Use Me and Abuse Me, Just Don't Confuse Me

November was all about gratitude. But thankfully that month is over and we can begin to think about all the useless things we want, go out and spend more money than we have to continue to make this country great. Screw being thankful, I want a gingerbread latte!

But seriously, folks. As we move into the last month of the year, progress on the house is palpable. And this is pretty awesome.

Something that is starting to resemble a yard. 

Don't get me wrong, it's got a looooooooong way to go. But RJ has been balancing nicely the paying work with our house work. And with the clever installation of some florescent lights, he can work an hour or so past dark until it gets too cold to work comfortably.

Lighting without real lights! Or something...

Now Kate, you may ask, what are YOU doing to contribute to this home project of the century? Well, gentle readers, at first not very much. I'm not sure if I mentioned that back when we were just sniffing around the notion of purchasing this "house", RJ wouldn't even let me go inside. I walked around it and peered in through some cracked windows, but the house was pretty hideous. As I know I've mentioned, the previous tenant was a major hoarder and had let the house go into complete disrepair, except for a new roof--a project he must have undertaken during a period of self-motivation and sobriety.

Anyone need any styro insulation? Just kidding we need it all. (PS. I moved it all upstairs. Superstar!)

Also, when most of the clear out was happening, I was up in Boulder for the summer. RJ would send occasional photos of the filled up roll offs, and I briefly saw the work in progress when I came into town to close on the house. But honestly, I had just hit a deer with my car and was slightly distracted. I still went through the process of "smudging" the house--the hippie side of me was thrilled--to get all the sick, alcoholic, bitter, hoardingness out of the place. But this feat was achieved mostly by RJ's gutting the house of pretty much all of its former identity. I heard RJ tell someone recently that he only left six original studs--whatever that means--obviously coming from the phrase, "stripped down to the studs." But you may be surprised to hear, I don't actually know everything about everything! (Crazy, I know.)

When I returned to Creede in early August, RJ would ask me to help with certain things and I would instantly turn into a 6 year old, stomp my feet, pout and say butIdonwanna! This was mainly because I was so burnt out from the last year of almost constant out-of-town work (which in November I would have said I was grateful for but it's December now, so fuck that noise!) that I wanted to sit on my couch and do absolutely nothing before I was forced to sit on the couch and do absolutely nothing because of the hip surgery. I wanted to choose to do nothing, dammit! So, I reluctantly did a few things, like take nails out of boards and promptly step on one. USEFUL!

I also think part of the problem was coming home and seeing the huge mountain we would have to climb in order to get this house liveable. It really did seem out of reach. I know RJ was working on it when he could, but the house still looked like total ass. It looked like it might fall down if the wind hit it wrong. There were years worth of dust, old wallpaper, mouse shit, decaying carpet and wood just...out there. And it was gross. I don't claim to not be a city girl because that I surely am. But I also won't admit to being a girly-girl either. But this grossness was just sad. It made me sad. And I didn't want to have anything to do with it.

But that's changing:

This is peaking upstairs from the stairwell.

Blocking off the back of the house for eventual addition replacement.

There's a floor upstairs!

After a couple months of no work on the house, RJ has been spending at least a few hours a day on it. There's a second floor that's sturdy, a bottom floor that's sturdy. There is something resembling a front yard, clear of all the old broken down crap and wood storage, new windows, and yesterday, a wall that will eventually become the downstairs bathroom. Holy Fucking Awesome! And I too have been motivated. Even though I am unskilled labor, my primary tasks have been to clean up and organize. Play to your skills, right? This has actually been extreeeeeeemely satisfying. Because with every pile of old crap I throw in the dump trailer, new things can start happening. It doesn't take too long, gives me a little workout and RJ doesn't have to deal with it, so he can spend that hour creating a wall out of nothing.

Wall to future downstairs bathroom. Magic!

Why this change of heart? Part of it is because I've been out of work for almost four months. And living in Creede with nothing to do in the winter is quite difficult. I get the itch to go up to Denver every couple of weeks and, luckily, I have been able to escape either for auditions or hip doc appointments. But a feeling of uselessness has begun to take over and it's been great to channel this into our house. I needed to channel something into it because I think RJ was starting to think there was something wrong with me and my attitude. And he was right.

I just thought this looked awesome. Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Let this photo represent my attitude adjustment. (Though, you may need a Knox liberal arts degree to figure it out.)

Next year, it's looking like several months of acting work will be had and this excites me to no end. I still feel like the career I have chosen is my path in life. It still excites me and fulfills me in ways I can't explain. But as this four month recovery comes to an end, I am also reminded of the challenges this career presents to one's life and my slightly odd situation. It really is all about balance. If you spend too much time at home, you feel useless and unfulfilled. Yet, if you work too much, you can become disconnected from the things that balanced you in the first place. So, in the coming year(s), I look forward to finding a better mix of work and Colorado mountain home life. There IS a way to do it. I know it. Right...?

Now...Everyone DANCE!

Oh My God, NOW WHAT?!

Whew! This danged hip surgery has taken up so much of my time, whatever shall I write about?

OH YEAH THE HOUSE! So...after several months of zip, zilch, nada, nothing on the progress front, RJ's father came to town to lend a hand for a couple days. I've already posted some photos on facebook which I will post again here with more detail.

The next step in the process of Mann House was to reinforce it. The house is about 100 years old and in its stripped down state, you could clearly see what was old construction and what was new(er). The windows on the main level were also in piss poor shape and needed to be replaced. In the spring, RJ and I had gone hunting for some deals on windows, finding a huge one at a window/door/etc. surplus shop. It was $300, about a quarter of what it would cost new. It was in great shape.

Here it is in all its huge glory. The view is not great but who cares. It's a windoooooow!

Next, we ventured to a Habitat for Humanity ReStore. There are many locations around the country. People donate new or used housewares and all the proceeds go to HFH. Great idea! We found two, smaller, like-new windows for about $70 each. Again, a major deal.

RJ had also worked out a deal with Jane, one of the folks he works for to order several extra windows when she ordered some for her house. So...we pretty much have all the windows for the bottom floor. The upstairs was redone fairly recently and while an upcoming step in the process is to redo the floor of the upstairs, the roof and windows are all pretty new and in good shape. So there's that. But that's it. The rest? Shit, as I've said before.

