Sole Searching

One of my favorite scenes from Sex And The City (sniff – still missin’ you, SATC!) is when New York’s Sweetheart Carrie (aka, SJP for those of you who don’t know…and SHAME on you!) spots a pair of shoes in a store window that she MUST have for her date with Mr. Big. She approaches the window and places her palm gently on the glass and dreamily says, “Hello, Lover.”

I, too, have had that moment when it comes to shoes.

I am a shoe lover.

Kitten heels. Stacked heels. D’orsays. Mary Janes. Wedges. Slingbacks. Flats. Peep toes. Sneaks. Thongs. Wellies.

I don’t discriminate.

And, while I love all shoes, I do NOT love spending oodles of moolah on them.

But alas, I was smitten.

I saw these beauties about a month ago in an upscale shoe store downtown. I didn’t even know their name. And even though I admired their sleek, black patent leather and straw wedge bottom only briefly, I was hooked. I picked up the right shoe, gently turning it over, rubbing my hands over its cool, smooth body.

Then I peeped the price tag.

Then I put them back.

But I couldn’t get them out of my mind. Their shiny exterior haunted me. Their jute sole beckoned.

So today, I went back. Back to find my black beauties.

(Okay, I’ll admit it, since seeing those shoes I’ve bought an outfit with which to wear them. Okay, two outfits. Plus a handbag.)

But they were nowhere to be found. I even did the unthinkable – something I try to never, ever do – I asked the snooty sales woman for help.

ME: (pleading look in my eyes) “Um, you used to have these shoes? They were by Tory Burch? They were wedges? With a jute bottom? Like espadrilles?”

Come on, lady, can't you see I'm in pain? Help me here!

SSW: “By Tory Burch?”

Did I NOT just say that???

SSW: (to a fellow SSW) “Mira, what was the name of those Tory’s that Elizabeth bought? Remember? The black patent jute wedges?”

SSW2: “Hallie. They were beautiful shoes.”

SSW1: “Yes, they really were.”

Were? Past tense?

ME: “Are you all out? Are they all gone?” (semi-frantic)

SSW1: “I can check the computer, but those flew out the door. I mean, one day there were here, the next they were gone. Great shoes.”

Really? The shoes were beautiful and great and no longer available? I had no idea! Thanks for telling me. Repeatedly.

SSW1 clicks away on the computer. I am drawn to a beautiful messenger bag. The leather is as soft as butter on my fingertips. I turn the tag over. $865. Imported butter, obviously.

SSW1: “Well, it seems there is just one pair left – in a size 10. What size do you need?”

ME: (proudly) “I’m a 6.”

SSW1: “Oh, those go so fast. When you’re a 6 and you see something you like, you need to just buy it.” She actually tsk-tsks me. I might hit her.

Well, Miss Snooty Shoes, I’ve had size 6 feet for, oh – let's round it off – 15 years, so I am fully aware of the size 6 shoe shortage, thank you very much.

(FYI: Stores only get one pair of 6’s in, and they go out on the floor as the display. And you DO have to grab them while you can, before everyone shoves their big hooves into them to try them on.)

ME: “Okay, well, thanks for your help.”

She scribbles down the shoe name for me and tells me that places like Tory’s website and Neiman Marcus might be worth trying.

For a short while, I am filled with hope. I imagine all the compliments I’d get on my Hallies at work. Hitting the town with Hallie, taking her to trendy new restaurants and tequila bars. Pairing Hallie with a cute denim skirt. Or crisp white blouse. Or tunic dress.

I wish I were so lucky.

After an hour of internet searching, I come up empty handed.

These shoes were so great they no longer existed.

Oh, Hallie, we could’ve gone places together.

Being An "Only"

Alt title: Why You Should Go And Give Your Brother/Sister A Big Fat Hug And Thank Them For Being Alive

I’m an only child, but I don’t act like one.

(You know exactly what I mean!)

When you’re an only child, people usually do two things:

1. Ask you if you wish you had siblings
2. Assume you’re spoiled rotten

(These people asking the questions are NEVER only children, btw)

Growing up an only child is lonely because – are you ready for this groundbreaking revelation – you grow up ALONE.

By yourself.

Sans siblings.

No one to blame for denting the car with a bike and clogging toilets with Barbie Dolls.

Do I wish I had siblings? Well, my answer has changed over the years.

