Category Archives: personal

These Boots Were Made for Walkin’

I had what I hope is my last physical therapy appointment for my ankle today. That is not to say the ankle is perfect. It’s still sore on occasion, and sometimes it swells so much, it kind of looks deformed. But I have exercises I will do at home, I ice regularly, and the ankle is stable, which is the biggest and best effect of the Brostrom procedure I had nearly four months ago.

That’s the good.

The bad is the fact that I can’t wear the majority of my shoes. Even a small, two-inch heel leaves me in pain. I wore a pair of black boots I absolutely adore to work last week, and I literally hobbled back home! Yikes!

Luckily for me, department stores to the rescue!

Department stores have found an alternative to the low-price TVs sold by electronic chains to draw crowds over the Thanksgiving weekend: a $19.99 pair of women’s boots.

Belk Inc. started offering the heavily discounted boots as its “door-buster” seven years ago. The promotion was so successful that it has been repeated every year since, and adopted by rivals like Kohl’s Corp., Macy’s Inc. and J.C. Penney Co.

“$19.99 is a magic number,” said Joseph Safdeye, chief executive of E.S. Originals Inc., a shoe importer that came up with the idea. “When a lady can walk in with $100 and buy five pairs of boots, that’s a good deal.”

Guess what resides just across the street from my apartment building!

Photo courtesy of the Wall Street Journal

Photo courtesy of the Wall Street Journal

Hi, Macy’s! I can haz boots?

I hate tossing some of the absolutely gorgeous shoes I have! I wear them to work. They look incredible with a black suit – or a dress, for that matter. The thought is unappealing enough that I’m willing to wait a little to see if the ankle heals up enough for me to wear my favorite shoes and boots again.


In the meantime, I need BOOTS!!! It’s fall, dontcha know! BOOTS!

I’ve learned over the years that buying cheap crap made in China isn’t worth the few bucks you save. The boots generally fall apart after a few months of wear, or they make your feet sweat to such a degree, you feel like you’re walking through a swamp, toes squishing in sludge. So, the doorbuster deal doesn’t generally appeal to me as a consumer. I want quality.

That said, this year – until the ankle heals, which my physical therapist says could take six months to a year – I may be enticed to grab a pair of these things to tide me over until I can wear my boots again without crying.

Black Friday, here I come!


I’m baaaaack, bitches!

Did y’all burn the place down while I was gone?

Did you throw ragers?

Did you get pissed drunk and wake up with sketchy individuals in bed next to you, or your face plastered to the toilet bowl?

Yes, I missed you too, but work called, and off I want to… well, I’ll let you guys guess where I was this time.

Care to take a guess where this is?

My trip this week went something like this.

Tuesday: go to the office dressed in torn jeans and an Army hoodie. Take care of last minute crap. Leave for the airport.

Arrive at airport, get hugged by an elderly lady and thanked for my service. Stand in security line for 45 minutes while TSA monkeys stare incompetently at my backpack and swab my ankle brace lest I am carrying Semtex inside. Board British Airways flight to Heathrow. Deal with screeching, but very cute, child the entire way.

Wednesday: Get to London and discover my connecting flight to my final destination is canceled. The only available flight is either at 1700 hours that evening, which would have had me stranded at Heathrow the entire day, and forced me to miss an evening function I was supposed to be attending, or a Lufthansa flight to first Frankfurt, and then my final destination, which would have put me there relatively early, but still have allowed me to shower and rest before the evening’s event.

Get booked on the Lufthansa flight. Have breakfast with a guy I met at the airport, who was also screwed by the BA flight cancellation. Discover the Lufthansa flight is an hour delayed.

Check in with Lufthansa, get assured the flights from Frankfurt will be delayed as well, so no need to worry because of the delay.

Flight leaves Heathrow an hour and a half late, causing us to miss connecting flight to final destination. We get told we are rebooked on the next available flight… at 1700 hours, leaving us stranded at Frankfurt’s Terminal 1 for four hours (if you know anything about Terminal 1, you feel my pain, as there’s literally nothing there – it’s deserted, save for a shop and a cafe).

As a funny aside, I discovered that when German flight crews apologize for delays due to “fog in London,” they sound like they’re apologizing for delays due to “fuckin’ London.” It took three times for me to figure out that they weren’t cursing Heathrow.

Get to final destination late. Think about going to the function. Decide not to in favor of bath, room service, and sleep.

Thursday: Attend planned work conference all day.

Thursday night: Hike around with colleagues. Take a few photos. Sleep.

