Bruise News

On the road back home from my Easter Extravaganza reality set in. What do people who are temporarily crippled do? Surprisingly I had never endured an injury that resulted in immobility, so I was kinda worried. But the swelling had gone down, and nothing seemed amiss, with the exception that I couldn't really walk. I still relied heavily on my borrowed crutches from my gay bestie. "I hope I don't break my foot before I see you again," he proclaimed.                                                     

I didn't call the doctor, because I am notoriously bad at calling for help.  I think everything will right itself.  This is in drastic contrast to my Southern husband who is a hypochondriac and self diagnoses himself via the Internet. He usually makes my doctors appointments for me. He has been so bold as to locate every gynecologist I have seen in our 11 years together. He has even made those appointments for me. I know. Gross. And. Dreamy. 

My boss's method on healing a sick foot

So, the first week, I wrapped my foot in an ace bandage and used my borrowed crutches. In two days I decided to graduate to a cane that my Southern husband purchased for me for four dollars at Big Lots (the greatest store in the world.) When I was hobbling around on the cane at the grocery store a man, whom I assumed was a doctor, shook his head at the way I was using the cane and adjusted it for me. I think this was because the cane is mainly for senior citizens and not idiots.

My boss, who is not a doctor, tried to "help" me by giving some alternative advise with her homeopathic expertise: I can solve my foot problems by rubbing Extra Strength Tiger Balm on the injured area, place a plastic glove over the foot, and leave it on underneath my bandage. The glove will trap the Tiger Balm so it can seep into my foot and work its magic. I did this daily. I honestly thought that Tiger Balm was a miracle cream because my foot was starting to feel better. It felt so good that I ceased using the cane and was surprised when I was able to do a jig. Things were on the up and up. I was foot loose and fancy free. Everything was coming up Gigi! That was until I woke up on the weekend and was faced with this:

This phased me a little. So I decided that before I went to an "All You Can Eat Ribs Contest" celebration with my red haired gal pal, I would make my Southern husband schedule a doctors appointment for me. Making doctor's appointments is an unspoken agreement in our relationship. He makes the doctors appointments and I do everything else. But in protest, he didn't make the appointment, which led me to make my own. This is something that I should never do, because I always make the wrong decision. I wanted to find a good doctor so I googled: best podiatrist in L.A. One stood out: Dr. Javaherian Afshin Dpm affectionately shortened to "Dr. Java". I should have turned my bruised foot around when I saw that his podiatry office was in a closet hidden behind a privately owned pharmacy. But, I didn't, because my foot hurt.


The receptionist assured me that I was in good hands with Dr. Java, "He's a really nice guy." She put me in his office where I was free to gaze at his lackluster credentials hanging on the wall  He graduated as a foot expert from Cal State Northridge, a school known for its graphic arts programs. He greeted me with a smile and asked, "Are you pregnant?" and I depressingly replied,"No."
           "Oh, well in this economy everyone is pregnant. Pregnant with bills, insurance, you understand?" Nice, Dr Java. Nice. After the ex rays and the pregnancy comments Dr. Java gave me an ultimatum: get a really expensive cat scan to make sure it isn't a fracture, or the boot. "If it's fractured you'll need surgery."
              "Is it really fractured?" He didn't know. I took the boot.

It wasn't until I discovered that I could have gone to my general practitioner, the wonderful U.C.L.A. lesbian doctor and that a "podiatrist" isn't actually an M.D.,  that I slammed my hand against my forehead in dumb dumbery. When I saw my real doctor she took one look to conclude that I was fine, it was too early to decide if it was a fracture. I still needed to wear the boot, load myself with pills, and in 6 weeks we can start to talk about about this fracture business if there is no improvement.

For all the money I spent on my foot at least I got this cool new shoe. It's actually an amazing addition to any stylish persons wardrobe. I predict that everyone will be wearing this beautiful boot in the future. I literally saw a hip woman in Trader Joes wearing one this afternoon. She caught me gazing at her, looked down at my foot, and gave me a winning smile. She knew that we were the medical boot pioneers paving the way for the fashionista of the world. We were hip to each others jive.
               

Spring Sprain

I never get a vacation. So, when I have four days off from work, I take advantage. But, in my world, even when I'm on vacation dumb luck follows me like dark cloud.