(I won’t even get into how this is an unfair question. Like, how would I know if I wanted something if I had never had it before? It’s like asking me if I’d like blue hair. I’ve never had blue hair. Maybe it would really bring out my features. Or maybe it would make me look really pale. Thing is, I would have no idea BECAUSE I’VE NEVER HAD IT BEFORE)

If you asked me when I was four, I would have probably said yes, as the idea of a baby brother or sister would have been intriguing.

Had you asked when I was nine, I would have probably said no, knowing that a sibling meant half the toys, half the hugs and half the mashed potatoes.

If you asked me anytime after age 14, then I would have probably said yes.

At 16, it would have been nice to have a companion on family vacations.

At 19, it would have been great to have someone who (supposedly) loved me unconditionally that I could drunk dial at 2am from college.

In my 20s, I would have loved having someone close to my age with whom to talk at holiday gatherings, to help me pick out my first apartment or to form a united front in family debates.

Now, as I approach my mid-thirties, I think it would be nice to have a sibling to help keep me sane and help me plan my father’s retirement party.

Dad’s retiring after 30 years of working for the same company and I thought it would be nice to throw him a little party.

Mom thought it would be a nice “project” for us to do together.

Now, I love my mother to death (hey, I’m her favorite child!), but this party planning is getting TENSE.

Mom and I are both Aries, and we’re both always right.

The first phone call about the party was so aggravating it caused me to miss my exit on the highway and it resulted in her calling me back to apologize for her behavior.

I’m a planner at heart, so when you ask for my help, it’s very difficult for me to not completely take over the project and plan the perfect party (um, everyone loves scallops wrapped in bacon, gorgonzola crusted filet and pomegranate martinis, right?).

Here are the details we’ve worked out so far:

• we want to throw dad a party

Yep, that’s about it.

I put mom in charge of the guest list, since she knows more of my dad’s work friends. Plus, it’s hard to get started without a general idea of how many people will be attending. This task, of course, results in a phone call.

MOM: “I wrote up a guest list.”

ME: “Great. How many people?”

MOM: “About 35. But I know of at least six more that need to be added.”

ME: “Does that include our family and your friends?”

MOM: “Yes.”

ME: “Okay, so let’s figure around 45 to be safe, so we have a number to give places when we start calling around.”

MOM: “Should we invite Cousin Dave and his wife?”

Um, why WOULDN’T we?

ME: “I thought your list included family?”

MOM: “It does. Just not them.”

It’s not like our family is so huge that there’s no way we can accommodate everyone. There are 10 people in my family. TOTAL.

So, long story short – yes. If you’re asking me right now if I wish I had siblings, my answer is ABSOLUTELY!

(Oh, and if by “spoiled rotten” you mean “being showered with all of the attention from your parents and family members, never having to wear hand-me-downs and being everyone’s beneficiary”, then yes, I was completely spoiled.)

My Visit To The Chiropractor

Alt title: You Think Your Back Hurts Now?

My back hurt. The muscles in the middle of the left side of my back were sore, and would act up every time I moved.

It started when I was sick. I was trying to sleep in an upright position so that it would be easier to breathe. Somehow, this messed up my back, and it’s been hurting every since.

My self-diagnosing cure of 'ignore it and it will go away' didn't seem to be working.

I was afraid to go to the chiropractor. I was afraid he’d hurt me. Or worse, that I would become addicted to the treatment, and not feel good ever again unless I went regularly.

But I couldn’t take it any longer, so I made an appointment with Dr. Ron.
(NOTE: Dr. Ron does not go by a last name. Even his business card says “Dr. Ron” on it.)

Now I’ve known Dr. Ron by name for many years, as he treats everyone in my husband’s family for multiple ailments.

Fall and hurt your leg? Go see Dr. Ron.

Stiff neck? Go see Dr. Ron.

Weird rash on your arm? Go see Dr. Ron.

Not only did Dr. Ron carry a medical degree, he also made his own wine. Many of our donated empty wine bottles would show up at our holidays or dinners, sans labels, filled with Dr. Ron’s homemade vino.
(If you loved a super-grape flavor and sediment, this was the wine for you!)

So even though he and I had never met, he was no stranger to me. And, come to find out, he knew a lot about me, too.

