The foot massage.

             I love foot massages.  Problem is no one will give me one.  My husband does on occasion but always expects something in return ifyouknowwhati'mtalkingaboutandithinkyoudo, and honestly, I'm sick of washing his car.

                                                            

           So what's a girl to do.  Enter the $25 foot massage establishments that are popping up all over town!   Yahoo!  Such a bargain.  Are these trained professionals?  Who cares.  It's twenty five bucks and they'll touch my feet.

             This past Christmas my husband bought me something I actually WANTED, which never happens.  Usually I just get rechargeable batteries (true story) and a new appliance for the house that he bought four months ago and said, "How about we consider this one of your Christmas gifts."  He's a wonderful guy, but he can take practicality to an obscene, and really annoying, level.

           So what I'm saying is that there are rarely any surprises or grand romantic gestures on Christmas morning. But that's ok, I know my husband loves me, plus there are cookies on every surface of my house so I can eat my feelings.
 
         Well, imagine my surprise when I opened one of my presents under the tree and found a People Magazine with an envelope taped to it that said, "You can read this while you go get your foot massage" and inside was a gift certificate for the local massage parlor.  Alright!  This has to be some kind of record, he actually listened when I dropped one of my MANY, MANY, MANY hints about gift ideas....truly a Christmas miracle.

        Well today was the big day.  I've been home with a sick child for the last five days straight and I thought, dammit, I deserve a creepy foot massage!  So in I marched with gift certificate in hand.  It was a very nice place inside, once you forget about that tacky blinking neon foot sign hanging outside, and as I sat in the waiting room I was instantly calmed by the plug-in gurgling fountain next to a bowl of old Halloween candy. Ahhh, Nirvana. 

         My "foot massage therapy specialist" Jack entered and showed me to the massage room, which was basically a big room with about eight beds, each separated by a sheer curtain.  So, although not exactly private, it was welcoming and zen...ish. It was already WAY better than what I was expecting.  I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but that wasn't it.

         Jack was very pleasant although very hard to understand, but I kept talking to him anyway because this is what I do.  I don't know why I always feel I have to talk through any kind of massage or manicure kind of thing that I get.  I guess I just feel weird having someone touch me for an hour and not say anything to them.  Unfortunately I get so caught up in talking I usually forget to enjoy the damn massage and before you know it it's over and I'm kicking myself for not shutting up and enjoying it.                                                                                                                                                                                         
          Jack told me that he was from China, which I only understood the second time around since I couldn't make out through his accent what he said the first time.  I asked him if he liked it in San Diego and he said, "Yes, much better than China.  China bad.  Too many people."  I asked him if it was hard for him to get here from China, lot of paperwork?  (I said I make conversation, I didn't say it was good conversation) He paused and then said, "Work? No, nobody work. See?  Not many here today."  Ok.  So that about ended the chit chat.

 Let's get to get to those size 9's!

          Turns out a foot massage is actually almost an entire body massage, just with all my clothes on and no private room.  Where has this been all my life?

         Jack massaged my head, neck, and shoulders (at which point he announced "Neck, good. Shoulders bad."  Not sure why my shoulders are bad but whatever  I'm learning so much about myself lately.  I have a small brain -see MRI post- and now bad shoulders.  I'm a hot mess.)
     
        After he massaged the head, neck, shoulders, arms, fingers, legs and feet I thought I was through.  Not so!  I was told to flip over at which point he did one of those painful deep tissue things to my back, wowza!  I almost had to tell him to stop since he was pressing so hard on my lower back (which, in addition to my shoulders, sucks).  I was tensing up so he wouldn't jack up my back, and because I was tensing he kept pressing harder, making me tense more.  I don't know why I didn't tell him to ease up, I just kept hoping he'd finish and move onto another area.  Apparently I have no problem making really stupid chit chat but when it comes to being in pain I've got nothing to say.  I make no sense, see small brain.