I made a new friend

Friday: Get to airport. Discover that British Airways flight to Heathrow is delayed, but fortunately not enough to make me miss connecting flight back to DC – just long enough to make me annoyed at having to sit in airport.

Friday afternoon: Get to Heathrow, meet up with close friend who lives in London, drink until boarding time.

Board plane. Sit next to farting Italian guy for 7 hours. Fight urge to kill farting Italian.

Get home. Snuggle husband, dog, and cat.

By the way, I got back to read this whining complaint by a self-described “fat person” about how fat people are being discriminated against by Hawaiian Airlines because the airline has chosen to select sears for the customers to better distribute the weight in the aircraft. Apparently, fat people’s plight just went from awful and dehumanizing to even more horrible!

 If it’s not the glares and stares from people praying you don’t sit next to them, it’s the eye rolls when you tell them, “I’ve got the middle seat” or the loud sighs when you put the armrest up just to get a little relief. It’s the anxious feeling you get when you need to ask for a seat belt extender. And it’s your neighbor’s flat-out aggressive commentary about the lack of personal space that results from sitting next to you.

I’ll be the first to admit that flying sucks. The seats are already small and uncomfortable, and not being able to choose where you sit will make it even more so.

But let me address something here, as a person who is not fat, but certainly not stick skinny – a person who fits into the seat and doesn’t need a belt extender.

I just paid more than $1000 for a seat on a transatlantic flight. The person next to me ostensibly paid a similar price for a seat. A SEAT. They don’t quite fit into said seat, because they’re huge, so they try to lift the armrest, as this woman whines, for a “little relief.” This leaves me with half a seat, and the fat person with a seat and a half. This leaves me hanging into the aisle, being hit by the flight attendants, or worse, their meal carts, and told to sit in my seat, where there’s literally no room, because the fat person’s idea of getting “a little relief” is taking up their seat and half of mine, for which I paid the same as they did.

Is that fair to me? No. It’s a 7-8 hour discomfort and sometimes outright pain of having to contort myself to accommodate the person who ostensibly paid for one seat, but has now taken up more than that.

Am I supposed to suffer because the fat person feels “dehumanized?”

No matter what the reason for your weight issues, you do not have the right to make others suffer because it’s ostensibly not your fault that you are overweight. You do not have the right to more space at others’ expense because you ostensibly are a victim.

For anyone who has literally been squished against a wall, been forced to hang into the aisle, or had to sit in a stressor position, with your legs crossed and falling asleep, leaning on one butt cheek, because the fat person next to you needs a “little relief,” a lengthy flight is torture – a physical torture that’s more painful than a fat person’s feelz because someone rolled their eyes at the prospect of sitting next to them.

If you take up more than one seat, buy more than one seat. Then we all win.

So, can those of you who don’t already know from social media guess where I’ve been this week?

Guest Post: Jessica Elise – Blessings and Challenges/Hope and Regret 

I’m going to share something with you, my dear readers, that I don’t normally share. Obviously, those close to me know, but generally, I haven’t spoken about this publicly. The reason I’m doing so today is because many times, when you experience an indescribable tragedy, you feel alone. So alone!

Logically you know you aren’t the only one. Your rational mind tells you there are others, but your heart isolates you inside this cocoon of tragedy, agony, and loss. So you internalize and try to forget…

… Until you run across something so heartwrenching, so unreal through which one of your friends has suffered, that your own pain pales in comparison.

It happened yesterday, when my friend Chris posted something that made my breath catch. He graciously wrote this post that explores his unspeakable agony for me to publish, because I asked him to. Maybe I’m posting this as catharsis. Maybe it’s catharsis for both me and him.

In 2002, my daughter Jordan Nickole died at 32 weeks of gestation. It was a difficult pregnancy. We did amniocentesis because the OB found a large cyst or bubble that covered the entire back of her neck in an ultrasound, which denotes Turner Syndrome and can cause a panoply of medical and developmental problems, including short height, failure to start puberty, infertility, heart defects, certain learning disabilities and social adjustment problems. It means that the X chromosome is either completely or partially missing.

I was told I had the option of aborting if the test came back abnormal. We thought long and hard about it, but decided not to. The amnio came back negative, and as relieved as we were (I remember getting the call at work and getting dizzy and falling down on the floor weak with relief), the doctor watched me and Jordan closely from then on.

At 32 weeks, she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She tried several times, stayed late until after 1900 hrs., and finally sent me to the hospital.

Long story short, I was forced to give birth to a stillborn. I refused all night. I told them I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do it. But in the end I had to.