I make an appointment for the following night. Traffic is on my side and I arrive on time. Not surprisingly, I’m the only patient in the office at 6:30pm.

Dr. Ron is sitting behind the desk when I walk in. He hands me a clip board and I start filling out the 17 pages of paperwork.

Before coming here my mother-in-law warned me about Dr. Ron.

MIL: “He's a really nice guy, but he’s a talker. He LOVES to talk. He’ll talk your ear off. But he also talks to other people. So don’t tell him anything you don’t want everybody else to know.”

A big mouth is an odd trait for a doctor to have.

So as I’m filling out the forms and answering questions and revealing all of my medical secrets, I wonder if Dr. Ron will tell people about my allergy to raw fruit or my abdominal surgery.

The Doctor in on the short side and built like a linebacker. He catches me eyeing up his big, meaty hands.

DR: “You ever been to a chiropractor before?”

ME: “Nope. You’re my first.”

DR: "You have nothing to worry about.” Said the wolf to Little Red Riding Hood.

ME: “I’m not going to become addicted to your therapy and need to see you every other day, am I?”

DR: “I don’t know why people think that. I’m going to make you feel better.”

We’ll see about that.

DR: "I hear you're a good cook. You made soup and put it in the gourds. And you lived in Boston. Do you miss Boston? Are you a Red Sox fan? I can't stand the Red Sox. But you go to lots of games. With your friends. And you have a long commute to work, right?"

After 20 minutes of Dr. Ron recapping my life and best characteristics back to me (proving that's he's not the only one with a big mouth), he takes me back to a room.

A strange woman appeared in the doorway.

SW: “Hi. I’m Sheila. I live upstairs and sometimes help the doctor out.”

Hey, I don’t care.

ME: “Oh, hi. Nice to meet you.”

SW: “I like your shoes! They are so nice!” (I look down at my black BCBG stiletto boots) “NO WONDER why you have back pain!” Sheila laughs at her own joke.

ME (slightly annoyed): “Yeah, they aren’t the reason for my back ache.”

Sheila leaves and Dr. Ron comes in. We spend another 10 minutes going over my forms. I’m afraid to answer any additional questions fearing my responses will show up in the Town Journal.

FINALLY, after being there for almost 40 minutes, we get down to business. I put on the little gown and Dr. Ron starts poking and prodding me in various places, from my neck to the base of my spine. After 27 rounds of “Does this hurt?” he finds the magic spot and I jump and squeal in pain.

ME: “Right there. That’s it. You found it.”

He has me lay (lie?) face down on the little bed and sticks little nodules on my back.

DR: “I’m going to turn this machine on. You tell me when you can feel it, but you can still stand it. It shouldn’t hurt.”

He’s turning and turning. I still don’t feel anything.

DR: “How about now?”

ME: “A little more.”

DR: “Wow – you’re small, but you’re tough.”

In my head, I reply, ‘same goes for you!’ and we both crack up over my crazy-funny joke. In real life, I keep my mouth shut.

Dr. Ron puts a warm heating pad over my entire back and tells me he’ll be right back.

I never lay (lie?) on my stomach because it’s SO uncomfortable for me. Even at the beach I can’t stay on my stomach for more than 15 minutes without being in pain. I look around for something to put under my stomach and relieve my lower back, like a towel or even my shirt, but nothing is within reach.

I try and focus on something to forget about my new back pain. So I focus on the fact that my face is squished into the table. My cheeks and nose are pushed up like they’re pressed against a window. My eyes are watering, causing my mascara to run.

After what seems like an eternity Dr. Ron reappears. He removes the heating pad (now I’m freezing!) and nodules and gets to work on my back.

His meaty hands are kneading my skin and muscles like dough. I can barely stay still from the pain. He’s pressing so hard that I can hear my spine cracking. My ribs are flattened against the bed. He turns my head to one side and with one quick motion gives my neck a crack. Then he does the same thing on the other side.

One hour and forty five minutes after I walked through the door, I walked back out into the cold night.

I could barely move; it was a struggle to get my arms through the sleeves of my shirt.

DR: “You might be a little sore tonight. Might want to ice down your back. When do you want to come in again?"

Um, never?

No, wait, that's too soon.

DR: "Come see me in a few days. I’ll give you some wine.”

Got any in the back room now? I could use something to numb the pain.

I hang on for one more visit. That’s all I can handle.

