even expecting anything other than a "thanks for thinking of me" in return. Because I did want her to know I was thinking of her, that I had been thinking of her, and missing her.

And certainly, I've included her on joke emails, or funny little links to this and that. And yet, I've heard nothing. We're all busy. We all have our own thing going on. I understand that. But I've always been one to think that you should never be too busy for your friends. You should never let life keep you from staying in touch with people you care about.

I've been in this boat before with her. Last Christmas I didn't receive a card from her or acknowlegement of the gift I sent her baby. It hurt. So after hemming and hawing and being frustrated, I sent her an email, asking if everything was okay between us. I didn't bring up the gift, because I didn't want to be accusatory, give her cause to be defensive. She insisted that she sent me a card, was I sure I didn't get it? Yes, I was sure.

And then that was that....we did the birthday greetings with each other in the spring, I sent her an anniversary card in the summer. Maybe this is the way it will be between us, we've become "greeting card" friends, the kind you only hear from or communicate with on birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.

I'm not sure where to go with this -- or what to do. I guess, I'll just carry on. Include her in e-mails, send her a note now and then when something makes me think of her, and try not to let it hurt. Maybe someday we'll rediscover our bond, rediscover that closeness we once had. And I guess even being "greeting card" friends gives us that opportunity, gives us a better chance of once again being close.

Monday Musings

Where did the weekend go? Suddenly its Monday morning again. And I'm not sure what I did this weekend.

* I didn't work on my cover letter/application for the media relations position.
* I didn't clean the bathroom or vacuum, like I had planned.
* I didn't go to Skaneateles on Saturday because the weather was too bad.

Its a Monday without any meetings, so I'm thinking that while I can't clean the bathroom from work...once I get some stuff out of the way, I can probably work on my application here.

The one big thing I did get done this weekend, and I'm almost embarrassed to say how easy it was -- my taxes! I did them on-line -- and I guess the whole not knowing, never having done it, freaked me out way more than it needed to. Twenty minutes later, I'm getting a nice check from George Bush, and I owe George Pataki $40. You gotta love New York state taxes.

I left Chris a message that I did them on my own. He was impressed (more with that I didn't let the numbers scare me, rather than I actually did it on my own -- a child could have done them). He still has to do his ex-wife's, but I'm off his list now.

And I went to the gym yesterday. I don't usually work out on the weekends, because that would mean working out with all the students. But its like I'm a car, going very slowly toward a speed bump. I have enough mometum to start over the bump, and I think I'm going to make it, and then I roll backwards. That's the way I feel about getting to back to 38 pounds, and over the 40-pound mark. Sigh.

Everyone has their own way...

...some more frustrating than others.


Somewhere in the world,
there is a land called Passive Agressiva.
And you are the queen.
-- Grey's Anatomy

PR Goddess

Dare I say it? It's took early to hope. I haven't even officially applied -- but I did talk to my boss. The director of media relations positon is open at work. And I want it. Bad. I went into my boss's office the other day, a little nervous, but more confident than Ive been in a long time about my job.

I asked if I could talk to him for a minute and closed the door. I told him I didn't want to make him nervous, especially with one of my co-workers leaving in a couple weeks to relocate to another state. I purposely set him up to expect the worst out of me. I told him I wanted to apply for the media relations position.

He seemed surprised, which surprised me. "That's what I did for the past 10 years before comeing here."

And then the lightbulb went off. "Oh yea, I guess that was a large part of your job, wasn't it?"

Uh, yea. So he asked for my five-minute pitch, and I gave it. I thrive on dealing with the media, it was always one of my biggest strengths. I like digging up stories and pitching the stories, finding the right niche, the right connection between the reporter and the story. That I see this position as one that was ready for a shake-up (the current person has been in it for more than 20 years), that it needs to be more pro-active, and oh, by the way, by the very nature of my current position, I have a solid relationship with half the campus.

He gave me his blessing, told me that I would be a strong candidate, and by all means apply. Now the red tape in higher education HR means that nothing will probably happen for several months. It was just posted last week -- I'm guessing they won't do interviews until at least the end of March.

And so my Sunday will be all about writing my cover letter, tailoring it to my current skills, highlighting my national media experience at my previous positions, etc.

The PR Goddess just might live -- and wouldn't it be the perfect situation. A new job, what I really like doing, what I know, instictively, how to do -- but without leaving the security of the workplace.

Coud it really be too good to be true?

The Frustration that is Fran

My mother has been doting on her uncle so much since my aunt died (his sister, not his wife -- not that that means the grief is any less, just different) that we've taken to calling her Franna Nicole Smith. (I have some very people in my family who came up with that one -- I cannot take the credit.)

