Plantar fasciitis is the answer

“Inflammation of the thick tissue on the bottom of the foot that creates the arch is plantar this and just….ouch.” This was a recent “Jeopardy!” answer in the category “Here Comes Boo Boo, Honey.”

I know. The category name was horrible and I couldn’t help thinking of that awful show whenever the players chose from this particular list. The last thing I want to be reminded of is someone else’s spoiled kid when I have a couple of my own to deal with.

The question was “What is fasciitis?” which I correctly shouted at the television with glee in my heart. I do fairly well with the show because I adore trivia, but this particular response was so incredibly relevant that I was caught up in a moment of magical synchronicity.

Back on the 13^th of December, my whole family participated in the Jingle Bell Run in Avon Park. I don’t want to be one of those people who do 5Ks and then talk about every single 5K I accomplish, but Avon Park is my old stomping ground and even my little girl did this one with us. It was special.

My son was in front, like always, and my daughter was with Daddy and me. I figured she’d be conservative with her energy.

I was so very wrong.

The race began and she took off with me in tow. I was holding her hand in a crowd of people and I couldn’t let go because that would be incredibly irresponsible parenting. As she pulled me at a fast clip to the mall (that’s the Avon Park mall, aka cruising strip) a painful stitch stabbed me in my right side. It felt like my gall bladder may have tried to exit through my kidney.

I begged her to stop. “Please! Slow down, honey! The race is long and you have to pace yourself!”

Lucky for me, Daddy came along and took over while I slowed way down so I could rearrange my internal organs.

The thing about the Avon Park 5K is that we had three opportunities to loop past each other and wave. This allowed me to visualize the large gap forming between my family and me.

Needless to say, my son came in first with my husband second followed by my daughter with me bringing up the rear.

Here’s an interesting tidbit: my son somehow failed to cross the finish line. I suppose, in a way, he is still racking up minutes in the Jingle Bell Run. By the printing of this article, he’ll have a time of around 366 hours and counting. That makes my 47 minutes seem pretty awesome.

Once it was over, my sweetheart and I were on our way to Winn Dixie to pick up some necessities. She was in deep thought for a few moments.

“Mommy, fat people can run. I’ve seen them. They can run fast. They just practice. You can run too. All you need to do is practice. I’ll help you exercise.” Sensitive is her middle name.
With my spirits lifted, we went into the store when pain shot through my right foot. “What in the world?” I wondered to myself. I limped all weekend and hobbled into work the following Monday eager to find out from the ER doctor what was wrong with me.

Plantar fasciitis was the diagnosis.

Fat people can run, but they need to learn how to walk and jog first. Good thing I’ve got “Jeopardy!” to make me feel better about myself.

The most wonderful lie of the year

“Mommy, does Santa come here to Florida or does he only visit places that have snow?” It was an innocent question asked by my seven-year old daughter two weeks ago and it reminded me that Christmas was approaching at warp speed and I was totally unprepared once again.

I voiced a non-committal answer that would not entangle me in the “Santa trap” more than I wanted to be at that moment. I’m not a huge fan of the man, but somehow I have found myself signing “Santa” to the stickers on wrapped gifts every Christmas Eve since my son was a baby.

My son has, of course, figured things out, but my daughter is full of imagination and is absolutely as gullible as I was at her age.

She apparently has yet to ask herself questions like “Why does Santa prefer wealthy children?” or “Why does Santa use the same wrapping paper as mommy and have the same handwriting?” These are dead giveaways to the true identity of the mysterious, mirthful man.

When I was a kid, I thought it was weird that some guy broke into our house and left gifts. The gifts were great, but the fact that a stranger was in our house while we slept totally creeped me out. I once made a burglar alarm out of a string tied to my toys that would fall and wake me in case an intruder opened either my window or my door. I was slightly paranoid for someone so young.

Back in the present, I knew if “Santa” was going to come to our house, I had to get over my seasonal funk and put up a tree. Everyone knows that you can’t celebrate the holiday without a tree.

Luckily, my husband was feeling merry enough to head out to the tree place and grab a decent-looking evergreen. Now our house has the proper smell even though the cat is hell-bent on destroying the bottom three feet of ornamentation.

With less than a week until the big day, my daughter came down with a case of the sniffles. I didn’t think much of it until her ear started hurting too. This warranted a trip to the Pediatrician’s office.

The diagnosis was an ear infection, but my daughter was convinced she has allergy to “Christmas wind.” Apparently, this is the breeze that occurred when the temperature dropped to the 50s which is like freezing to us in the Sunshine State.

