Joint Session
Shoulder Woes
I am, after years hanging around the periphery of medicine, The Efficient Patient. I know physicians are busy and really don't have the time to hear about how your grandpa had a wart just like this and it turned out to be colon cancer, maybe. They want you to be brief and to the point so they can figure out the problem and how to fix it.
So I spent a grand total of five minutes in the orthopedist's office. This was The Efficient Office, by the way. I was in the waiting room for maybe three minutes. I was still filling out the patient history form when my name was called. So I got into the swing of things right away.
"Where does it hurt?"
"Here."
"How did it happen?"
"I fell."
"What do you want?"
"I want it to stop hurting."
Bing bang, out the door. You people could learn from me, I'm telling you.
Of course, my family doctor had pretty much diagnosed it already, and the MRI showed the damage. I was just pretty much signing the papers.
I had three options. Physical therapy was off the table; for whatever reason, it would just make things worse with my particular injury. Don't wanna do that.
Acupuncture could relieve the pain. They don't know why, but it can.
So could a cortisone shot, maybe. Some people get long-term relief, some none. This sounds like an ideal first, conservative step, but it carries caveats, specifically that if it doesn't work it precludes surgery for a period of months until the steroid effect has worn off. Also, of course, it doesn't fix the problem, and eventually I would do something, reach or throw or grab, and things would get worse, maybe a lot worse.
Surgery is definitive, or as definitive as these things can be. Bur some bone, tie some sutures, slap you in a sling and in six weeks you're good as new. Or as new as you can be at 48.
Since, looking at calendar, if we were to pick an ideal time for me to have surgery and be incapacitated for a while it would be, like, right now, it was an easy call. Cut away.
So I have arthroscopic surgery on Wednesday morning. It should be simple and quick, 30-45 minutes, in and out. I'll be one-handed for a week, during which time I guess I'll be catching up on movies and books I haven't gotten to yet and reading all the get well cards my blogging friends thoughtfully send me.
Election Night
I had a good time on Tuesday. There were a couple of characters I was glad to see leave the public payroll, and a few I welcomed, even as cynical as I am. The theatrics of power shifts was fun to follow, as was the analysis of what went right and wrong. Was it maccaca? Michael J. Fox? What's a bellwether anyway?
And once you leave Ms. Coulter and Mr. Limbaugh and their delusions (the Democrats will release all terrorists from jail and take them to Disneyworld, open our borders to Martians, force guys to marry guys and start building gallows for President Bush), it becomes interesting to see what if anything changes. Here's to hope.
Hello, Mr. Chips
It's hard to say how it started. It had something to do with coming upstairs, abandoning the basement office I've lived in for 18 years and relocating to the real world. I set up my laptop in a corner of the bedroom and rejoined my family, and sometimes proximity is everything. Suddenly there were little things that needed to be done, and I was available.
I reclaimed the cooking responsibilities without a fight; Julie works seven days a week, and four of those days are spent mostly out of the house, so I have free rein. But it's not like we have family meals every night; sometimes it's just John and me, and he can be picky. So I just made sure we had leftovers and turned my attention to the oven.
I started baking bread about eight years ago, just on a whim, and it's become second nature. Really, I can do it with my eyes closed. A little yeast, a little flour, a lot of waiting, and fresh, hot bread is the prize.
Then I noticed that the grocery store had a sale on brownie mix, a dark chocolate variety that I thought Julie would like, so I bought a few boxes. She appreciated having a brownie and a glass of milk after a long day, so this was a good thing, but then the sale was over and these mixes jumped in price, and I had an epiphany, and now I'm hopelessly lost.
A grocery checker noticed it the other day. She raised an eyebrow at the basket full of flour, sugar, cocoa, butter, shortening, cream cheese and bags and bags of chocolate chips. She looked at me, and I shrugged.
"I'm out of control," I said, and I am. I bake.
And the thing is, I don't have a sweet tooth to speak of. Julie likes a little chocolate but just a little. John, of course, can get compulsive about anything, but it's not like he's begging for sugar. Anybody want a cookie?
Cookies. Brownies. A carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I blend, mix, fold, melt, butter and beat. Have wooden spoon, will travel.
My mom says it's because baking is more creative than marinating meat. I think she's right. There's an alchemy here that I enjoy, and I'm always surprised at how it turns out.
I know I'm walking on thin ice here. A guy who has a tendency toward compulsion can get into trouble with lots of things. Give a man a meal, and he eats for a day. Teach a man the proper use of a spatula, and pretty soon he's bringing plates of fudge over to the neighbors and annoying the hell of them. Moderation, moderation.
And I'll never be good. My daughter can cook rings around me. My friend Jan, who is a marvelous baker, is probably rolling her eyes right now. My son shakes his head sadly now as he sees me melting chocolate at 10 p.m.
But I get a few smiles and sighs, and that works for me. The kitchen stays warm and smells good. Nobody seems to be gaining any weight, and Strider takes care of the crumbs.
And maybe I'll make a batch of peanut butter and chocolate brownies and send it off to Nancy Pelosi one of these days. Just to wish her well, her and them and us. Common ground is hard to find these days, but everybody has to eat, and in my opinion a little chocolate never hurt anybody. 
10:57:57 AM 
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