After my second trip to Dr. Ron my back started hurting every time I sneezed, which was a new development.

But I can’t go back. It just hurts too much.

I’ll just suffer in silence.

(And by silence, I mean screaming “OW!” every time I move, breathe or blink.)

Had To Share

I know this is most-likely a joke, but after reading it I burst out laughing and had to share – I should NOT be the only person getting this much amusement out of this ridiculousness.

A month ago – and then two weeks ago, again – I had a bacterial infection and bronchitis. The doctor prescribed a round of antibiotics each time, something called Levaquin. I had never heard of it, but when I would tell people what I was taking they'd say, "Oooh! That's really strong!"

Strong or not, the drug made me feel great. I'm finally back to feeling 100% again. And I had zero side effects from taking Levaquin.

Hearing how "strong" this drug was made me curious, so I did a little research (granted, I should have probably researched the drug BEFORE taking it, but I felt so awful I would have taken anything they put in front of me and said would work).

Anyway, I found this message board for Levaquin where you rate the drug, list why you were taking it, and if you had any side effects.

Here's what I found:

Entertainment In My Rearview Mirror

There must be a full moon, because I had some crazy people driving behind me on the highway today.

First was the GMC truck and Toyota coupe behind me playing chicken. They thought it was hilarious to cut each other off, weaving in and out of traffic. At one point, the Toyota cut off the truck, threw his fist up in the air and gave the truck the finger (actually, that was pretty funny...laughed out loud on that one).

Then there was the woman fighting on the phone. Good thing she was hands-free, because she needed both hands to talk. (um, which hand is driving???)

Last – and perhaps my favorite – was the guy shaving. Yes, shaving. (it was with an electric razor, natch. I mean, if he had shaving cream and it Schick it would have just been weird).

Doesn't anyone pay attention to the road anymore?

I Prefer Strangers Touching Me

(Alternate Title: My Life Is A Seinfeld Episode)

My neck and back are achy. So I thought a massage was just what I needed.

My normal salon that I love – where I go for my nails and eyebrow waxes – also offers massages. The problem is, one of the massage therapists is a girl with whom I went to high school.

Now, I’ve only had 2 massages in my whole life. So I’m still a novice when it comes to stripping down and putting my face in that little hole in the table.

But what I do know, is that I don’t want someone who is a sort-of acquaintance touching me or seeing me half naked.

I’m pretty sure there is more than one masseuse working at the salon.

And I know the first name of the girl I know is Brenda (I don’t know her married last name).

And I’m also aware that the receptionist knows my voice.

So I have to play it cool.

So for my first attempt at calling for an appointment, I have a co-worker call for me.

Monday Night

I prep her for the call.

ME: “I’d like to go anytime on Saturday, I don’t care what time. The girl I DON’T want is named Brenda. I will take an appointment with anyone EXCEPT Brenda. And don’t be obvious about not taking an appointment if she’s the one working.”

CW: "Gotcha."

I dial the phone. My co-worker waits anxiously.

CW: “The answering machine picked up.”

ME: “Dammit. They must be closed. Just hang up.”

Tuesday Morning

How bad could this be? I could disguise my voice a little, be nonchalant and totally pull this off.

ME: “Hi. I was wondering if you had any massage therapists working on Saturday.”

RECEPTIONIST: “We sure do. We have two massage therapists that work here. And they are both named Brenda. The shorter of the two Brendas is working on Saturday.”

WHAT???

Are you kidding me? They are BOTH named Brenda? What are the frickin’ chances of that?

ME: “Um, how about a pedicure appointment?”

Real smooth.

The receptionist sets one up for me.

RECEPTIONIST: “Do you want an appointment for a massage, too? We have openings.”

ME: “Um…no…no thank you. I'm good. I think I just have time for the pedicure.”

Click.

Present Day And Time

Me, calling another salon near my home to set up a massage with a total stranger (fingers crossed!).

Seriously. There's Something Wrong With Me.

And I’m not talking about this ridiculously annoying cough that I have recently acquired – which was NOT part of original illness repertoire, I might add. (I feel badly complaining, however, because I am developing quite a six-pack due to my all-night hacking.)

And I’m not talking about the fact that I’m STILL sick.

Or about this lingering feeling that I will never get better.

Or about the fact that I have ZERO energy and motivation.