“Christmas wind” is full of particles that cause sneezing and an occasional cough, but I believe that it has further depressed my general mood as well because I have been an emotional mess lately.

I don’t blame my grouchiness on the fact that my washer and dryer are still on the fritz, but that does affect my life, especially on my coveted days off. On a related note, I am beginning to truly dislike the smell of laundromats.

I actually called off Christmas dinner at my house. I usually cook turkey and do a big spread, but not this year. I literally cancelled Christmas. I just don’t feel like dealing with it.

I do feel like running away to Bora Bora. I don’t have the vacation time or the cash flow to support this type of major tactical maneuver, but a girl can dream.

Santa, if you’re listening, Mommy needs some sanity left under the tree this year. I promise I’ll try to be good next year. Okay, I’ll try to be not so bad. Deal?

Jump on the bandwagon

I’m not a huge sports person which is a massive understatement. I do like to attend live sporting events, mostly hockey, but I don’t usually follow a team unless I am moved to do so by my gut feeling. I guess you could call it my “Bandwagon Bone.”

I started following hockey when I played NHL ’99 on the Nintendo 64. I was always the Dallas Stars and I was just about unbeatable. I began watching the real life team and they won the Stanley Cup.

When we moved to back to Florida, I switched my support to the Tampa Bay Lightning and they won the Cup. What are the odds, right?

After several years of nursing school and general disinterest, a couple months ago I bought some NFL souvenir cups to help our babysitter, Shelby, with her cheerleading fundraiser. I chose the Seattle Seahawks logo cups since we were just in Washington over the summer. I then went on Facebook and boldly declared that the Seahawks would be going to the Super Bowl.

At the time I was openly mocked. Now, with the Seahawks record of 11-2, not so many people are laughing anymore.

Perhaps they won’t make it to the big game, but if they do, I’ll know that I called it for a completely irresponsible reason based on utter nonsense. The Vegas bookies would hate me.

If I’m right, I’m going to begin picking teams by jersey color and how well those colors look on me or if I have flip flops that match. This could be the start of something incredibly stupid. Stay tuned.

In other sports news, my son’s basketball team, the Hill-Gustat Golden Eagles, have begun their season with a bang. He’s also on a YMCA team so all we do is go from basketball practice to game to practice to game.

My boy is 13 years old and six foot 2 inches. He was born to play the game even if he still hasn’t tapped into all the potential harnessed in his body, but he’s come a long way from the kid who used to twirl around the goal’s pole and eat “bleacher gum.” Yeah, you don’t want to ask about that one. It is as gross as it sounds.

One of the best parts about his games is watching the girls play first. They are gritty and mean. You can tell they take the game personal.

The first time we saw them play, there was a grappling match for the ball between a couple of the girls. They wrestled on the ground for several seconds before the whistle was blown and then they disentangled themselves and shot each other some nasty glares.

My daughter said, “Mommy, they aren’t playing basketball. They are playing football!”

When the girls are done, they come up in the stands and help cheer for the boys. I’m glad we’re on their side.

When my daughter starts soccer in January I’ll be something I’ve always dreaded: the sports mom. I refuse to drive a minivan, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still going to be that crazed nut job screaming from the sidelines threatening innocent children on the opposing teams. This is my destiny. It happened so fast, I didn’t see it coming.

While I’m reluctantly led down this path of self-humiliation, I’ll go ahead and predict that my son’s team will be winning the majority of games this season. Don’t feel bad. There wasn’t anything you could do about it. I bought the T-shirt months ago.

Back in the exam chair

This week I was fortunate enough to partake in one of the great pleasures of human existence. What could be so wonderful that I must share it with everyone? After at least six years of hiding out, I finally visited the dentist.

I know what you’re thinking, “The dentist! Who in their right mind thinks it is fun to go to the dentist?” The truth is I don’t think it is fun so much as I just really needed to go. I desired that smooth feeling of my tongue sliding along the back of my freshly polished choppers, not to mention it was a good idea to check and see if any cavities were creeping their way into my teeth.

I believe I am an above average tooth brusher. I brush at least three times a day and sometimes more if I get a funky feeling in my mouth. Flossing is another story. I do floss, but usually only the front row. Also, I don’t floss down to the root of my tooth like they do at the dentist’s office. “Of course my gums bled. You just flossed up to my nasal cavity!”

My first trip with Dr. Chen’s staff was for an evaluation and my least favorite aspect of dental care: x-rays. I loathe holding those stiff bitewing things in my mouth for any length of time even if they have slightly improved from what they used to be back in the 80s.