So I called Fran yesterday morning (I had to check on my immunization because we've had a couple students come down with the mumps on campus) and I asked if she and my dad wanted to come down for dinner in the next weekend or two.

And she said, oh Uncle Henry would like a change of scenery.

So I said, well, he's welcome to come, the stairs will be hard on him, but I was actually thinking that it would give you a break, a Henry-free day.

So she said, well he really looks forward to our Sunday dinners.

So come on Saturday, I said.

Then she called me last night, just to tell me that she had a really good day, very peaceful and calm. Oh, okay. It seemed to come so out of the blue that I wasn't really sure how to respond, didn't understand why she was calling me.

I asked her if she had talked to my dad about dinner -- she said that they would be coming on a Saturday, and would give my brother Henry duty that day.

I can't say enough how much I love my mother, but at the same time, she creates these dramas, she creates these situations where she thinks she's needed more than she may really be.

Case in point, my niece was on the phone with her the other night (and I heard my niece's version before I heard it from Fran). She was over-tired, she felt like my dad was getting ignored because Fran has been doting so much on Henry, and Jenny said she "was worried about grandpa."

Last night, my mother told me that when she talked to Jenny the other night, "oh she was so upset, she worries so much about me."

Perhaps these sessions of getting her head shrunk will give her a better grasp on reality. Or perhaps, we will get another round of Fran thinking too much about other people and not enough about herself and suddenly we'll have a monster on our hands again.

Buffalo Dave

I've been thinking about Buffalo Dave a lot lately. Because I miss him, because I feel guilty for letting so much time go by without chatting with him, because he called me last week and chastised me for letting so much time go by without chatting with him -- but also because as I examine and re-examine my failings in the romance department, I cannot not think of him. He was the first person, the first time I actually felt pain in my chest, I actually felt my heart breaking in a million little pieces over him.

We became friends -- and because we didn't live in the same town, we talked on the phone, a lot. And by doing that, we got to know each other really well. I idealized him, I fell for him -- and, as has been the case of many people in my life, I saw things that weren't there, or that were being communciated in actions in one way, but in words in an entirely different. So I chose to ignore the words, and focused on the flirting, on the attention.

For three years, I pined for him. My friends at work knew instantly when he called, because of the change in my voice. And then, one day, I realized that I needed to do something. I either needed to tell him how I felt, or I needed to move on. Both were scary options. But it needed to happen.

I knew that Dave was going to be visiting our mutual friend Ed (who was living in Connecticut at the time), so I wrote Dave a letter and mailed it to Ed. Over the course of the next week, I think I called Ed three times a day. "Don't give it to him. Give it to him. Don't -- rip it up. No, wait....give it to him." I finally relented with my inner struggle and said, "it's out of my hands, just give it to him."

And so Dave called me the next day, to tell me that he didn't think of me that way, that he loved me as a friend, that it wouldn't work, etc. To his credit, he went out of his way to make sure it wasn't weird between us. And even when it was -- and it most definitely was -- he pushed us through it. And now, 10 years later, I wonder if the me that I am today, if the more confident, more secure me -- if this person is someone he could have fallen in love with, if this me is someone he would have looked at differently.

It's silly to wonder what if, because I'll never know.


I've written you some stories,
but I've locked them all away.
I'll keep them close to me
until that final day.

And when that day has come,
what is it that I'll know?
Will you be the one,
the one to have and hold?

These stories that I've written,
and the one I want to tell
are buried deep within my heart,
but I know them all so well.

One has you falling in love with me,
and hoping I'll never be gone.
You realized the mistake you made
that I was here all along.

In yet another I walk to you,
wearing my wedding white.
I see the love you have for me
and I know that I was right.

To hope, to dream, to wait so long,
I never gave up on you.
We'll be together forever,
this I always knew.

But then I see you getting married,
in other stories still.
And the woman that you marry
is not the one I hope you will.

You have a life carved out,
and in it I don't belong.
The greatest fear I have
that I may have known all along.

The saddest story I own
is one I haven't told.
The worse case I can imagine
has me growing old.

For in this story I never tell you,
the feelings that I feel.
And so we live our separate lives,
the hurt will be so real.

I waited too long,
for fate to intervene.
I never did tell you.
It's something you've never seen.

And so the story I must tell,
by now you may have guessed.
The man I want in my life
has been my truest friend yet.

For it is you I tell the truth
and pray that I won't lose,
the greatest friend I've ever had
the kind of friend I use.