For years, I pushed Jordan’s death to the back of my mind. And then Chris wrote this. Maybe it sounds monstrous, but I feel a little less alone.

I hope Chris does too.


This is a hard post to write. I’m not even sure of the reasons for writing it. I’ve had 14 years to process. Maybe I want to help someone else with my struggle. Maybe I want to just get it out. Maybe I just want someone to relate. I don’t know.

Interpret as you will. I’m not sure I care.

Usually when a person starts talking about regret, it’s in reference to some boneheaded mistake they’ve made in their lifetime, or the trip to Disney World they didn’t take.

For me, it was about looking for a piece of machinery.

Jessica Elise was born January 17th, 1994. Most people who take the time, either remember it as the California Earthquake or Ice-Storm#1 (There would be another icestorm in a few weeks that made this one look like a piker) Babs Streisand’s house got damaged. I remember that one acutely because I sincerely dislike Babs. Love her singing voice… don’t like her.
We knew things weren’t going to be “normal” with this one. Our son, bless his soul, had been a rough delivery and Jessica had been rough pregnancy. We’d seen doctors, and more doctors, and genetic experts and more tests and all we got were more questions.

We got answers that afternoon. The best answer is that we had a beautiful baby girl. Jessica Elise (“I will see the promise of God” loosely translated. I actually didn’t know that when we picked the name, but it actually makes a little sense now.) The not so good answer was that she was going to be a challenge, medically.

Jess was going to be a both a blessing and challenge. Micropthalmia meant she was never going to be able to see without some sort of “eyeball transplant” or Star Trek level technology. Esophageal Atresia meant surgery to connect stomach and esophagus so she could at least keep from drowning in her own saliva. So… challenges.

For eight and a half years, my wife, my son, our extended family and friends and I, and the people we came to know because of Jess faced the challenge of raising and helping that little girl live. That little girl who one OB/GYN told us would be a “monster,” and we ought to consider aborting her. The little girl who we were assured would never laugh, never talk, never walk, never love us back, and so we ought to allow “nature” to run its course and let her choke on her own spit and snot…which “might not be a bad thing.”

Sixty plus surgeries. Countless days and hours spent in hospital rooms and hallways. Hours hoping and praying for another breath on her own. Watching a pediatric nephrologist jumping for joy because she peed on her own because that meant her kidneys hadn’t failed.

Challenges and blessings.

Eight and a half years. How in the world do you try and recount all the amazing things you learn taking care of a baby like that? How do you recount all of the times when medical science was either flat out wrong in its predictions or flummoxed by a little girl with a snaggletoothed grin? (She lost two of her teeth during a surgery when the OR tech accidentally knocked them out during intubation.) How do you talk about the tears that roll down your face when your daughter, grabs your hand and desperately, frantically wants you to tell her that she’s “pretty girl” (using tactile sign) because her face was massively bruised from having eye socket expanders placed that day, and she had apparently heard her parents talking about how bad she looked (remember she wasn’t even going to be able to know we loved her)?

Having that little girl was the biggest challenge and one of the three greatest blessings I’ve ever known. My son and my wife are the other two.

Eight and a half years. That level of care will take it out of you. Even with help, it will drain you and exhaust you, mind, body and spirit. It drained all of us. We were happy to do it, glad to do it. You don’t do any less for someone you love, but there comes a time where there is nothing left to give.

There also comes a time where the body just will not work anymore. For most of us, that doesn’t happen until we reach a good ole age. But not for Jessica. For months, she had been having problems digesting food, getting weaker, getting sick easier. Looking back it’s easy to see the problems, but inside the storm it’s harder to make out, you just brace and wait for the next blast.

We’d all had it. We’d taken so many hits. We were tired. And when you’ve gotten that tired, you rely on, depend on, some sort of routine to maintain your sanity in an insane situation. That routine, almost a complacency, is dangerous. They say the most dangerous place to drive is right near your home. The reason is that you relax from the routine… you’ve driven this stretch so many times, you could do it in your sleep… right? Up until the deer jumps out from nowhere.

I was out of work but starting school for my degree. I was homeschooling Christopher and taking him with me on school days (we lived right down the street from the Christian College I was attending, and a classmate’s wife was more than happy to kind of ride herd on him with her own kids until I got out of class). Christine was working on the other side of Baltimore and thus had the only real working vehicle capable of hauling all of us. She hadn’t wanted to go, things weren’t “right,” but I made her go, so that she’d have some sort of “normal.”