For my vacation I set my sights on beautiful San Francisco, my high school hometown. With the extended weekend, I would be able to take my Southern husband on a tour of nostalgia lane. We ate at Goat Hill Pizza, strolled in Union Square, had a beer at Lefty O'Douls, and saw a drag show with my gay bestie (the one who I gave my burn cream to). When I was making plans to come to The Bay Area I hadn't even realized I was going to be there on Easter until I actually looked on a calender. When my gay bestie and I realized that we would be spending Easter together we immediately tried to come up with an amazing Easter adventure. I told him I wanted to do an Easter egg hunt/picnic in Delores Park, a park set atop a hill overlooking the San Francisco skyline. We were unaware that San Franciscans have flocked to the park since 1979 to judge the "Hunky Jesus" contest for Easter. So, obviously, nothing was going to deter me from seeing all the amazing Jesus' lined up for my amusement.


(It seems that this blasphemous act was the culprit of my demise and that God was soon going to punish me for my mockery of his beloved son, Jesus.)

Usually I spend all of my San Francisco excursions with my gay bestie. But this time my Southern husband convinced me to spend one day with my parents. This is because he loves drinking and gossiping with them (a family practice that I am accustomed to, but he has just started to enjoy). I decided to meet them at my grandmother's house for a pre-Easter celebration.

A couple drinks in at Grandma's, I had a need to breathe in some fresh Bay Area air. I live in Los Angeles; a place where breathing in and out deeply is not common. So, I suggested that my family and Southern husband all go to the local elementary school and shoot some hoops. I kind of wanted to prove to my mother that I was more active and more health conscious now that I am in my thirties and aware that my youth has slipped away. Boy I'm stupid. We played 'horse'. I won. We played 'pig'. I lost. And because I lost at pig I decided that it was a good idea to play two on two; even though I was wearing shoes that were one size too big. I bought them at Ross for $10 (originally $80) because they were so cute and they had Edie Sedgewick on them. I didn't think that my need to be thrifty would cause me to be crippled.

My mother suggest it be girls against boys, which is silly because the boys were gonna win.  But quite honestly we are all terrible ball players; by the fourth point we were out of breath. To liven up the game I became aggressive and did my famous swing monkey arms move to block my step father from a shot. I am not as coordinated as I was in my younger basketball playing years and this imbalance caused me to lose my footing in mid-jump, twist my ankle, and fall to ruin.

As I was falling I thought a number of things 1) Oh no! Gay Jesus Easter! and 2) Well, at least I have more material for my blog. I heard my mother cry out, "Oh no!" and I knew that now I had really done it. As my parents and Southern husband lifted me to my feet, I felt sharp pains radiate throughout my foot. And, like the pro klutz that I am, I brushed off their, "Are you okay?" comments. But, as they propped me on my grandmothers saggy pink couch and took off my Royal Elastic Edie Sedgewick limited addition shoe, the horror that was my foot, was revealed to me.

Notice my mother calmly reading as I gaze upon this horror.

Yes, I have hairy toes too. Well, sometimes.

So, yes. I sprained my ankle. I mean...I really sprained my ankle. My families answer was the right one: elevate, ice, compress, painkillers, and whiskey. God I love my boozer family. My Southern husband is paranoid about mixing pills and alcohol so he monitored my whiskey intake by drinking everything my step-father handed me.

My dismay

My foot on ice

I texted my gay bestie instantly because the Gay Easter Jesus celebration was the only thing on my mind. Was I going to be able to go? Would this foot weather San Francisco's hilly terrain?  Would I be able to see the Jesus'? Surely my vacation was ruined. God was having his revenge. My gay friend texted back; he did have crutches and that no matter what, Gay Easter Jesus would not be ruined. As I drifted unconscious due to the pain medication and Grandma's whiskey my faith in Easter had been restored.

Gimp Lesbian

The next morning I could not walk on my foot. Despite my mother's pleas and her need for a family Easter, I hobbled my way to Oakland to meet my gay bestie. We dyed eggs, had celebratory Easter drinks, and made our way to Delores Park to see the Jesus Competition. San Francisco and its hilly terrain did not bode well for me. Unbelievably I have never used crutches before. It was alarming to most people I passed. They stared at me questioning my decision making and laughed because I had rabbit ears on and was hopping up and down when the crutches became cumbersome. A gay couple passed by me and declared, "Look! It's a gimp lesbian!" I guess they thought it was a costume, because most people were wearing some sort of disguise. "Gimp Lesbian"? I'll take it.

So, despite my foot, I was able to have a fabulous time, although I wasn't able to get any pictures with the Jesus', I was able to store pictures in my memory that will last a lifetime. My gay bestie was supportive at first, but when he saw the impact my foot had on his fun, he immediately declared that I would do whatever he said. Not only would we go to the Jesus contest, but we would use my borrowed crutches to go out on the Castro. I could elaborate more about what it's like going to gay bars as a cripple, but I think this picture will suffice, and I am certain my mother is reading this and shaking her head for my blasphemous ways.

More on this foot tragedy later...stay tuned.