Or even about the fact that I’ve been spotted spontaneously crying while driving due to complete frustration about this whole the-end-is-nowhere-in-sight situation.

I’m talking about how people are annoying me more now than ever.

(You didn't think this was possible, right?)

(I attribute it to the fact that I’m not feeling 100%).

Take yesterday, for example.

I left work early to go back to the doctor.

When my name is finally called (twenty minutes late), a physician’s assistant follows me into the room.

Physician's Assistant: “What brings you here today?”

ME: “Well, I was in here a few weeks ago–”

PA: “What were you in here for?”

ME: “Well, clogged ears, wheezing–”

PA: “Wheezing? In your chest? Are you still wheezing? How often? When?”

Okay. There’s no need to be exasperated and to cut me off. If anyone should be upset it’s me. I’m the one who was stuck in the waiting room for 20 minutes watching Judge Judy.

ME: “I'm still wheezing a little bit. But I’ve developed this cough that–”

PA: “How long have you been coughing?”

If this bitch cuts me off one more time I’m going to drag my tired, rundown ass off of this bed and belt her. As soon as I stop coughing.

ME: “For about a week. Plus nausea. And I still have clogged ears. And that overall ‘I feel crappy’ feeling.”

There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Miss Interruption then takes my blood pressure (I take pride in my super low numbers. Today it’s 100/70 – not bad, but a little high for me. Usually it’s really low, registering around the “barely breathing” mark), and tells me the doctor will be right in.

The doctor is very nice and completely changes all of my medications (thus, completely changing my outlook; Hey, maybe I will feel better soon!). She writes me a few prescriptions (one for a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia) and I’m on my way.

I stop at the desk on the way out to give my co-pay to the secretary who is wearing scrubs for absolutely no reason at all. Why is that? Why do the girls who sit up front and answer the phones have to wear doctor's scrubs? Is it a requirement? Power trip? Laundry day?

Grouchy Admin: “$20.”

Not, “that’ll be $20” or “your co-pay is $20”. Just a demand for cash. Like a drug dealer.

Fine. I hand her my debit card.

She sighs loudly and goes over to the other side of reception to swipe my card. (It's apparently my fault that the credit card machine is in the reception area of the other set of doctors across the waiting room. Apologies, Mrs. Dr. Wanna-Be Doogie Howser.)

She returns after 10 minutes. Annoyed.

GA: “The machine’s not working, so I guess we’re just going to have to bill you or whatever. It says ERROR or something.”

Well, at least she didn’t blame my card.

ME: “Oh, okay.”

I start to pack up my belongings when the light bulb goes off.

ME: “Hey! Can I write you a check?” I had totally forgotten that I had my checkbook with me. “Can you take a personal check?”

GA: “A check? Yeah, sure, whatever. If you want to write one.” Totally dismissive.

Hey, maybe this place is rolling in the dough. But many moons ago when I worked for a doctor, the policy was “Co-pay Required At Time Of Service” (READ: no one leaves here without paying, even if you have to tackle them on the way out).

Next stop: CVS

The usual pharmacy tech is standing under the “Drop Off Here” sign.

I hand him my prescription. Give him the best smile I can offer at 57%.

Wanna-be Pharmacist: “When do you want to pick this up?”

Well, considering I’m sick NOW...

ME: “I’d like to wait.”

WP (rolling his eyes): “Okaaay, but it’s going to be about 20 minutes.”

He says 20, but what he really means is 40. Forty. Grueling. Minutes.

I decide to call my mom to pass the time. The music is blaring, making it very hard for me to hear her critique of my doctor’s visit.

About 17 people show up at once to the “Pick Up Here” area. The young girl with the indiscernible accent behind the counter is completely overwhelmed.

Young Clerk: “Are you waiting for a prescription? What is your last name?”

I tell her my name. She checks. My prescription is not there. She helps 2 more people in line.

Five minutes goes by.

YC: “What is your last name again?”

I tell her my name. She checks. My prescription is not there. She helps 3 more people in line.

Seriously, it’s TEN pills. How long could it take to count out 10 pills? (Answer: about 30 seconds. Having worked in an apothecary in high school, I know this for a fact.)

YC (laughing in embarrassment): “One more time – what was your last name?”

Same as it was the last two times you asked me.

By the time my medicine is ready, I won’t even be sick anymore.