But I need the endings to my stories,
and then I'll tuck them away.
I'll pull them out and think of you,
in years to come someday

And so the questions you need to answer
go a little something like this.
Is she the one, the one for you
or will I get the wedding kiss?

Will you say I'm the one,
I'm the one to stay?
Will you say you love me most,
each and every day?

Or will I only be your friend,
your great friend for life?
Reliable, loyal and truthful,
but never to be your wife?

ellie
october 1996

It's Her World, and I just Live in It

Casey has started a new thing. She falls asleep with me -- in her usual spot, on the outside of the bed, me against the wall, half on one pillow, stretched sideways so that she is coming onto my side of the bed. And then sometime in the middle of the night, she gets up and wanders the house. Perhaps to eat, perhaps to drink, perhaps to check to make sure there are no mice in the house.

Normally, she would come back upstairs and go back to sleep, either next to me or on her kitty condo.

Lately, and this has started to become the norm, lately she has taken to coming back upstairs, standing in the middle of the floor and meowing really loudly. Until I wake up and yell at her. And she meows back. I pat the bed and call her, hoping a head scratching will make her shut up. It usually takes a good three or four times to get her to do this.

When do pets become the master and the master the pet? Or has it always been like this, but it was just too subtle to notice?

Who Said the Best Nuts Come From California?

As I've mentioned before, my mom had a nervous breakdown about 10 years ago. It followed the deaths of my uncle (my dad's brother-in-law), my grandmother (my dad's mom) and one of their closest friends (from cancer). All three deaths occurred within six months of each other.

I can play amateur shrink and guess how each affected her -- when my uncle died, she probably equated that with my dad's own immortality. I know I did. With my grandmother, she had a relationship she wished she could have had with her own mother, but didn't. And then when Tom died, again a peer, and like my uncle, equated it with her or my my dad's immortality.

Fast forward through a hospital stay and therapy and weird Fran vibes and suddenly having a totally different person as my mom -- 10 years later, and my great-aunt died. And Fran took charge -- of the funeral, of my uncle, of the legal stuff, of the apartment, etc. She never allowed herself time to grieve. About a month after the funeral, she had some sort of anxiety attack and went to the doctor.

He told her she needed to start seeing her shrink again. Of course that made me question how often she does, in fact, get her head shrunk. She's been on some sort of anti-depressant for the past 10 years. "Maintenance meds," she calls them. Though I don't know if that's a real term or something she made up to rationalize it.

So I asked her, how often do you get your head shrunk? She said, I'm supposed to go once a year, but it's been longer than that.

But medications change, I argued with her. They lose their effectiveness, or your body gets used to them, like antibiotics. Happy pills probably work the same way -- you need to get your head shrunk more often.

She agreed, but I think really just to shut me up.

The kicker -- the kicker to all of this -- is after she had her "incident," after her anxiety attack, but before she mentioned it to me and my siblings, she was on the phone with my 30-year-old niece, telling her all about it. How upset she's been, how she needs to deal with Marion's death, how hard it's been, but -- she says -- don't tell Ellie, I don't want her to be upset.

Don't tell Ellie! Don't tell your daughter, but it's okay to tell your granddaughter.

Ellie is almost 36 years old. Ellie is not a baby. But in my family, my niece -- with her house and her husband and her baby -- is more of an adult than me. That's the message it sends -- and it's not the first time, it's not the first incident that tells me that. I come from a family where every child is married (except me), where every married child (save one) was married in their 20s. And the one who wasn't married until her 40s, was all but married, living with someone in her mid-20s for more than 10 years.

I'm not sure what it all means, other than my family needs a reality check.

Or I need to stop taking it all so personally.

Or both.

What Does it Mean?

It's Valentine's Day. Just another day where I'm hopelessly single. Some of my married friends grumbled right along with me this morning. It's a Hallmark holiday. It means nothing. Just another day. blah, blah, blah...

I'm grumbling because I'm single, because I want a valentine. They're grumbling because they've let the commercialism of the day, or their hectic lives, or their own cynicism get to them. I'm sure that when they were dating, in the early passionate throws of their relationships, they did up Valentine's Day. It doesn't have to mean tons of money on flowers and candy and gifts and dinner. It should a gesture, a little something special -- I, for one, would make a special dinner, or a favorite dessert, a handmade card.

I was grumbling this morning because there were people in the office who did get flowers. Bright and early -- I had turned on the computer but was visiting in another office, no work started yet -- the delivery man made his way downstairs, not once, but twice.

Flowers would have been nice, but it was time to get some work started. So there I sat, working diligently on the commencement website, when the phone rang. An outside ring.

"Hey," came Chris's familiar voice and oh-so-familiar greeting. "I didn't want you to think I was a jerk, so I called to wish you a happy Valentine's day."

Sigh. I never called him a jerk, I just never said he was this sweet. He's not supposed to be this sweet. Wasn't I just saying, didn't I just write, about the emotional distance between us, that protective barrier that we both have? I'm trying not to think about what this means. Because, frankly, it can't mean anything. I can't allow him in, emotionally, because ultimately he can't deliver.

So I guess the lesson I take away from this, the lesson I actually just learned several hours after I started writing this post, is that he is my friend, and he knows me better than most people, and he knows I hate being single, especially today, and so, as my friend, he called me.

I wouldn't have come to that realization if I didn't just come back from a meeting to a voice mail from my friend Ed (married, one kid, also knows me better than most) who was thinking of me today and who I haven't talked to in ages, but who called, just to say he was thinking of me, and oh by the way, happy Valentine's day.

On the Mend

My knee is almost better. Ya know, being the doctor that I am, I can say that. Okay, so maybe it's not almost better -- but it feels almost better. I'm going to up my time, but not my intensity, on the elliptical tonight. We'll see how that goes.

* * *

Chris -- many have expressed disappointment that I didn't write more about my Friday visit. I guess without getting graphic and writing erotica, there wasn't much to say. It felt rushed, because he had to leave for reserve duty. And while our timing with each other is better, it's still not the same when we were seeing each other more often, for longer periods of time. I need a good solid three hours from him, at least -- lord knows he has the stamina -- before I can bring in a definitive verdict.

I also think that there is some reserved emotion between us. Perhaps because we live so close to each other now, that it would be so easy -- too easy -- to fall back into old habits. Habits that led me to heart-ache -- and I think, though he would never admit it, him to it, as well.

He has taken my constructive criticism about not kissing enough to heart, and more than makes up for that now. And though this isn't a real relationship with any future beyond sex, I was proud that I demanded more of him, that I wasn't go to settle for something I didn't want. I wouldn't let him make me feel bad about the encounter, which is what happened when we first got together after he came home from Iraq. He didn't kiss enough -- it felt programmed, it felt mechanical. That, thankfully, has been rectified.

Rip Torn

Just back from the doctor (I may need to steal from Grey's Anatomy and start calling him McDreamy). He poked, he prodded, he pushed and pulled against my knee. He compared it to my other knee. And then he pronounced with authoritative certainy, "you have a slight tear in your meniscus." And being a good doctor, he pulled out a book and showed me pictures.

From knee1.com: "A meniscus is one of two half-moon shaped discs of specialized cartilage lying between the femur and tibia with more secure attachment to the tibia. The two menisci (lateral, or outside, and medial, or inside), serve several functions. These functions include: adding in joint lubrication, articular cartilage nutrition, stability and distribution of forces between the femur and tibia. The meniscus may be injured when the knee is bent or twisted while bearing weight. Meniscal injury or degeneration can also be a result of overuse over time. For example, repetitive squatting or kneeling can cause meniscal wear and make it more likely to tear."

He said the good news is that this is a pretty good self-healing injury -- if I allow it to heal. No cutting to the chase for me: "Can I still work out?"

He raised an eyebrow and asked me to describe my regular workout, if I was 100%. Then he asked me to tell him what I've been doing the past week. And then we compromised. Instead of an hour on the elliptical, I can only do 30 minutes. No weights, no squats, no bike, no treadmill. And "if it hurts, stop. It's common sense, but for some reason I feel like I need to tell you that."

Everyone loves a smart ass.

So I need to take it easy. I need to let my body heal. And if it's not better in a couple weeks, then I should take a break. Completely. Stop. If it doesn't heal on its own, then the next step would be physical therapy.

So there is good news and bad news. Obviously the bad news is that I'm injured. But rather than going on the DL, my status will be day-to-day. The good news, I can still work out. I can continue what I started without losing momentum.

For today, the eye of the tiger is still there.

Happy birthday, Babe Ruth

So one year ago, I made my commitment to myself. I was slightly disappointed when I got on the scale this morning and the grand total for the year was only 35.5, which means I'm still up 2.5 from the holidays. All in all, I know that it's great. It's as much as a small child weighs. But after how hard I've been working the past two weeks, I was hoping for closer to 40, if not over.

And speaking of how hard I've been working...my knee is killing me! I finally broke down and called the doctor (my local doctor, not the Perv) and I'm seeing him tomorrow. It's still swollen, it still aches and its hard to walk up stairs. When I was shaving in the shower just now, it hurt to lift my leg up -- the muscles and tendons around my knee cap felt strained at that movement.

