Monthly Archives: June 2014
2. Your cats hurl themselves at your bedroom door in disgust
3. You get shampoo in your eyes
4. You knock the conditioner off the shelf in your shampoo-induced blindness and it lands on your (bad) foot
5. Your phone chargers are still packed, so both phones are dead
6. Those pesky car keys are nowhere to be found
7. You forget your vitamins and have to go back in the house to get them
8. You walk away from your car leaving the windows open
9. You drop your brief bag and the contents spill out onto the pavement
10. You hit the emergency button in the elevator and have to wait embarrassed to tell the operator that you are not in fact stuck, just disoriented, and mumble a rushed apology
It was my great pleasure to hit the Back Lot Bash Music Festival on Saturday, June 28th in Andersonville, Chicago. You may have read the review and seen the photos I took from the opening Comedy Night (if not, here they are again).
It has come to my attention many a time through cyberspace that folks (lesbians especially) do notunderstand dating. I get this one particular question so often it makes me scream. Yes. Scream. To me it’s so fucking obvious. Maybe, because I am femme and these are butches inquiring.
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I’m sitting at the dining room table. The cat comes strolling along, casual as the night is dark and stands on the table. I yell at him and clap – in an effort to startle him off the table. What does he do? He looks at me and slowly, leisurely, lays down right where he had been standing. On the table. Bastard. I throw whatever small thing I’ve got handy at him to scare him off. It’s my pill container. Unfortunately, it’s not sealed and one of my meds pops out. I didn’t think anything of it. That is, until a few minutes later I look up from my work and realize that the bastard is eating something – the pill that popped out. I jump up and try to stop him, salvaging a tiny bit of the pill. He has eaten the rest of it. It takes me awhile to realize how dangerous this is. I explain what happened to my wife and we come to the conclusion that I need to go to the vet. Off I scoot, gathering the bastard into his kennel. I call into work – feeling very, very lesbian.
I mean, “Hi, I need to stay home because my cat is sick.” I might as well say that I’m slipping on my Birkenstocks and rushing him to the vet in my Subaru and Life is Good apparel.
A very expensive visit later, I drop the bastard off at home – having given him subcutaneous fluids at the vet without fainting (needles make super un-butch). Then, I’m off to work. I have a long day. I mean long. I hang up from my last call at 9:34 pm. Then it’s time to reply to some emails and do some work. I walk out of the office at 11:16. I’m not complaining because that is very rare. I’m just explaining my state of mind.
After work, I head to the pharmacy for cat meds. I think I’m going to pick up a quick bite as well, but I am quite wrong. Nothing is open except for
Wendy’s. I do enjoy Wendy’s, but I don’t want fast food tonight.
I’ll make something at home.
I get home and it’s time to care for the bastard. He needs two meds and more subq fluids. After changing, I get to work. He is unhappy with the first med. So much so that he scratches my stomach (it bled for awhile) and puts two holes in my fav t-shirt. Grrrr.
Then I’m off to handle the kitty litter and see he’s thrown up the charcoal in the hallway. In the shape of a penis, I might add. And again in the bathroom. After a significant amount of scrubbing, I finish the disgusting task. Next, a pill.
This time, I hold and pet him. Trying to soothe my little bastard. He has had a worse day than me, after all. He tries to wait me out – spitting out the half melted pill way, way after I give it to him. But I am more patient and he eventually gets the whole dose (I think). Finally, it’s the IV time.
The higher you hang the bag, the better, they said.
Well; I don’t have anywhere high so I get out a nail and hammer. After midnight, I quickly drive that nail to use as the IV hook. I wrap the bastard up in a “kitty burrito” as they suggested. I’m able to get the needle in and everything is working. I silently pat myself on the back. It takes about 10 minutes for the 150ml to find the way into his neck. I withdraw the needle as instructed and pinch his skin to keep the fluid in. Hooray! Problem is that the needle is pumping fluid out like a water pistol. Jesus, it’s hard to remember everything.
What a shitty day. Sometimes, it’s Butch just to get through it. Be Butch.
Sometimes, you are just doing your thing. Keeping your head down. And someone walks into your path and shakes you up in a big way. This can be a negative, like a stranger cutting you off on the road and flipping you off. Or someone being rude to you when you are out shopping, getting gas, mowing the lawn, putting up Christmas lights. Whatever. Or.
Or, it can be someone stepping into your path when you need it most. “Watch out” a passerby says as you are about to step on a patch of unseen ice, “I just slipped there, be careful.” A stranger flashes headlights at you and you know there is a police officer up ahead running a speed trap. Or, more benign, someone leaves a coupon for you on an item on the store shelf and you happen to be able to use it. There are a million little ways that strangers impact us – for the better and for the worse. But sometimes, it’s bigger than the coupon on the shelf. Sometimes it’s even better than not running through a speed trap.