The weekend had been abysmal. Jess was getting sick and was miserable. We almost couldn’t console her; we’d go into her room, quiet her down, put on her favorite music album and make sure everything was OK; then back out into the living room. Then an hour later do it again. And again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

She had gotten skeletally thin, like a prisoner of war or a famine victim. There was no muscle tone anymore. The peritoneal feeding went through her, literally. It was almost undigested.

She was breathing heavyly that day. She was probably getting an infection, I thought, as I changed her and her bedding that morning. I’ll keep an eye on her and maybe start getting things ready for a trip to the hospital.

By afternoon, I’d already contacted Christine and let her know that we were definitely gonna be doing an all-nighter at the hospital. “But don’t worry,” I said. “Don’t kill yourself getting home.”

“What are her SATs doing?” my wife asked.

“Not sure; I’ll dig the Pulse Oximeter out and run a check. (For those who don’t know, it’s that thing in the hospital you wear on your finger or two with the red light. It measures the amount of oxygen in the blood.) At least that way, we’ll have number to throw at the ER docs.”

Christopher was watching Buffy on TV as I started looking for Jess’s Pulse Ox. I had made sure the O2 cannula was in her nose earlier and had been running O2 during the day to see if her breathing would calm down. No dice.

Also, no Pulse OX. We had recently moved and were living out of boxes, but I could have sworn we’d used that Pulse OX since we moved in. I looked everywhere for that thing. I tore closets apart. I tore boxes apart. I re-tore boxes apart.

I looked in on Jess. She was breathing more labored now. She was nearly thrashing, she was in so much pain, from exactly what I don’t know, but it was breaking my heart to watch.

I had to take a break. I sat down and watched TV with Christopher for a little bit, trying to rack my brain where the machine was. I called her nurse that cared for her on weekends. Nope. Didn’t know. Hadn’t needed to use it.

I went back around the house, now frantically trying to find a piece of equipment that did not want to be found.

Christine called and had left work. Traffic around Baltimore being what it was, it was going to be an hour or more before she got home. I had to find that machine before she got home. I had to get the baby ready to go.

I went in and started stripping her down to give her a cleanup and new change of clothes. There was something really wrong. She was gasping for breath, even with O2. I had to find that damn machine.

I don’t know exactly how many minutes later it was. It couldn’t have been very long. Ten? Fifteen? I gave up on looking for the bloody thing and was just going to get her packed up.

The first thing I noticed is that she’d messed her bed. Well, that was “normal” for the day. I think I’d changed her bed at least four or five times. I also noticed that she was quiet. I went over to the crib and realized that she also wasn’t breathing. She was a very odd pale shade of… when they say blue, it’s not. It’s a weird pale.

Some people get hysterical when crap really goes wrong. I get very calm. It’s weird in its own way, I suppose. You can tell just how far it’s dropped in the pot, by how calm I am. I get bent out of shape by some of the most mundane things, but…

I told Christopher to call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance. I started doing CPR and begging her to cry or move or do something.

The EMTs didn’t take long to get there. I told them what the situation was, and they set to work. The police arrived at the same time… of course they did. I’ve been around enough LEOs and EMTs over the years to know the drill.

I calmly told them the event of the last however long it was and the name of Jessica’s doctor at Johns Hopkins where she was a patient.

I knew I was going to jail. The house was a wreck. I mean seriously a wreck. The baby’s room was a mess. She was nearly naked, covered in crap, pill bottles, medical supplies, boxes, clothes, everything was strewn everywhere during my search for the O2 monitor.

I was calm. Too calm. I was going to jail.

Didn’t really care.

No punishment could ever come close to what I was feeling. What I AM feeling even today.

My little girl died, and I wasn’t there.

I’ve said that before, and people invariably explain it away. But the bottom line is I WASN’T THERE. I will go to my grave and I will not ever feel good about that.

We spent eight and a half years preparing for the day she left us. Knowing it as a fact of life every day for eight and half years. And when the time came, was she surrounded by people who love her? Was her daddy there holding her hand and giving her to the angels. NO. She died alone in puddle of crap fighting for her next breath. How do you tell yourself that’s OK?

Intellectually, even in my faith I know that it worked out as it needed to. I want to believe, I DO believe that in her final moments God was with her. But it really doesn’t make a difference. Even if God WAS there, I wasn’t, and that’s what I regret. I probably always will.

You can say what you want. At this point I really don’t care.

I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m writing this, intending for someone to read. Some will probably say I’m looking for attention… maybe I am. Maybe I need someone to tell me one more time that it’s OK. Maybe I’ll believe it this time. Maybe I just want someone else to know that if they’ve gone through this, they’re not alone. A new set of friends lost their baby to miscarriage yesterday. I can’t say I know how they feel, but I know grief and regret, and the endless what-if’s.