We didn’t do anything on the first day except talk about my one cavity and schedule my next visit to take care of that sucker and get a cleaning. I couldn’t wait. It had to be done before my best friend, Cozette, arrived for my birthday weekend. She’s a dental hygienist and I wanted a bright smile when I picked her up at the airport.

My big day arrived and I was brushed and fully flossed. It didn’t matter. When the lady started cleaning with the sonic pick, it felt like all my teeth must have been triple coated in plaque.

Throughout the cleaning, I had to consciously stop my tongue from fighting the invading fingers and tools. I don’t know why, but my tongue wants to go to war with anything that enters my mouth. I guess it is just a basic desire to digest food. Perhaps my mouth wants me to eat live animals. I have no clue.

When I wasn’t thinking about my tongue, I was focused on not swallowing. For some reason, I find the need to swallow exponentially more than I would normally.  It doesn’t matter that I have a suction device that rids me of excess moisture, I become desperate to gulp something, anything down my gullet.

Throughout this silent torture, I had my hands pleasantly clasped on my belly and my legs crossed. On the outside, I looked like I was lounging at the beach. There was no way I was going to show anyone what a big baby I am.

Finally, the filling was getting done. I got a nice shot of Novocain and my jaw, lips, and half my tongue went numb while my tooth got drilled and filled. I hoped I wouldn’t be pulled over for speeding on the way home because I was seriously slurring my speech.

I left completely satisfied. The staff was stellar and so was my new shining smile. Just like every other dental visit in my life, I made an empty promise to floss more. We’ll see about that.

Lordy look who's forty

It happened last week. I am officially 40.

I don’t feel a bit different. I will revise that last statement: I feel slightly different in that I am a little less smart. The show “Jeopardy!” proves this to me week after week. I used to be a sharp cookie, but my children suck away my intelligence the way a leech feeds off the blood of its prey.

I should add that my anti-seizure medication has a side effect that makes it more difficult to instantly recall information. This would naturally make it seem like Alex Trebek is mocking me when he’s merely being the same Canadian super-braniac guy he’s always been. I’m just slowing down.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get depressed for my birthday and I didn’t initially. It helped that my best friend, Cozette, took a flight from Washington State to celebrate with me.

My son and I drove to the airport which is one of my least favorite things to do. We arrived early so we wandered around checking out the tourist stores while we waited. I allowed a woman to step on my foot just to see if she would because she was not watching where she was walking. She was horribly sorry. I patted her arm and told her it was okay then I laughed and told my son to pay attention because these people would run you over.

It was probably mean of me to do that, but I’m always conducting a personal social experiment to see how invisible I can become in well-lit areas. It isn’t like I’m a small person who is easy to walk into. You really have to try to do it.

Somehow, we missed Cozette. She slipped past us while we were in a store. After about 30 minutes, we found each other and headed out to dinner.

I can’t explain the giggle-fest that happens when I get around her, but anyone with a true best friend probably understands. We fall right into that comfortable talk and inside joke routine. It doesn’t matter how long it has been since the last time we’ve seen one another.

While I had Cozette, my daughter was spending a couple days with her best friend/cousin who was in town from Jacksonville. They are like two peas in a pod.

I had a small party that was going to be much bigger, but evidently Thanksgiving weekend is not the most convenient time to have a 40^th birthday party. On a positive note, the core group of fun people was there and we had a blast. Some of it got on video. This may not be a good thing.

Cozette went home, my niece went back to Jacksonville and the blues settled in my house.

It doesn’t help that my washer and dryer are on the fritz and I have to go to the Laundromat. Sitting in that place just gives me more time to think about how much I miss my friend and how I can’t stand living so far apart.

All this past week in school, my girl has been on yellow and orange for behavior. She’s having a hard time getting back in the swing of things too.

Hopefully we can shake these funky feelings soon. Our kitten doesn’t care about our mood. She chews on our feet and hands regardless of how we feel on the inside. It keeps us grounded.

Unless something changes, I’ll just continue taking the days as they come. Fifty, I’m coming for you next.

Off the couch and on the road

The Foundation Florida Hospital 19^th Annual Gala Bill Jarret Ford 5K Run/Walk and 10K was last Sunday. I know what you’re thinking, “That was a long title for a race!” Yes, I did type it directly off the souvenir shirt because there was no way I would’ve remembered all of that.

This was my first “real” 5K. I did the scavenger hunt race, but we had a bunch of stop-and-go action in that one. This time, it was straight walking. No, I didn’t run.

I walked with a coworker, Reesie, and a former coworker, Melissa. Reesie is like six inches shorter than me and super petite, but she somehow managed to walk incredibly fast. I did have to jog a few times just to catch up with her.