I was at my physical therapy appointment. Struggling through the set of exercises after seeing the therapist and getting worked over. She is wonderful, but if you have ever had PT you know what I am talking about. Ouch. Plus, it was the first day that I had PT without taking a pain pill before seeing her. Not entirely on purpose, but certainly a good sign – that I hadn’t needed one. So, there is some improvement.
Oh, I should explain. If you don’t know me, or are new to my little blogging corner of the world, you don’t know that I had major reconstructive surgery on my shoulder 10 weeks ago. Major. When I say major, I mean it. They did 7 different procedures on my shoulder. I can’t even name them all. In fact, when I try to share with people – so they don’t think I am a wimp that it’s 10 weeks out and I still can’t hook my own bra – I can only list 5 of them. They rebuilt my rotator cuff, which was only 20% attached. They repaired my subscapularis. They fixed my labrum. They ground up the underside of my clavicle to make more room for the muscles (which are clearly so giant!). And, they cut my bicep off of the bone, removed the shredded part, and reattached it to the top of my humerus with these cool octopus anchor things. That’s the big one, I think. But, then, what do I know? I can’t even name all 7 of the procedures.
I hurt myself training for a powerlifting competition. So, I want to make sure to tell you that. For one, it makes me feel better. For two, it will help explain what I am about to share. I am not overly competitive, but I am very excited about powerlifting. I found it last year and really enjoy it. It is something that I can do with the other physical limitations that I have (not for this post), and it helps me feel fit, strong, and control my weight. Here is a sport where my size is a benefit! Why not do a competition? Hooray! I did one and it was awesome.
But, I hurt myself along the way. And, there was rehab. And, then when that didn’t work, there was surgery. And, I have been recovering. And I can’t even open some water bottles because gripping and turning hurts so badly. And, I am not feeling like I am making much progress. And, I have needed lots of help. And, I have been feeling sorry for myself. And, not feeling all that butch – at least not in being able to do some of the things that I like to do for me and my wife (again, that’s a whole different post). And, I can’t work out. And, where are all those positive endorphins? And, and, and!
Perhaps you can see where my head is. So, I am at PT and it hurts, but I am doing alright. I joke with Todd Durkin, the amazing man who runs the gym (where I train, and also there is PT), that he should call me “QB” because I had NFL quarterback-like surgery. We laughed and I kept doing my PT. I finished up and in walks a famous NFL QB whom I love, let’s call him Joe. That is not a big deal in and of itself, as Joe works out at my gym and has done so long before I ever went there. But, this particular day, I had an experience I have not had before.
I was getting some water from the front desk and Joe is talking to Todd next to me. Todd says to Joe, “She had worse shoulder surgery than you did, Joe.” He looks at me (has seen me around, etc.) and says, “What did you have done?” I stumble through the details (evidence my attempt above), and he asks how I hurt it. Powerlifting, I share, training for a competition.
Am I really swapping injury stories with Joe?!?
He then asks how long before I get back to it. 10 months, I say. “What is your interim goal?” he asks. Interim goal? I don’t know, I think. I don’t have any. Sleep through the night? Be able to walk around with my arm out of the sling and not have it hurt? I admit that I don’t have any. He says, you need an interim goal. A couple of them. Something to get me from here to the next couple of weeks, rather than from here to 10 months from now. They told him he wouldn’t play for 8 months. He thought that was ridiculous and so he set short term goals.
As an editorial aside, can you imagine how I was feeling during this chat? This pep talk that I was getting from Joe? One of the best quarterbacks of all time (trust me on that)? A future Hall of Famer? I mean, WHAT?!?
So, here comes a stranger (just cause I know who he is, doesn’t mean he knows me) to change my day. Here is someone that is a bit of a hero for me and he takes the time to say, “Watch out for the ice there.” He shares a bit of himself with me, and encourages me to set interim goals. In doing so, he changes the way I look at my recovery. He makes it about training. Getting back to what I love. Not about focusing on the pain, or the sleepless nights, or the water bottles I can’t open and the bras I can’t quite get on myself. No. In one selfless and giving swoop, he shifts my focus. Not on 10 months from now. He shifts it to this week. What is my goal right now? What is the first hurdle that I can get over?
I don’t have stats in front of me, but I know that he has been a better QB after his surgery. That he rebuilt his own shoulder and went on to do more than he did before. Maybe he would have improved that much anyway. Or, maybe he took the challenge and made himself better because of it. I think that is what he encouraged me to do today.
My shoulder still hurts. I still can’t easily open the door for my wife. But I feel different. More optimistic. Today, I am focused on returning to a full range of motion. That is my next hurdle. That is my focus. Not 10 months from now (how much will I be able to lift again? Will it hurt? Can I compete?).
So I was just doing my thing. Keeping my head down. And, into my path walked a stranger to shake me up in a big way. Today it was a hero of mine. And, now everything is different. Thank you, Joe.
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Involving an uninhibited, workaholic, independent, femme lesbian. I let it all hang out in my blog house!! ENJOY!
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confessions of a 20's something urban butch with a yearning for the rural landscape