        So, to sum up, would I go back to the parlor with the blinking foot on the door?  You betcha. $25 for an hour massage, heavenly.   Next time though, instead of asking about the amount of immigration paperwork I'd maybe be a little more vocal about him pressing his knees (felt like a knee) into my lower back ten times.  All in all, I give it two toes up.

        

     

MRI's suck ass.

         I recently came down with a case of the goosebumps.  Now we all get goosebumps, sure, but ten to fifteen times a day, in weird patterns, down ONLY the left side of your body?  Hmm, maybe not.  Was I cold?  No.  Was I holding in a fart?  Well, maybe, but certainly not ten times a day, I'm not THAT classy.

        So what's the deal, goosebumps?  In my weird "there's nothing wrong, everything's fine, let's not involve the authorities here" mind I ignored it.  Because we all know if you ignore health issues they go away.  However, I made the big mistake of mentioning it, albeit in an offhanded joking way, to my doctor when I was in there for a flu shot.

-"Is there anything else going on today other than the shot, Kristin?"

-"Well yeah I guess, now that you mention it.  What do you know about goosebumps?"

SHUT UP, KRISTIN. SHUT UP!  He's gonna make you do stuff to find out what that is!

        So after I blab the whole thing to my hunky doctor (I've got a little crush on him, he's so damn NICE to me, always making me feel better, it's not my fault) about the goosebumps he gets very serious, stops smiling and says to me, "You get goosebumps, for no reason, multiple times a day, down only the left side of your body?  I do NOT like the sound of that."

Big, big emphasis on the NOT.

Great.

I'm dying, I just know it.  Me and my stupid big mouth.

He then says, "Now, I don't want to scare you, but.... it could mean you have M.S."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  How did I go from holding in farts to Multiple Sclerosis for crying out loud?  Why did I even say anything.  I could have just gone about my newly vaccinated, weird goosebumpy way and be done with it.  No, now I've got MS.  Awesome.

         I think for a minute and then say, "Well, personally I think it's a pinched nerve although my grandmother had MS, is it hereditary?" he almost yells at me "Kristin, you don't have MS."  I say,  "Then why the hell are you suggesting that I DO??!!" Crush is beginning to wain here, doc.

         Blah blah blah after much back and forth he says, "Well, I'm sure you don't have it (I am the type of person that once you enter this thought into my head that's what I have, that's it, I should just go home and start getting my affairs in order.  I've been dying since the day I was born.  And not in that deep cosmic way that's actually true but in the way that means I've caught every disease and virus and cancer known to man at least one time or another.  My mother calls me a hypochondriac, personally I just think I'm a realist.)

         So, now he's sending me for all kinds of blood tests and a referral for a neurologist AND a MRI.  BLECH.  I've never had one, but it doesn't take a dummy to figure out you don't want to be stuck in that weird coffin tube.  Plus, this shit is getting real now.  What if they actually FIND something.  This is not going the way I planned. So much easier to ignore the goosebumps and live in ignorance.  Ignorance is a peaceful place, and everyone loves me there, and you live forever.

         Well , the neurologist was a nice guy he gave me the MS physical consultation which just meant poking me with various sharp sticks and asking if I could feel it the same on both sides, which I did athankyouverymuch.

         Regardless, he still wanted to send me for the MRI.  Balls.  Apparently I had two of the markers for MS: low vitamin D levels and low thyroid.  THESE are markers?  Practically every woman I know right now has these two issues.  What does he know.  But, because of these and the fact that my grandmother had it, I was being sent in.

         Despite all the prepping I did for my big MRI day, even my friend Kriste who gets this done every year for a brain tumor wrote a special blog just for me about how best to handle an MRI.  I read it.  It was nice.  It didn't help.  I still freaked out.

        A few weeks later, after much fretting and imagining what it will be like in the tube, the day finally arrives.
   