My son also participated, but he left me in the dust immediately. I saw his head towering over most of the other racers near the starting line and then I didn’t see him again until I finished. That’s right; I finished, but before I did there was an excessive amount of whining coming from my mouth.

First, 3.1 miles doesn’t seem like a long way until you start speed walking it. Second, trying to talk while walking becomes more difficult the further you go. This is all very obvious, basic information, but I am an extremely slow learner. In fact, I did not shut up the entire time.

Melissa was smart. She barely talked at all. Reesie chatted away like breathing was just something happening as an afterthought.

One weird note: the road was littered with dead frogs. It was pretty gross. I couldn’t help but think of Frogger except none of these frogs were very good at avoiding traffic. The road only had two lanes for Pete’s sake.

After a little while of breathing heavily, I said that I was having a new onset psychosomatic asthma attack. I asked Reesie if I collapsed, would she render aid. She said it was her day off. I was all alone in a crowd of walkers. The runners were gone. At least we were close to a hospital.

When we saw mile marker 2, I asked if that meant we were entering mile 2 or finishing mile 2. Melissa said we were definitely beginning mile 2, but none of us saw mile 1. Reesie said she wasn’t sure. I was disheartened. That would have been the longest mile ever.

When we approach the 10K sign that directed those overly athletic people to divert their course, there were runners already returning from that direction. I was impressed. Their bodies were glistening with sweat as they pumped their legs down the road.

“I am so out of shape,” I thought to myself.

When we heard the loud speakers, we knew the end was near. I almost wept.

The best thing about the event besides the fact that is was finally over was that people were cheering when we crossed the line. It didn’t matter that my time was 50 minutes. What mattered was that we did it. It was truly a good feeling.

My son finished with a time of 26:22. He said he didn’t push himself because it was going to be a big week in basketball training. What a booger.

I’m already signing up for my next one, only now I’m putting more effort into getting ready. Maybe I can get a time of 48 minutes. Baby steps.  I mean, really, I am waking muscles that have been lying dormant for years.

Seriously supper fluffy

My daughter discovered her hamster was missing about a month or so after the evil critter started running on the big wheel in the sky. She never came right out and asked what happened to it, but she’d say things like, “I want to get a new pet. Not a mean one like that hamster we had, maybe a new hamster, a nicer one like Peanut was.” Peanut was my son’s hamster and she was just about the most perfect pet anyone could ever want.

Well, I wasn’t going to allow another rodent in our home. I was sick of the smell of bedding and tired of the sound of wheels turning at all hours of the night. If we got another pet for the indoor setting, it was going to be something we could all fall in love with.

I considered my cat allergy and wondered how I could live with it. We could vacuum more and bathe a cat like my sister-in-law, Magan, does with their feline.

This was all solidified when my sister, Meredith, came into possession of a lost kitten. She was just a baby around 6 weeks old found in a car bumper. Meredith couldn’t keep the tiny thing because of the cat situation in her own house being so volatile. Apparently, her two grown cats were quite aggressive towards this new bundle of fur.

After a discussion with my husband, Chris, we decided to adopt Lili, the adorable Siamese-mix orphan in need of a good, caring home.

Lili immediately wrapped all our hearts around her little paws even though she is vicious and thinks she is about the size of a Bengal tiger. She relentlessly attacks us all day long. Our feet and hands are forever vulnerable and we try not to wiggle them too much unless we want to feel sharp, pointed fangs sunk into them every few seconds.

When she isn’t trying to chew our skin, she is applying saliva to her fur or on my favorite blanket. We started calling it the “Mommy Blanket” because she nurses it and paws at it like it’s a mother cat. It is pretty disgusting really. I often want to say, “Do you need some time alone? Am I interrupting something here?”

I did give her a bath after the first few days. She was too small for any flea shampoo so I had to use Dawn Dish Soap. She was loaded with fleas before I got ahold of her. I’ll say she tolerated the bath as best she could, but not one iota more.

Because of Lili’s bad behavior with our appendages, we had to begin correcting her in a nonviolent fashion. To do this, we purchased a squirt bottle. Now, if she attacks us too aggressively or unnecessarily claws at the unsuspecting furniture, we mist her with water. She is on a learning curve at the moment and yes, that is an understatement.

I thought the mister was a great tool so I started using it on the kids. When they argued, I’d squirt them and say, “Cut it out! No! Bad!” They got angry, but they stopped what they were doing immediately. It was effective until my husband confiscated the bottle because he said I was abusing and misusing it.

Even though I sneeze about three times a day and the litter box is totally gross, Lili has been a welcome addition to our family. Honestly, every sneeze is a “Thank you” to Lili for not being a hamster.