I don’t know. Take from this what you will. Do with it what you will. I don’t give pat answers anymore. All I have is a hope. That I’ll see her again someday.

I miss my girl.

One more year, Jess. Miss you, pretty girl. Hopefully, I’ll be there sooner or later.

P.S. I found the Pulse Ox the day after the funeral when we returned to the house. It was sitting right on top of a box that I had torn apart several times looking for it.

What I’m learning

Today is a bad day. I didn’t sleep, because for some reason, the ankle was absolutely killing me all night – even through the painkillers! And it was unbearably hot in our bedroom, despite the AC blowing full blast. I’ve never been in a cast before, and I’ve never had ankle surgery before, so I don’t know if this is normal – my ankle’s last hurrah before giving in to healing – like “OK, bitch. I see you’re going to heal whether or not I want to, so I’m going to give you one last night of agony before I surrender” or what, but damn!

I also discovered I don’t like this cast. It’s itchy, and I’m having a hard time imagining what will happen when it’s removed next week. Showering is a pain in the ass, but at least we got me a little stool on which I sit while taking a shower. But I can’t help but wonder just how disgusting my leg is under the cast. It’s got to be dirty, and since I’m not shaving it, I’m wondering if I’ve basically started growing gorilla hair under that cast. Also, it’s gotta stink in there, right? All these thoughts are running through my head as I await the moment they cut away my cast next Thursday.

Will the cast guy pass out from the stench?

Will they have to wear MOPP gear just to remove it?

Will the doctor get this horrible look on his face, like “OMG! What the hell kind of petri dish of hellish bacteria has been growing in there?”

How much leg hair can possibly grow inside a cast in two weeks?

I’m not sure I want to know. I just know this sucks.

I was so bored the other day, I ran across “Batman Returns” – the one with Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman that inspired thousands of gay men’s Halloween costumes. I watched it in Spanish. I don’t know Spanish.

Last night I tried to watch the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in Rio.

What. The. Fuck.

It made me remember why I haven’t watched the games in decades. Weird performance art. Prerequisite lecturing on global warming from a country that couldn’t even clean the sewage, dead animals, and body parts out of its waters before the Olympic Games, prompting a warning for athletes to keep their mouths closed when competing on Brazil’s beaches.

Plus, knowing how corrupt the IOC is, coupled with the doping scandals, I’m over the whole Olympic Games thing.

baryshnikovThis morning, after failing to fall back asleep, it for some reason occurred to me that I had never seen a single episode of Sex and the City. I have no idea why I felt like I needed to remedy this, but HBO had Season 6 available On Demand. I fell asleep somewhere during episode 2, and woke up during episode 12 with that Sarah Jessica Parker character kissing Mikhail Baryshnikov.

It was slightly surreal.

Baryshnikov was definitely on my list – you know, that list of celebrities you have in your head whom you would hit like the hammer of an angry god? Yeah, that one. The legendary Baryshnikov was on that one. Was.

But you know what? Nope. Nope. Nopity Nope! Something about seeing him make out with horse face was so unappealing, that I had to take a Zofran just to get over it.

So no more Sex and the City.

Special Victims Unit reruns and dog snuggles will have to do.

Some News

StonedSo, I haven’t been a whole lot of public about this, but blogging is going to slow down significantly in the next couple of weeks.

After a few years of stepping on a crack, turning my ankle, falling on my face, icing the sprain, hobbling around, wash, rinse, repeat, I’m finally getting my ankle fixed. The surgery is tomorrow. They’re basically going to tighten the ligament that holds my ankle together, since it apparently resembles an elastic from a pair of trousers that’s older than my dad, and no longer does what it’s supposed to do. I’m told I’ll be on crutches for about a month – just in time to travel to Ft. Sill for Danny’s Basic Training graduation next month.

What that also means is that at least for a couple of weeks, I’m not going to be in the mood to blog, and if I do blog, it will either be ragey or nonsensical. I’m a pain wuss, and I may be doing a whole lot of lying around on drugs. Of course, I’ll have more time on my hands after the initial few days where I’ll be stoned on all kinds of painkillers, but I imagine some pretty entertaining stuff will pop up on here every so often!

Try to enjoy it, and don’t expect it to make much sense. Leaving me alone with painkillers, a laptop, and a bunch of free time could spell disaster! It could also be funny… in a clown-in-a-woodchipper sort of way.

Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

%d bloggers like this: