Veering Off The Path. Vagina.

Hey. Hi. Hello. I've been off the blog ship lollipop for a while and for all five of my readers, I'm sure the time has been spent chewing fingernails and drinking too much. I'm sorry. Bad News: Not much progress on the house to report. Though RJ just left Denver with a huge amount of insulation for the downstairs, so that's happening. Hopefully much more news to come as the days get longer and it gets up higher than 28 degrees during the day in Creede. Good News: I've been away from home because I've been working in my chosen artistic profession. And I'm still working in it presently, which is really great. Especially since, apart from philosophy, theatre is one of the most laughed at majors in North America.

That said, I started getting the urge to blog again not because of the lack of house progress or a deep need to share what I auditioned for last week, but because I have become a fierce lover of that show everyone is tired of talking about...Girls. And it's my blog, so I can write whatever I want. YES.

Girls is the new(ish) show on HBO written and created by twenty-something writer, Lena Dunham. She has been supported and criticized at both ends of the spectrum and everywhere in between. Google her and you will find more information than you could ever want. I have now seen every episode of the show to date. Some I like, some I like a lot, and some I've forgotten about. The show has made me laugh out loud on numerous occasions--and that is rare. But what has interested me most in all of this is the surrounding talk itself. And I'm just going to come out and say that I think Lena Dunham's show and voice--as she has said is somewhat an extension of her life--has brought to light that we are still a staggeringly misogynistic first world country. Now stay with me here...

This post is not meant to be a further discussion of the criticism of her being privileged. Her parents are visual artists in NYC. I don't know how much money they make and I really don't care. I'd never heard of them and I doubt most of the queefknockers who reamed her for it had either. As for her getting a show because she may or may not be privileged in a business where 80%??? or more of the success is about who you know or being connected to the right people...SO WHAT?!

I am soon entering my late 30s. Though it was not so long ago that I was in my 20s. And that decade was extremely influential in my life. This show still interests someone like me because it is, I believe, a huge step forward in the voices of women. Yes, yes, blah, blah, we've heard it all before. BUT, I think this whole Girls thing is so divisive because Lena Dunham is just honestly a normal young woman in America. Normal in every sense of the word. She is college educated, she is a little weird, she is awkward, she is not 100lbs nor is she 250lbs, she is tattooed, she is a pleasant looking person who looks like a lot of women we all know. She likes to take her clothes off and I fucking love it. She is self involved, yes--another frequent criticism of the show. But, anyone who says they weren't self involved at 24 is LYING. And, you know, the fact that there has been so much fat shaming talk. Talk that so and so actor is out of her league (for her to be fucking on the show). Talk that she should literally just shut the fuck up, shows me that this country is still super frightened of vaginas that want anything. And that is AWESOME.

I would like to point out that I, personally, have not experienced what I thought was rampant sexism in my life. I never grew up thinking I couldn't do something, or that I had to be married to be important. I am pro-women, for equality for both sexes and all sexualities. I am pro-choice and proud of it. I played sports and studied what I wanted to study. (Good job, Mom!) I have also felt confident in my career. Though I haven't reached 50, when roles for women go bye bye. I embrace androgyny. I have felt mostly like a person for most of my life, not a sex. And I really enjoy being a woman sometimes.

But what really got my panties in a bunch about this whole thing was the most recent episode I'd caught this past Saturday. It was a departure from the normal show format, which tends to follow four women in and out of happenings in their lives. In this case, there were only three speaking characters in the entire episode. One of them was guest star, Patrick Wilson, her lover for the episode which chronicled a short-lived fling. It basically summed up most of the relationships I had in my twenties in one, half hour show. Is that sad? Maybe, but it's true. And I AM a normal woman, so this must have touched more than just me.

Essentially, the episode was about being sexually empowered and open until you're not. It was also about playing house. A phrase regarding faux intimacy that I have heard for years and always makes me want to break something. (I just think it's bullshit. If you want to stay at home with your new lover, make breakfast, read the paper and drink from your french press, then fucking go forth.) I thought the episode was fantastic. I related to it and it was hard to watch at times. It was all the things I like in a good show. Afterwards I went to my favorite recap sites to dive a little deeper into the episode. There, I noticed the slew of comments that Patrick Wilson--who is honestly talented, but just your average attractive actor working in tv and film today--was "out of her league" etc. and something just snapped. Fuuuuuck, people, really?! Even though we've been pairing fat assholes with beautiful wives on sitcoms for decades?!

And in my anger, I realized that I LOVE this show because of shit like this. That women who want sex still frighten people. And I'm not just talking about the "Samantha" stereotype. Sex and the City broke ground over a decade ago in its own way and it is interesting how out of date it feels now. It had its time and place like everything else. We did, for once, have a character who had sex because she liked it and mostly didn't want long term relationships. Great! True and real and thank you. BUT, Samantha was rich, attractive and also having so much sex I don't know how she had time for anything else (right, Wilt Chamberlain?). Dunham is different because she is normal. She is pushing the bounds because there seems to STILL be an unspoken rule that, as a woman, you must be hot, stick thin, and rich to want to fuck and have a story written about it.

I lived in Chicago for the first decade of the 21st century. I was in my twenties and single through most of it. And by single I mean that I had relationships that lasted a few weeks to a few months at the most. I hooked up with a fair number of people. Sometimes I cried over them, sometimes I didn't. I liked almost all of them or at least I did at the time. I felt I was progressive, a feminist, somewhat damaged and prone to make a lot of mistakes that I mostly learned from! That could probably sum up most middle class, 25 year-old chicks living in cities. But once about seven years ago, I propositioned a guy I was in a show with, who I was attracted to, and who was a self proclaimed ladies man. I propositioned him thinking that my forwardness would be a turn on. That I would be that kick ass lady who asks for what she wants. Yee haw! He told me no thank you because it made me seem desperate. He liked the chase. That's what was attractive to him...........???!!!!!!! Then I found out later he was fucking the stage manager.

ANYWAY, that still sticks with me because, after pondering the existence of Girls, what it means right now, and all the back and forth over it--THAT is what it makes me think of. THAT DUDE'S REACTION TO ME! Asking for what you want is a risk, true, and he had every right to turn me down. But it was so shocking to me because the rejection was for such a traditional, overly romanticized reason. And though I'm sure he didn't intend to, he made me feel not even like a slut (I barely put any stock in that word anyway) but an alien. It also made me think that I was doing something wrong. That who I was wasn't what men wanted. And then I thought, fuck! Why do I care?! But I did.

And THAT is what is fucked up to me. And why I think what Dunham is doing is important. Because views of female sexuality are still evolving in a wonderful way. Dunham has been asked repeatedly about her choice to be nude a lot on her show and she's admitted that she has body issues and that it's a bit of a compulsion to put herself out in the world like that. But I think it's great. We're living in the same world that still plasters airbrushed, underweight women on billboards. And even though we all know about airbrushing, we still allow these images to tell us who we should be. We still let advertisers sell cleaning products and Easy Bake Ovens to us. (Though I hear some advertiser finally put a boy in an EBO print ad).

I don't want to go over and over what many of us have been talking about for years. I attempt to put a fresh perspective out there in my view of the world. And I realize, and hope, that I'm not the only one. Hell, I'm not that smart. But Dunham is telling a story that so many of us experience everyday. And the fact that all this ruckus is being made about it makes me think that she is doing something right.

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