       I went to the MRI clinic which was very space agey and clean, SOMEONE got a big donation, hey ohhhh...  The place didn't match the rest of the hospital, I felt like I was in some upscale swanky bar in Manhattan, I almost asked for a martini from the receptionist.  It was a very cool place, personally I think they're just trying to trick you into forgetting why you're there, but still nice.
       The morning of my appointment Kriste very thoughtfully sent me a card wishing me a happy birthday, although birthday was crossed out and "MRI day" was written in.  On the inside she wrote, "If they tell you to strip down to your birthday suit, don't fall for it, they try that on all the rookies."  This is funny because when I arrived at the clinic the doctor showed me the changing room with those hideous hospital gowns, (why are these things so ugly, isn't possible to hold on to just a little bit of my dignity while I'm in here?)...  He told me to put this on with the ties in front, so I immediately started to take off my shirt, he said, "Whoa, you can keep your clothes on, just take off any metal you have and put this on."  Oops.  How quickly I forgot about Kriste's advice....I was just so nervous, I was on autopilot, hands moving of their own accord.  It's probably because I have MS. (every glich or tick I had for the last three weeks was because of my new possible MS diagnosis.)

        So once I emerge, resplendant in my ultra chic puce gown the doctor has me stand on this pad by the door that is some kind of sensor to detect metal on my body.  There's something about the MRI machine reacting badly to any kind of metal, apparently the machine is loaded with magnets and things can go richocheting about if not removed before hand.  The sensor was called a FERR Sensor, but when I glanced down to stand on it (before he told me what it was) I thought it said "FEAR Sensor" and thought, "Jeez, they DID get a big donation, they even have a machine that can sense what level of fear you're at before you go in."  Hello moron it's a metal detector.  But really, wouldn't a fear detector be COOL?

        So in I go to the "room" with the big scary machine.  Yikes, fear definitely spiking,where's my martini?  They were all very nice and helpful blah blah blah but it didn't help, I was still scared shitless to go into that tunnel.   Part of the fear is because of what it will mean once you go into that machine.  No turning back, if there's something wrong they're going to find out and your life will be forever changed.  This is what the machine represented to me.  I'm a healthy 40 year old before I go into the tube, I'm a possible MS or brain tumor patient when I come out. This is some real stuff here.
     
       But, I try my best to be brave and follow what the doctor tells me to do.  He gives me ear plugs to put in, then hands me big headphone ear protection to wear over that.  Okay, that's ok, I can do that.   I'm ready to go in.
Hold the phone there, Kdawg, you aren't finished.

         Then he directs me to lay down on the little platform, which I do and still am thinking this is all doable until he walks over to me holding this huge white thing that looks like the front of a welders helmet complete with little viewing window.  He's talking to me through the headphones and it's all muffled but what I understand is that they are going to clamp this thing down on my head, click click, so that it keeps my head completely in place, no movement allowed when taking pictures of your brain.  This thing is so snug against my ear protection that it almost hurts.  So there I'm lying, head ratcheted into place, sound muffled and in you go.  No time to even adjust, they just put you in there wham bam thank you ma'am.

 

         Now I didn't used to get claustrophobic but apparently now I do, especially when my head is anchored down inside of a tube the size of a small sewer pipe.  And what's worse is that I thought I'd only be in there for 30 minutes but RIGHT before they got me to lay down on that platform he told me it would take more like 45 minutes because they were doing the contrast MRI, which means they inject ink into your arm which travels up to your brain, giving them a better picture of what's going on in all that gray matter.  45 minutes?  That's almost an hour.  SHIT!  I'm going to lose it, I'm going to lose it.  I'M GOING TO LOSE MY SHIT right here in his nice space age hospital and I am going to rip this helmet off and go running and screaming through the hospital in my puce gown and not look back until I reach my house and am safely locked in my bathroom away from the bad men.

         Alas I did not to do that, but I came p-r-e-t-t-y damn close. All you can think about after being anchored down, told not to move, and put into the machine is think about every single muscle and tingle in your body at that exact moment.  "Oh god, I should have stretched my neck before I got in, I think it's cramped, there's an itch on my shoulder, oh I can't move to scratch it I HAVE AN ITCH!"  I seriously almost went looney tunes over this shoulder itch which persisted for about 10 minutes, as if being stuck in a small cramped space isn't bad enough.

        Well the itch finally left and the neck never did cramp up, but it's hard not to obsess about those things when it's all you can think about and can't move.

        Thankfully I did manage to keep it together for the duration of the scan, but just barely.  Once they got me in there I could feel my heart start to pound, blood was speeding through my veins and I was starting to hyperventilate.  Plus it's really freaking LOUD, I guess it's the magnets moving around but at one point I actually thought we were going to be airborne as the machine started rattling and vibrating like an airplane does before take off.  I'm like, "Where the fuck are they taking me!"  At least this distracted my mind for a minute.  The only way I kept sane was to count in Italian in my head to as high as I could go then back again, as many times as I could.  I also tried to think about all the people I've known who've had MRI's and have not run barefoot and screaming to the parking lot.  I thought, if they've been brave enough to do this then I can too.  But man it was really awful.  I kept thinking, "if they find something wrong with me I'm just going to have to live with it because I am never going in one of these fucking machines again!"

        Thankfully after all was said and done everything turned out just fine, no MS lesions (which is what they're looking for) and no tumors or issues they could see.  The only comment my neurologist had was "Well, your brain is not quite as "full" as other 40 year old female brains are but other than that it looks good."  Full brains?  Is this what we're striving for in the brain department?  Well, if anything I've gotten a nickname out of it.  Kristin "Pea Brain" Leoncavallo.  "Kristin, you look different, is your brain smaller?"  Why yes, thanks for noticing, it's been working out.  Whatever.  I guess I have a small brain, but aren't small brains better than big?  That's what I'm going with.

       So my advice if you ever have to go in for a brain MRI:  Either see about having an "open MRI" which are just as the name suggests, open.  Much better for those of us with claustraphobia (I've heard they're not as effective but don't have any evidence to support this.  I've also heard Elvis is alive so you really shouldn't take what I say as fact.)  OR, if you can't find an open MRI near you, ask your doctor for some tranquilizers to knock you out and have a friend drive you.

Good luck.
 
-Pea brain.

The holidays are over! The holidays are over! It's a Christmas miracle!

   
         Ack!  It's been two months since I've posted anything.  Aren't aspiring writers supposed to write everyday???  Well how exactly am I supposed to do that with a house full of people, huh?  Hey, I'm talking to you.  What you're probably saying is, "If you were really serious about this, Kristin, you'd just do it." Oh shut up.

      Well, despite what you think I actually DID have a busy two months and the writing was an unfortunate casualty of all the fun I was busy having.  But, now I'm back!  And if anyone is actually reading this I'm sure the two of you are THRILLED!

         A lot has happened these past months.  I went to San Francisco with eight of my pals for my big 4-0 birthday, or as I like to call it, "Kristin's Turning 40 Even Though She Only Looks 25 Birthday Extravaganza (with wine and fake mustaches)."  It was fuuuuuuun.  Extra u's in there for emphasis.  I used to live there and loved it so it was great to be back, especially with the hilarious group of gals I went with.  Yep, I'm forty.  I say gals, and also I complain about my feet.

      While there, in between drinking binges, we visited some old haunts, even went by my old apartment and found out one of my past roommates still lives there. As we're standing in front of the stoop he pokes his head out, stoned out of his gourd, which really was no big change from when I knew him twelve years ago.  He looks at me groggily and says, "Hey, don't I know you?"  After catching up for a few minutes I said, "Hey, Rich, I know this is incredibly forward but do you think there is any way I could peek in the apartment to see how it's changed from when I lived here?"

        He stared at me for a second, and then through the pot stupor says, "No".

        He mumbled about it being messy and he didn't want to have all "these people" (as he references my friends with a sweep of his hand) traipsing through his house.  Ah, yes, Rich.  He's got that je ne sais quoi, which is French for "he's kind of an asshole."