So, RJ and his father set out to basically go wall by wall, supporting, then removing the entire wall and rebuilding each completely. This way, everything gets stronger and you can dictate exactly where you want all the windows and doors to go. Like-a-this:

Bye Bye Wall

Into this:

Holy Shit, It's a WALL! I was a bit bummed to find out that the door was just resting in there for show. It's yet to be hung, but that won't take long. We'll eventually replace it with a cool door, but having an enclosed space first is very important.

Siding will eventually go over this and will be painted in a similar color palette as the second story. They did this with three of the four walls. The back wall will eventually be removed to allow for an addition with a mud/laundry room and another bedroom. We're hoping to do this after we move in,  sealing off the back from the rest of the house so RJ can work on it while we live there. They also removed the shitty little landing in front as well as a terrible little fence that made it look like Kurt Russell's house in Overboard. And at one time there actually WAS a junky old truck in front of it. Fucking Classy. I have to give major props to Brian Brittain (owner of the lone bar in Creede, The Tommyknocker Tavern) for coming by to help the guys all three days AND doing the stupid shit that I would have had to do--like cleaning and nail removal--were I not out of town. THANK YOU. Also, Jeff Johnson, who stopped by and lent his expertise as well. And our neighbor dude, Chris, who collects all the old Mercedes next door (one of which you can see out the large window above) for letting us have some power. They have all received lemon meringue pies for their sacrifice.

I make pies too. I am a domestic goddess.

Next Step: To secure/build the actual ceiling/upstairs floor. It is also old and falling apart as you can see. It's pretty much just crappy boards.

Tiny little window from the ReStore. And if you look up, floor that needs love. 

Wood for Floor, Wood for FLOOR!!!

So...Yippeeeee! It is really very nice to see some progress on this thing. I know, duh. But it IS! Each step that we take makes it closer to being a reality. Our hopeful goal? To be able to move into the place by mid-summer. Everything would have to fall into place just so and it's a pretty optimistic goal, but at LEAST it's a goal. That's more than many can say. Just look at the last election. (Bahdahbing--too soon?)

Brand spankin' new windows.

Tri-Flex makes things look like they're happening!

But seriously. If I may climb a soap box for two minutes. And feel free to skip this paragraph. I almost hate to write stuff like this, but I feel oddly compelled after something really disturbing I read on the fb the other day. Those who know me will know that I'm happy about the election results. I don't think Obama hates America. I think he is America. And whether you agree with me or not, one thing I believe in is motherf-ing progress. This country, hell this LIFE, is in a constant state of change. And that is good! Who are we if we don't progress? A lot of folks seem still stuck waiting for a return to an American Dream that doesn't exist anymore. Sure, the middle class of America in the 1950s was great. You could stay in the same job for most of your life, provide a comfortable existence and retire well. If you were white. Because we also didn't have much in the way of equal rights for every citizen. Women, non-white or gay (it's not just the slang word for happy). So in closing, I, Kate Berry Mann, am for progress. This country is no longer shiny and white. Thank Jeebus!!!! (Falls off soapbox).

And lil ole me? It's been 10 weeks since my hip was probed in a big way. I'm walking normally, with no pain, and after seeing Ron the Super PT yesterday am now able to work in some running progressions and weight bearing plyometrics. A lot of this has to be done very carefully and not for very long, but things are clearly making p.r.o.g.r.e.s.s. Not to hit you all over the head with a THEME or anything.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to making some risotto and fantasizing about things I cannot afford on Pinterest.

This is the shit I look at. WANTS IT!

A Good Ole North Cackalacky Hitchin'! (And Other Musings)

My best girlfriend, Rebecca, got married this past Sunday to a wonderful man named Patrick McHugh. Here they are below in all their shining love and goodness:

The Lovely Couple--photo by Kelsey LaPoint

I was the Matron of Honor. We actually referred to me as Madame since who the hell wants to ever be called “matron”. I mean really. This is the first time in my life I had been asked to be/do this for someone. I will say now that it is one of the most fulfilling, amazing and exhausting things I have ever done in my life. I also realized that outside of my own wedding last year, when Rebecca served as my MOH, I didn’t really know what the job entailed. I’ve never asked anyone else I knew who had done it what to do. I never thought to. Since our wedding was fairly unconventional, I just assumed that what Rebecca did was unconventional. She was basically my personal assistant. We didn’t have to do that much running around because the wedding was in Creede—a town of 400 people. Every event was in the same general area so wrangling people wasn’t difficult. But the main thing was that I felt like everything was taken care of and so I didn’t worry. Little did I know how much effort it actually takes in making your bride feel secure.

In hippy dippy terms, you are essentially absorbing all the worry and stress for everyone, especially your bride. If she starts to get stressed—which knowing my dearest Rebecca, was bound to happen because she’s a pleaser, sometimes to the detriment of her own happiness—you must find a way to alleviate this in the best way possible. You can’t be part of the problem. You must disarm the stress immediately. And to do this successfully you must KNOW your bride. You must anticipate any conclusion she might come to, understand why and how this will cause her anxiety and eat it like a big juicy sandwich before she even smells it. That is the ideal outcome. Sometimes you will have to do damage control. You have to mediate between family members, be the voice of reason and make sure everyone is comfortable. Phew! Tired yet? Now. What does one do with all this borrowed, stolen and reconstituted anxiety you ask? Well if you are Kate Berry Mann, normally you take a run.

I can has anxiety sammich?

For those of you who don’t run either because you tried it and hated it or because you just can’t imagine ever running unless you are being chased, I can only describe it as this: CRACK. Okay, I’ve never tried crack, but I assume it’s like a lot of drugs. There is something about a rhythmic moving of one’s body--sweating, heart beating, feeling your feet hit the ground--that puts it right up there for me with eating and doin’ it. I get all my worry out. It’s like Andy DuFresne in Shawshank Redemption emptying his pockets of the debris from his escape hole. (And if you don’t know what I’m talking about watch that damn movie and learn something.) I think about shit. I work stuff out. I sometimes listen to music. I create a soundtrack to my run. I sometimes run in silence especially if something is particularly bugging me. I FUCKING LOVE IT, PEOPLE!!!

See how I love it?! (Well, see this person who is expressing my feelings for me)

Ahem. Excuse me.

Except that I can’t run. I have reached the point in my current non-running life where I am antsy as f***. Especially since my hip is feeling pretty normal except for a few bits of muscle weirdness that shows itself now and then. This is the part when the docs tell you not to overdo it, or jump back in too soon and re-injure yourself. I understand this in theory, but when you’ve been your best friend’s right hand lady for a week, eating at restaurants for most meals, snacking on chocolate (cause we’re those kinda ladies) and out of your regular PT routine for almost two week and feel like a big bag of mushy bones and flesh, you reeeeeally want to get out and do something. Like run. Please? Doc? No? Fuck YOU!!!

But back to the wedding! After almost a week of being Rebecca’s personal assistant, confidant and eater of anxiety sandwiches, Sunday was upon us. After a stressful rehearsal dinner (behind the scenes stressful—from what I understand everyone in attendance had a lovely time), the bride was a bit shaken. Remember she IS a pleaser. And to quote my step-father, Gerry, she wants everyone to be happy all of the time. So Sunday morning, all I could hope for was for the enjoyment of the wedding day to overcome the worry and anxiety that everything will happen in its correct order. 

It did. Rebecca's parents Roxana and Edward are some of the loveliest, most generous people I know. The wedding was on an amazing location in North Carolina called the Angus Barn. Despite the honkytonk name, the “barn” was elegant and classy. The team there was highly organized and the hitching went off without a hitch. (Has that joke been used before? I hope so). It was a splendid day—sunny and 70. Everyone got to the site on time and looked beautiful. Rebecca was stunning and Patrick fell in love with her all over again. Another bonus was that the planets aligned for my MOH speech and it was neither too rambling nor too drunken. Like a rare piece of theatre it had its time and disappeared into the ether. I remember little about it except that it involved a spoon and this little tidbit: I spoke of observing Patrick see Rebecca come down the walkway, with both her parents at her side, from the barn to the wedding site a few hundred feet away. It was one of the loveliest things I have ever seen. And it was lovely because what he saw was what all of us there to honor them see when we look at her. 

 Crying yet? You should be because it was fucking beautiful. 

This is my favorite. (photo by Kelsey LaPoint)

So that, gentle five readers, is what all the mental and physical exhaustion is for. I would eat an anxiety sandwich everyday if that is the kind of beauty it produces. And isn’t that why so many of us are artists? For that stuff of dreams that is rare and fleeting. 

My Darling Rebecca--photo by Kelsey LaPoint

The Age of Enthusiastic Restraint

Yes it's true, People! Praise Jeebus! I am HEALED!

My buddy.

Well, not totally, but I'm feeling a hell of a lot better than I did the first three weeks post-surgery. It's interesting when you look at how much the mind and body are connected and that my piss poor mood wasn't so much due to readjusting to Creede life (though I'm sure that was at least a small part of it) but was directly related to the surgery. I realize that this may seem obvious but when you're trying to live in the moment during recovery, the struggle to stay positive about life (And I did! I really, really did TRY) is often eclipsed by woe-is-me-aren't-I-pitiful-life-is-hard b.s.

A lot of this shift into magical thinking has to do with Ron, my physical therapist. Simply put, he is fucking awesome. He clearly knows his shit and makes you feel good about your progress while pushing you to do more than you think you can do. This type of quality individual is hard to find in the Valley. To the under-informed, the Valley is the flat part of this area southeast of Creede and includes the small towns of Del Norte, Monte Vista and Alamosa. All of which are kind of depressed and shitty. And I say this because there is a nasty, down-trodden, angry-at-life energy that permeates these places. You can see the mountains, but you're not IN the mountains. It's like you paid for the deluxe $10 treatment at the automatic carwash but found out you had to do it all yourself. On my very first trip to Creede--not knowing exactly how long it took to get there and before the age of GPS or Google Maps--when I came through Alamosa I thought I'd been duped. This couldn't be Creede?!!! It's...horrible and ugly. Thankfully it wasn't Creede and I still had over an hour to go to get there. But the point being, the Valley doesn't exactly attract the attention of super talented folks because it's hard to get people to enthusiastically live there. So, when I knew that I'd have to get physical therapy outside of Denver, I was a little worried. But I'd heard great things about Ron from several people whose advice I trusted and sought him out.

This past Wednesday, Ron said I'd made the greatest strides he'd seen since I'd started coming in four weeks ago. In addition to totally losing the crutches, I was getting stronger and more confident. Both of which are extremely important in the healing process. I'd felt this change mentally too. My mood in general had started to lift. I was feeling less and less like a useless pile of poo and started (gasp!) looking forward to things again--like travel and auditions. RJ even started annoying me less. Poor guy. He's a peach.

I knew when this whole thing started that it would be hard and if you've read earlier posts, I'm sure you're well aware of this notion of mine. The physical hardship being the most obvious. And that it would be extra hard for someone with my particularly spastic personality to stand still for longer than five minutes. I was even slightly prepared for the depression. But what I wasn't prepared for was the anger. I have spent the last 3 1/2 weeks feeling pretty damn pissed off. Pissed at my body and its weaknesses, pissed at my husband even though he was trying to do what was best for me, and pissed at my shitty life for being slow and boring and shitty. I fancy myself to be a mostly upbeat person who has occasional bouts with melancholy. But this was a shitty mental space to be in for so long. Long for me anyway. I really do pity people who live in this space constantly and without hope of recovery because it SUCKS looking at the world like that--with so much anger and frustration. You begin to feel...hopeless. Like everything in your life is wrong.

This is not to say everything about life at present is hunky dory. I still don't know when or where my next theatre job will be and money is really tight. The Mann house still sits empty and gutted, waiting for some love. Plus, winters in Creede can be maddening, so I look forward to a job that takes me away for at least part of it. But the days of despair are becoming more rare and I feel much like my old self again.

 

Ow, my hip!