None of this, however, prevented me from going to the gym tonight. I did 45 minutes on the elliptical and then abs. I will not NOT go to the gym. We'll need to figure this all out with a plan that not only heals me, but also keeps me sweating each night.

(Wow, what great segues)...so speaking of sweating, Chris came to visit on Friday. It was fine. It was fun -- I was glad I wasn't going back to work (I hate feeling rushed). There's no emotional attachment this time around (which is good), but....there's no emotional attachment. When he left, it just reinforced what I don't have. What I want. And while I can win any argument and rationalize why having him in my life, right now, this way, is okay -- I so want more. And not from him. But from some other him.

TGIF!!

AND I'm taking a half day! Of course, I'm bringing work home with me -- I'm not sure how that doesn't cancel each other out, but it doesn't.

So I'm thinking the treadmill might have been making things worse with my knee. I worked out on the elliptical last night for almost an hour, and even though there is still a twinge, my knee feels at least 50% better today (and no creepy doctor dreams last night). So no treadmill tonight -- just elliptical -- but I think I can do other stuff too.

Chris is coming down for lunch today on his way to reserve duty : ) I'll just leave it at that.

No big plans for the weekend. I'm taking my "little" to see Hoodwinked tomorrow, and then usual Saturday errands -- groceries, bank, shopping, etc. And then Super Sunday -- here's hoping the Bus can close his career with a Lombardi trophy.

Dr. Pervert

It was all about the treadmill last night, nothing above 3.8 mph. I did ab work but my trainer wouldn't let me do push-ups (I do them from my knees) or some other stuff that she said would put a strain on my knees. So treadmill tonight and tomorrow, maybe the elliptical tomorrow. Maybe. A rest over the weekend, and then we'll kick it back up a slight notch on Monday.

I wore my brace when I got out of the shower for about three hours last night, and then slept with a pillow between my knees, to keep my knee caps from knocking against each other. And then proceeded to have the strangest dream about my former orthopedic surgeon. The same orthopedic surgeon who has known my family almost my entire life, who performed both reconstructive knee surgeries on me when I was in high school, who took care of me when I got hurt in college -- and the same guy who, despite all of the above, visited me when I lived in Rochester, pushed me against the wall and decided that it was appropriate to kiss me. With his tongue.

So we'll call him Dr. R -- since that time, I have had as little to do with him as possible. Occasionally my mother will say that she saw him and he asked about me (I bet he did). He'll ask for my phone number so he can see how I'm doing. And my mother, being clueless to the whole situation, gives it to him. Thank god I now have caller ID. He called before the anniversary party -- he knew that I would be in town and that my older sister would also be flying in from California. (Apparently, they had a two-consenting-adults fling 20 years ago or so.) I ignored the call. He didn't leave a voice mail, but called several times within an hour.

That was the last I had heard from him or even thought of him, but of course now that my knee is an issue, I imagine that I would think of him. It makes sense. So my dream...

I knew that I shouldn't be going to see him, he had practically molested me, (besides the fact that I lived in an entirely other city and should be going to my own very sweet doctor) but it was a dream and sometimes things don't make sense in a dream. So I went to see him. I explained that my knee had been hurting, I pointed out where it was sometimes swollen, just below the side of the knee cap. I told him how often I'd been wearing my knee brace and that I'd become an Advil popper again. He looked at me knee, and as doctors will do, he touched it, poked and prodded. Then his hand went from my knee, up my thigh. I woke up at the point, kind of skeeved out but not surprised.

He was the first adult I trusted who completely betrayed that trust. I should have known it wouldn't have been any different in a dream.

Oh my achin' knees

My right knee hurts. A lot. And not in a good way. I think it felt like this when I was on my running kick. I'm not sure what I've done in the past week or so that overdid it. Maybe working out on a step. Either way, it hurts when I walk up the stairs at work, so much so that I wish I had my brace on. I even took 800 mg ibuprofin last night before bed. I may need to sleep with my brace on tonight.

So I took it easy last night -- nothing strenuous. Thirty-five minutes on the elliptical and 25 on the treadmill, and then ab work on the floor. No weights, no squats, no lunges. I think it's going to have to be more of the same tonight. I don't want to go on the DL -- because I truly have just found the "eye of the tiger" (I'm sorry -- I'm a child of the 80s) and am pumped about working out all the time. I don't want to lose my momentum.

My trainer will be at the gym tonight -- so hopefully she can give me some no-impact things to do for a while.