                                       
 
      As we said goodbye and walked away we decided that he probably had a meth lab going in his kitchen, which is the real reason why he didn't want us in there.  Or, it just smells like weed and "dude", you know the smell I'm talking about, you know what they're up to.......

      After returning from the birthday happy fun times I returned home just in time for my husband's commissioning as he'd been recently promoted to Warrant, can I get a what what.

     We had the ceremony in our tiny back yard where we hosted about 75 people, and then gave them tacos, and then we gave them cake, and then we told them to get the hell out because honestly, the party's over and you don't live here.

                                     
              This is me dropping the pin I was supposed to put on his collar down the front of my dress.


      We planned the commissioning for the day before Thanksgiving so that the people who were coming in for the holiday could attend.  It was nuts.  We had family and friends in from Rhode Island, Virginia, Ventura, Los Angeles, Seattle, and Arizona.  It was like a summit for the American United Nations, with wine and hors d'oeuvres.  Lots of people, all of whom I love dearly but in all honesty I was glad when it was over.  It's hard hosting a bunch of people for five days.  You go to bed, they're there, you wake up, they're there, you come out of the bathroom after trying to secretly go poop and they're there.  And they're hungry, and they want to know what "the plan" is.  I DON'T KNOW, LEAVE ME ALONE!  WHERE'S MY COFFEE!  WHO LEFT THE TOILET SEAT UP! 

      But despite the hectic-ness, that is not a word but you get it, it was really great.  We don't get to see the family all that much so very cool to have everyone together, stuffed full of food and slightly tipsy.  "And here's what I REALLY think of you..." no we aren't that kind of family.  We'll just wait until you go home and then talk about you.

      So after the craziness of the birthday weekend, the commissioning and Thanksgiving the big family group left the husband and I decided to take a romantic getaway to Santa Barbara for a few nights.  We met there at UCSB so we'd thought we'd go back to "re-kindle the romance" so to speak, wink wink nudge nudge.  My mom was nice enough to stay with the kid so we could go and do it in a hotel room, and then eat a free continental breakfast.

      The trip was great, always nice to get out of the daily routine with the man, I admit I sometimes forget how great he is,  I get sidetracked by all the shit that annoys me (did I mention the toilet seat being up?  yeah, that's his gig, and no amount of shock therapy is going to change him.) so it was great to get a little reconnection time in after the hub bub of the last month (even though he occasionally left the hotel toilet seat up and complained about the prices of everything....but that's the charm of him, at least this is what he tells me.)

     Well after that was of course the big one, Christmas.  Yikes.  Actually this year was very low key, we stayed home, mom came down and we just sat around and ate and ate and watched a zillion Christmas movies. I think I was more into the kid ones than our five year old!  I was seriously bribing him with candy so he'd let me watch the end of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.  He could give a shit about that movie.  Sometimes I wonder if he's actually my son (but then he'll walk up to me and ask me to pull his finger and I'm once again convinced he's mine.)

     Christmas is great but once it's over it's hard to get out of the routine of shoving every bit of food I encounter into my face at all times and sitting on my ass instead of exercising.  Were my jeans this tight at the beginning of the season?  I must have put these in the dryer....on super hot.....twice.  THAT'S why they're tight.  It's not the eight cookies you just ate for breakfast.  How many times did I find myself saying, "Hey, it's the holidays!  What the hell!  You have to treat yourself SOMETIMES, right?  I said this for two months straight...just ask my pants.

                                             "Another cookie, Kristin?  Sure, Kristin, thanks!"
                         

   So now I'm back!  And thank GAWD.  I love the holidays but I've reached overload with it.  I just want to get all these decorations out of my sight (how can you love your tree so much one week and then totally despise it the next?), throw out all the crap food from the holidays (and by crap I mean delicious and filled with butter and sugar) I want to get back to my normal schedule, back to the gym, but most of all I just want my damn jeans to fit again.

   Happy New Year, ya'll!