So, as I prepare next week to do some much needed travel--to Denver for some post-op, then Chicago to see family and friends, then North Carolina to stand up in my best girlfriend's wedding...

Photo by Susannah McLeod. (And Rebecca and I really do love each other, I swear.)

I must remember enthusiastic restraint. I'm on my way to my former glory, but I'm not there yet. Running is most likely several (if not more) months away and there is still some weakness, stiffness, aches and pains. But my faith in the ability of the human body to rebound has been restored--that it is a thing to wonder at and be amazed by. But also, that whatever you feed, grows. And I had been feeding my soul with a heap of angry crap and self-pity. So, I'll keep feeding it with good things that are nurturing and positive. And...much gratitude to friends and family who have gone overboard to make me feel better mentally and physically. You know who you are. And...oh jesus, who am I? A fucking new-age hippie?! I must stop before I make myself puke from all this love and light. (Keepin' it real, keepin' it real.)

Caption included.

Till next time, all five readers.

You Do The Hokey Pokey...

Angry Crutches Game Face!!!

Ahh, Recovery.

A definition of it is this:

1. The act, process, duration, or an instance of recovering.

In the almost three weeks since my surgery I have been wished, many times, to have a good recovery. So much so that the word began to have no meaning. It started to remind me of the generic "get well soon" but of the you-chose-this-surgery-good-luck variety. So I decided to look up the actual meaning of the word. And ta daaaaa--it's a blog post. My world has consisted of pretty much the same routine for the past couple of weeks. I wake, I make breakfast, get on the stationary bike for an hour (and man does my butt hurt after), do PT exercises, get coffee and/or run simple errands, rest, nap, have or create dinner, attach myself to the CPM machine for 2-3 hours, go to bed. I will not mention the exact amount of time spent on the computer either watching something or talking to friends. Mostly because I don't keep track. But it is ongoing, constant and honestly, necessary for me to feel like I'm still a participant in the world.

2. A return to a normal condition.

I have chosen a life in the arts, so this may be an impossible request. But I've been telling people, when they ask how recovery is going, that it feels a bit like two steps forward and one step back. I'm obviously getting better, but my mind would like this to happen at a much faster rate than my body will allow.  I have never been incapacitatingly (might not be a word) ill for more than a week or so. And when I pull a muscle or run a race, within a few days, I'm back to feeling pretty fine again. And fine meaning that I can do all the things I normally do. This is not that. At all. This week (the third week in) has been the time to wean off crutches and it's been relatively slow going.  I have found that I'm able to walk around the house sans crutches fairly easily, but when I go outside, things are radically different. The ground is uneven, there is uphill and downhill and when someone is walking with me, they want to go a lot faster than I can go so I push it. So taking a crutch with me as I venture outside seems conservative, yet still a necessity. However on Friday, I woke up feeling really fantastic.  Walking without crutches seemed easy. I had very little pain, even with continuing to reduce the amount of ibuprofen I'm consuming, and took some risks--like trying to walk down the stairs normally (as opposed to one step at a time). I went out to lunch with RJ and walked back home without using my crutch! Awesome!! Score one for ME! Saturday I woke up feeling like someone had stolen my leg and sewed back on (poorly!) a limp sausage. Everything hurt, it hurt to walk, to stand, to do basically everything. Score one for sadness and tears.

3. Something gained or restored in recovering.

Ahh, yes. The quaint, dare I say cute, definition of recovery that allows me to tell you eloquently what I've been learning about this process. How it has changed me for the better and how I will be stronger because of it. And my need for zen and simplicity in my life will probably--no eventually--let me gain some insight. But at this point FUCK THIS! I dislike it. It makes me really moody all the time. One minute I'm hopeful and strong and happy for my progress and in another I'm pissed, frustrated and angry at my weakness. I don't really go out because I'm tired by 6pm. How awesome for me AND for my husband, who probably feels like I am in perpetual PMS.

4. The act of obtaining usable substances from unusable sources.

And this is when I tie everything back to the house. That RJ has done nothing on for several weeks... Partly because of taking care of me in Denver and at home in Creede, and partly because he's got to do the paying work first. There's been a bit of pressure to get on with the re-build and what our precise plans are for it, but we're just not there yet. And that's how I feel, people! That I'm just not there yet. And that has to be okay. I want to be there now, hell, I wanted to be there yesterday, but it's just not possible. (Yes, Zen, I HEAR you, thanks!) I guess what I'm saying is that I am where I am. It's different for everyone, it's frustrating for everyone and hopeful too, but it's like gutting a house and rebuilding I suppose. You have to strip it down and start over or you're just covering up a whole lot of shit. (Alright, enough with the damn metaphors.)

Onward!

Onward.

Nothin' To Do But Blog

Hey Everybody! It's Sunday Funday! And guess what I'm doing this fine, freezing morning in the mountains?! I'm hooked up to a CPM machine staring at facebook, patiently waiting for SOMEONE TO POST SOMETHING.

Just Say No To Crack: Part One

I should probably mention that my hip surgery was Tuesday. I'm sure all four of my gentle readers are anxious to know how it went in a horribly descriptive manner...

Let's start with the truth about my surgery and perhaps the most obvious part of surgery in general. It sucked. It was horrible. I hated it. I now truly understand what fuels most people to recover from these things because it blows big ass chunks of puke. Sometimes literally, but luckily not in my case.

RJ and I are to check in at the Surgery Center at 6:00am with my surgery scheduled for 7:30am. It was actually pretty chilled out and quiet for the car ride over and subsequent wait in the office. RJ was semi-comatose from being up that early in the day, so I drove us. I was quietly anxious. So, together, there was something resembling calm, though not quite. Once I filled out what seemed like an endless stream of paperwork, I was taken back to consult with my "primary nurse" who went over medical history. I was led to my recovery bed and given the classic hospital gown of shame complete with compression socks to prevent deadly blood clots, and an IV with fluids. As one can imagine, this is all incredibly sexy. Then I was told to chill out in the bed. Well, I don't think the primary nurse actually told me to "chill out" but that's what I tried to do. And no I don't remember her name. At that point I may have been contemplating what would happen if I didn't wake up, died or some other such horrible thing. Now, I'm normally a pretty positive person when it comes to life, except when I'm not.

Just Say No To Crack: Part Two

Over the next hour I was visited by three...wait, different story. I had a visit from a PA, my surgeon Dr. Vidal, some dude who was (supposedly) the anesthesiologist, and a few other nurses to sign even more paperwork that essentially says, "if you die, totes not our fault," etc. I was also asked repeatedly which hip was being operated on with the surgeon finally marking my hip in Sharpie with her initials. Hey, anything to prevent a lawsuit. Also at this time, I was given a small medication patch behind my ear to prevent nausea from the general anesthesia. Side effects include dry mouth. Sounded fine to me. More on that later.

Everyone was very nice and made sure I understood everything, blah blah blah.

"We all float down here, Kate..."

And then it was time. I was wheeled into the surgery room and on the way there, almost had an incident with one of the doors--the handicap doors started to close on us as we went through them--something minor but caused the nurse and me to burst out laughing right as Dr. Vidal was entering the room. "Everything alright," she asked. "Fine, fine, just almost got attacked by a door," we answer, still laughing. So, I went into the surgery room cracking jokes and in fine spirits. This is going well, I think to myself. Yay! Then I see the setup.

I should also add that Dr. Vidal told me when she was describing the surgery to me that they would be separating my hip from its socket about 7mm (or maybe it was cm...anyway something terrible) as to allow for the camera and other devices to fit inside. (Did I mention this was arthroscopic surgery--minimally invasive, three incisions). The bed where I am to have surgery looks like a horror movie version of a trip to the OB/GYN. Gigantic. Stirrups. Spread to a terrifying distance. I mumble some lame attempt at humor and scooch myself over (yes, I believe scooch is the medical term) to the bed. The anesthesiologist greets me and immediately: "ohhhh, you've just done something." My parting words before entering the void.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! (Not Me)

From that point on it gets rather foggy. I had forgotten how FUCKING AWFUL general anesthesia is and how poorly I react to it. I will attempt to recount for you what the...afternoon?...felt like which was essentially a series of scenes with people asking me to do things like breathe deep, purse my lips and hey here's your husband, hi honey, zzzzzzz, what time is it? 11am wow, zzzzz, what time is it? 1:30, wow, her oxygen is low when she's asleep, breathe deep Kate, zzzzz, water please, juice please, juice too sweet, burns, ack, what time is it? zzzzzz, time to go, everything looks good. Car. Posted something on facebook (how did that even happen?!) In-laws house. Evening. My mouth is dry. Try to eat. No. My mouth is dry nothing tastes good. Let's give you ONE oxycodone. Mmmmokay. My tummy hurts. I can't cry any tears! My mouth is so DRY. Try to eat, honey, etc.

I must mention that RJ has been patient and kind and loving through this whole thing. Though he's back to giving me shit for nearly everything while still helping me out tremendously. He doesn't like me putting much of his life and/or doings on the interwebs, but he really was/is great. He's swell.

I also must mention that the tiny little dry mouth side effect from the anti-nausea patch was actually  like having all of the moisture in your body sucked out so that every drink of water stings, and every bite of something with less of a water count than a grape gets stuck to the inside of your mouth and stays there. Plus, I was extremely nauseous with nothing to barf up but a few carrots and grapes. As I came to over the course of the evening, I realized that the anti-nausea patch could indeed be the very thing making me nauseous. Or maybe it was the oxy, hmmmuh, gag, oh my god get it OFF!!!

I ripped off the patch and within 15 minutes, the dry mouth AND nausea began to subside. So. FYI: I don't know if these patches really work--perhaps they do, though I still felt nauseous after surgery--but for me, the side effect of EXTREME dry mouth was not worth it. God-AWFUL. I also decided to not take any more oxy after that and just went with a horse's dose of Advil. Yeah, bitches!!!!!

So, that brings us to today. Boring story short, the healing is slow but seems to be going well. They labral tear was clean and not as bad as they expected. They did shave off some excess bone, but again, much less than expected. Yes, I'm going stir-crazy, trying not to do too much (and this is WAY easy to do when you've got a personality like mine), and spending way to much time on the internet. Hopefully, I'll feel like reading a book soon and enriching my life in beneficial ways. But for now it's Elle magazine and a MacBook. I've got crutches for another couple weeks, though I can start weening myself off of them in the next 8 days or so. And I've got this damn CPM machine for another couple weeks. I just lie in bed and the machine moves my leg for me so it doesn't freeze up and fall off. Or something like that. Now if you excuse me, I'm behind on my fb posts of cats and feet.

CPM--continuous passive movement

Kittens

 

In Place of Our Regularly Scheduled Programming, We Now Bring You a Touch of Pre-Surgery Ennui.

This blog is and has been my attempt to detail the acquisition and creation of our little mountain house in southwestern Colorado. And in my humble opinion, any blog worth reading has got some thoughts on life thrown in there too and hopefully some funny. Life is not worth living if you can't laugh about shit. So today, I will do my best to fuse the two--new home and surgery. Hot damn! And being a graduate of a fine liberal arts program, I am confident I will succeed. (Thanks Knox College for helping me to link Chekhov to a beach towel in five easy steps!)

 

As I'm finding with buying a major fixer-upper that you are fix-uppering on your own, one is faced with the fear of the unknown. How long will it take? Can we pay it off when we agreed to pay it off? How much money will it require to get it where we want it?

The unknown is also what I face as I go in on Tuesday, Sept. 4th to have surgery on my hip. (See how I did that? Just like a college paper.) I have not had many surgeries in my life, being a pretty healthy and fit human. So this is big for me and more than just a little disconcerting. I am not a person that likes to slow down and being forced to do so is like cutting off a limb, which is essentially what will be happening. Thankfully it is temporary and no one will be eating it. (Long story.)

A bit of background about what is "wrong" with me: I have a torn labrum in my right hip. Yes, labrum looks like the word labia but thankfully one has nothing to do with the other except that they are located in the same general...anyway. The labrum is a type of cartilage that lines the hip socket so that your femur doesn't rub directly on it, which would cause lots of pain and unhappiness. You also have a labrum in your shoulder--see how that works boys and girls. Also, once torn, the labrum is unable to repair itself. It has been described to me like stretching Saran Wrap. It stretches apart until it tears, but can't go back together on its own.

How does one tear their sacred labrum, you might ask? Well, lots of things can cause it. A fall, activities on uneven ground, or years of wear and tear and then it just...comes apart. I'm actually not sure exactly how it all happened in my case, but during the run of The Importance of Being Earnest this winter in Arvada, I suddenly had what felt like a groin pull, but farther over in hip area. It sucked. It felt like a deep, deep muscle pull that couldn't be reached for relief and at the same time like my hip had come out of it's socket and wouldn't pop back in. This luckily wasn't the case, but if felt awful. After going through all the boring medical stuff like chiro, x-ray, MRI (which is an experience in it's own right. Two words: machine gun) and a surgical consult, I found out about the tear. And also that I have a bump on the head of my femur, which is common to have but makes you more prone to this type of injury especially if you are active. What they will do is make three small incisions, go in with a camera, shave off the excess bone, clean up and repair the labrum and get out. Very simple.

Okay, enough with the boring shit. The difficult part for me mentally is that this will completely change the way I move about the world for many, many weeks. Rehab is a 6 month process and in that time I cannot run at ALL, which sucks because running has been my mental and physical salvation for over 15 years. I have to wear a hip brace for several weeks that severely limits my movement. I have to ice it continuously for several days. I have to use a CPM (continual passive movement) machine for 4-6 hours a day that moves my hip around so scar tissue doesn't develop. I will have to be on crutches for 2-3 weeks, depending on the extent of the surgery and how much weight I can bear on it initially. See, they don't really know exactly how bad it is and what they have to do until they go in there, and for some reason, this makes me very depressed. I'd like to think I'm an open-minded person and ready for anything. But when it comes to not being able to drive, sleep on my right side, stand up in the shower and being a general helpless invalid, me no likey. In fact, me Hatey!

And I've heard it all from everyone. "Take this time to slow down, you'll be so glad you did it, let yourself heal, it's for the best." And RJ's personal favorite: "rub some dirt on it, you big baby." Yes. It's true. All of it is true. It'll be great in the long run. I'm lucky to have insurance and the time to do it and I'm in a first world country with all this available to me. It will force me to think differently. Work out in a different way! New pathways will be formed in my brain!! I may actually get smarter by doing this!!!

But yet it makes me sad. I like my independence. I'm an only child for chrissake! But maybe what it really is...is that I don't like asking for help. It makes me feel weak or not good enough. And I realize too, in this very moment even, that as my grandparents move OUT of the house they've lived in for almost 50 years and into assisted living because they are 90 years old and becoming more and more physically unable to care for themselves and each other, that this must be what getting older feels like and it's fucking inevitable.

Okay, who's feelin' great now?! Woooooohooo! Jesus, I'm boring myself with this ennui. But man, do I love the word ennui and what it represents. It's so...french-sexy. And honestly, getting this stuff out into the ether makes me feel better. So, Dear Reader, (if there's anyone left) as the French say, you must just fucking deal with it. And thank you for listening. There will be much more to come. And perhaps I'll blog while on oxycodone. Now THAT could be entertaining.

And now, I leave you with a combination of some of my favorite things, new and old. Cats, humor and ennui. I present, Henri:

It's Tetanus, It's Tetanus Time!

I will begin today's post by reporting that I had to get a tetanus shot this afternoon because I stepped on a rusty nail. (For serious!)

Super Sparkle Tetanus Arm!

One of the jobs on the new house I had been delegated to do by RJ was to extract all superfluous nails from large pieces of older/movie crew donated wood to be reused on our house. There's quite a pile. Let me just say that as a sometimes city girl at heart, I dislike this kind of work--but it's mindless and RJ has other, more pressing things to do like, you know, actually building things. My lovely friend Caitlin volunteered to help me tackle this horrible task. Because she's actually a good person. And I will buy her ice cream. It's a deal!

Fun in a can.

It may be important to note that RJ has been out of town all day today doing a job that pays actual money, so Caitlin and I are left on our own to sort through this heap of pokey wood. Now, we are both uber-capable-lady-folk, but we quickly found that what we thought would take us a few hours to get through, ended up taking waaaaaaaay longer. In fact, we only made a small dent today. Why? A lot of this wood is old. Old, possibly decaying and split apart enough that I'm not even sure RJ can use it. But I can't ask him, because he's not here and out of cell range. A lot of the wood in the pile is good stuff, but since it's all mixed up together, heaven knows. In addition, ALL of these old pieces of wood are COVERED with crooked, rusty nails. Super fun.

RJ told me to wear my hiking boots to the work site and to look out for nails, but instead of taking that great advice, I wore my running shoes because I had just taken a run earlier and didn't want to change out of my shoes. I'm SUCH a girl. Anyway, about an hour and a half into this tedium, as I was getting a piece of wood from the heap to work on, I feel a sharp nail shoot between my big and second toe. I, of course, shriek. At this point I'm not sure whether the nail has magically gone right in between my toes harming nothing, or if it's poked me and I have to go to the health clinic. Unfortunately, it's the latter. The nail has sliced through the web of my toes and I have what is essentially a paper cut. No big deal but it's bleeding and the nail is old and rusty. Dammit! Caitlin, gem of a human that she is, goes and gets her car and drives me five minutes to the Creede Clinic.

I'm in no pain at all when I enter the clinic, but I explain the situation and ask what I need to do. I am asked when was the last time I had a tetanus shot.
Clinic person: "?"
Me: "Uh......."
Clinic person: "Then you need a tetanus shot."

Luckily for Creede and for me, the public health office is literally right next to the health clinic. It's in the same building. So, for free, I get the wound looked at, cleaned and taped up, get a tetanus shot AND a lollipop and am on my merry way.

Caitlin "Gem of a Human" Wise and me Lolli

So...this has been an elaborate way of introducing the fact that...I AM HOME. Yes, yes I am. Got home from Boulder last Friday! After almost a year of being essentially "on the road," I am back in Creede until at least the end of the year. I get to see my husband for longer than a few days at a time, my animals are here, some great and wonderful friends are here, familiarity abounds.

And yet...being in the profession I am in, I can't help but feel like I've suffered a great loss. Because when you do a show, or work in rep/summer theatre--and in this case I was doing the same show for the past 18 weeks--you bond quickly and strongly with people, you work and play closely together. And if you're being housed from out of town, you even live together or at least in very close proximity. It's a hard feeling to explain to someone with a "normal" job. And being artists and actors, most of us crave and thrive on human connection. So you pour yourself into these shows, create these friendships and then one day, all of a sudden, it's gone. The job is over, people go home and you, for a time, go back to "normal" life. It's like a simultaneous reunion/break-up. You celebrate, you mourn, you cry some, you have a small heart attack, you look around and go back to doing what you normally do--which is quite comforting. But it also feels a little empty for a while.

So, I'm coming off of a week of that. A reunion, a break-up, an adjustment back to Creede life sans theatre (which is waaay slower than any other kind of life). But I have a house that is starting to become something and I'm helping it get that way tetanus shot and all. RJ has filled three roll-off dumpsters with trash, decaying wood and old, nasty, hoarder vibes. And most excitingly, he's started putting in an actual floor! Now again, this place is probably a year from even being liveable, but we are now able to see what it will be and that it can be anything we want. And that's pretty damn cool.

PS. Since the last tetanus shot I received was probably at least 15 years ago, I had forgotten that by the end of the day, it makes your arm feel like it's been removed and then reattached. Awesome sauce!!!

PPS. Kitty!!!!

The Most Horrible Dinner in the World: German Edition

I have failed as a foodie. Failed. I feel like this requires me to write a quiet resignation letter from the Council of Self-Appointed Foodies. I made reservations at the worst restaurant I have EVER been to in my entire life. And what makes it even better is that my husband, not the world's pickiest eater, (though always open to new things) agrees with me 100%.

Usually, our dinners out at new places go like this:

RJ: I don't really like this place. The food is pretty good, but it's too loud and trendy. And I think I hear techno.
Me: Come on, the food is great here and it's crowded because it's GOOD, not trendy.

Or:
Me: This place is old and rustic, which is interesting, but the food is extremely mediocre.
RJ: Would you just eat already.

So, we have different likes and tastes, it makes our marriage exciting. But when making plans for RJ's arrival in Boulder over the 4th of July, I thought he would like the little mining town of Nederland, CO, which is about a 20 mile drive from Boulder up in the mountains. The town is most famous for it's lovely reservoir and the springtime festival, Frozen Dead Guy Days. There's a dude that had himself cryogenically frozen in the hopes that when there is a cure for heart disease, he can be reanimated. Seriously. At least they get to have a party every year.

Anyway, I go about looking online at the small group of restaurants in Nederland. There are some brew pubs (fine but boring) and a couple nicer looking places. I come upon the Black Forest Restaurant which has a quaint little website that boasts its authentic German cuisine. I can go for that. It's not my favorite type of food by any means, but I've been to several great German places in Chicago in my life. They were all reasonably priced, just different enough to make it interesting and had some good beer goin' on. And most importantly, RJ will like it and be able to find something he wants. The menu at Black Forest looked similar to what I was accustomed to with German places. There were no prices on the website menu, but prices change frequently. I've worked in the restaurant biz. I know this.

So, we take a lovely scenic drive up to Nederland last night. It's a beautiful night, it's the 4th of July weekend (not that I care, but apparently some people do), and we are enjoying each other's company. We pull into the restaurant a little early. I'd made reservations for 7pm. It's a rustic yet large place, clearly designed with a Bavarian style in mind. Wood everywhere, nice sign, etc. We walk up the 20 or so stairs to get to the door and walk in. We look to the right, there are two huge dining rooms, we look to the left, another large dining room. The host, which was the same gentleman I'd spoken with on the phone, comes to greet us and take us in. I say we have a reservation for two at 7pm and he takes us to the room on the left. I keep making a point about having a reservation because we clearly did not need one. The place is empty. And huge. But more importantly...empty. Now, at this moment my stomach kind of cramps up. That gut feeling you get when you feel something is terribly wrong. For a moment I was relieved to see that two tables of the perhaps forty tables and booths (in this ONE of possibly EIGHTY rooms of the Black Forest Restaurant) are inhabited. But my stomach sinks again when I see that the people at these tables are, to put it lightly, old as fuck. I think to myself, what time is it again? Oh yeah, it's almost 7pm, the day before a huge holiday and this place is empty.

Now, if I have learned anything from Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares it's that this is an incredibly bad sign. We are seated in a booth that seems to have been installed in 1980 and not cleaned since then. The great thing about this booth is that it allows us to see the rustic design of this amazing place. It looks like something out of a National Lampoons Vacation movie. And we are the Griswolds.  It's dark, the carpet is old, plain, brown with lots of padding underneath from the years of disappointment that have weighed on it. The music is the only redeemable thing but has probably been the same music since 1952. The decor is in desperate need of redo. About every five feet is a terrible painting of some lake, or cabin, or animal. There are random knick knacks everywhere filled with wrapped red and white peppermints. Perhaps this place was hopping 20 to 30 years ago, but now it just feels like death. The death of the decent meal. The waiter, who is also the host, seems to know what we are in store for, but it's hard to tell how he feels about it because he has probably accepted his fate in this Black Forest world. He is moderately pleasant and hands us a menu.

The Menu:

There is nothing under $16. There are only two items under $20. Most items are between $24 and $38. Domestic beers out of a bottle are $4. My stomach again lurches to my feet and I turn to RJ.

Me: Wow, this place is really expensive for a German place...
RJ: Yeah...wow...
Both of Us: Well, maybe the food is really good...

Now, I have known this particular nugget to be true for most of my life-- sometimes the dirty, outdated dives have the best authentic food you have ever had. Sometimes the dust of the old place is made up for by Mrs. Klaus's amazing homemade traditional schnitzel. This was not that place.

Each dinner item is served with a salad and bread and butter. I pick the bratwurst. Because it's simple bratwurst, it could be really good and is only $16. RJ chooses the Bavarian Stroganoff. It is $24. We order no booze. Perhaps this was a mistake, but actually I think was a blessing.

We sit there in silence still in awe of what the fuck we have just walked into. And then look at each other and see we have exactly the same expression on our faces. This elderly man comes out of the kitchen. He's wearing black pants with suspenders and his shirt is about half tucked in. He is not less than 80 years old.

RJ: I bet that's the owner. That would explain a lot. He's probably owned this place forever and hasn't updated it.  I just hope the food is good. If it's not good I don't know what to do.
Me: Me either. Oh my god....I'm going to the bathroom. If the lettuce in the salad is iceberg I'm going to be pissed. Oh my god.

When I return from the bathroom our salads have arrived. They are made from iceberg, which is one of my all around pet peeves in all of restaurant-dom. The lettuce is also squeezed into a tiny bowl. I have ordered the house dressing on the side which seems to consist of some type of oil, red wine vinegar with huge chunks of red onion floating in it. Then there is the bread. The bread...is clearly out of a bag. I had imagined a bread that was homemade, hot out of the oven, and served to me on a cutting board, making me forget all about the horrendous outdated decor and the sad little old man. Nope. No. And...no.

I am still optimistic. "Well, the bread isn't too bad." RJ puts his dressing on the salad, eats two bites and pushes it away. I struggle through it. The iceberg hasn't gone yet, but the haze of brown has started to appear. I pour more onion dressing on it. I must reiterate that RJ is NOT PICKY. Meals I think are mediocre at best, he's okay with. He appreciates and loves an amazing meal but I am the snob in this relationship. He's pretty okay with everything. My heart has now dropped to someone's basement.

About ten minutes later, the waiter brings our entrees. I wish, oh I WISH, I had had my camera with me, but RJ had ordered me to leave my phone in the car (because yes, I am addicted to my iPhone) and I had agreed. He instantly regretted this decision. My plate contained two enormous sausages over a huge pile of canned sauerkraut. It also had two little grey masses of mashed potatoes with (dill?) in it. I take a bite of the little grey mound. It's barely warm, dry and tastes only of dill (at least I was right about the dill). I have a few bites of brat. They have no flavor whatsoever. Like, not even an aftertaste. I keep eating little bites so it looks like I'm eating when the waiter comes over to ask how things are. Fine we say quickly. Now to RJ's meal. It is a medium sized plate that has, separated into three small piles: red cabbage, plain white noodles and meat in some red brown sauce. It looks like a tv dinner. A $24 tv dinner. I have to note that almost everything looks and tastes like it was out of a can--the noodles, the sauerkraut, the red cabbage. If it wasn't from a can, it was made two weeks ago and put in a can somewhere. I look at RJ, his eyes are bigger than I have ever seen them.

RJ: This is terrible. Taste it. (I taste it--horrendous--meat is dry and disgusting). I swear to god this sauce is the same bbq brisket sauce you buy in a tub in the freezer of the grocery store. 
Me: Oh my god.
RJ: We can't pay for this.
Me: Oh my god. What do we do?!
RJ: What do we do?!

I all of sudden have a panic attack. Well, not really, but I get reeeeally uncomfortable. Now--I'm a person, having worked in the food industry, who has no problem telling a waiter I don't like something and that if possible, could I try something else. But this meal was SO bad AND SO unbelievably overpriced that I didn't know what to say. RJ was kind enough to offer to talk to the waiter, to be nice and to make sure to leave him a tip. I am so uncomfortable I tell him I'm going to go wait in the car. At this point, the waiter/host has noticed something is up because we've both stopped eating and I've collected my purse. Also, another table has come in, been seated and now have the same look of shock and dread  that we had. The elderly owner is going around to the other table asking how things are. Oh God, he's going to come to us next!!!  Additionally, we feel bad for him! He makes us sad. Neither of us has ever refused to pay for a meal in our lives. If the meal had been $25 total we probably would have just paid for it. But this was looking to be a $50 meal sans booze and we're pretty damn poor. RJ gets up to go talk to the waiter/host but the old man is standing right by him so he goes to the bathroom to wait him out. I sit there alone and terrified. RJ comes back out and I say, I'm sorry, I HAVE to go to the car. The waiter/host, as I am leaving, asks if I am okay. Fine, I mumble unconvincingly. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! (I screamed in my mind.)

As I sit waiting in the car, one thing RJ had said to me earlier in the restaurant takes over my thoughts.

RJ: Didn't you read the reviews? You ALWAYS read reviews.

This is true. I almost always read reviews. But I had thought, since it was so out of the way, there probably weren't many if any reviews AND being so close to Boulder, it can't be that bad. I was expecting it to be just okay. So I sat in the car and looked at some reviews. One five star rating (had to be fake) and the rest were one or two stars. One specifically saying, and I quote, "DO NOT EAT HERE". So...I f-ed up. Big time. And hilariously so.

RJ comes out to the car a few minutes later and recounts his story of extrication: "When I talked to the waiter, I asked him if the elderly gent was the owner. He said yes. I said, I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings--especially the owner and I don't mean to be disrespectful, but this is not only the worst German food we've ever had, but the worst food we've had. Ever. The waiter asked what was wrong with it and I replied that my dish tasted like frozen brisket sauce out of a tub. The waiter then started to pick up the plates. I once again apologized and told him I was leaving him a tip. He seemed slightly agitated but said, 'that's okay, it happens sometimes.' I read into this that it probably happens a lot to this poor guy. He said he'd be back. I sat there for a few minutes and he did not return, so I left $10 on the table and went out to the car."

RJ and I sat in the car stunned, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. We felt like we had just been through some terrible accident together. In a way it was so heartbreaking because either this old guy had no clue about how bad his restaurant was and no one had the heart to tell him, or he was going along in life knowingly serving horrible food at ridiculous prices. Either way, tragic. But luckily we drove home laughing hysterically about it and ended up having beers and Cosmos bread sticks at the Grown Up Bar in Boulder. Never in my life have simple, homemade bread sticks for 6 bucks EVER tasted so good.