Can it be three whole weeks since my last post?

That's it. I'm fired!

Okay, not really.

So much has been going on, most of which is not blog fodder, so I must abstain. But here are a few things that are worth sharing.

First, I did several hours of yard work today and if I didn't know I did it, I wouldn't notice I did it. There are many parts of home ownership that suck. This is one of them.

While I was working on the yard, I applied some sunscreen so I could try to avoid premature death. I bought some sunscreen at the Greenfields Market that is all-natural, so it's not as bad for the environment or anything (because some of them are pretty bad). It was made with zinc oxide, so it made me sort of white and pasty (or should I say, "whiter and pastier"?) than normal. When I was finally done being outside, I went into the shower to return to my normal human state, and I could not wash that stuff off. It took a ton of soap and water and actual, factual scrubbing and carrying on, and the water was still beading up on my skin like I had been freshly waxed. It was like tar.

(Aside: Remember Actual Factual Bear?)

Part of what I did was clean up some leaves that were leftover from fall. I found a whole bunch of them in my brassierre when I took a shower. Awesome!

This week was the best week I've ever had at work, ever. I got nominated by my peers for an important and prestigious award - and then I won it. And all of this happened without anyone spilling the beans to me, so that when they announced it in front of everyone in my division (100 or so people), I was so surprsed that I instantly started weeping and walking around in a daze like Miss America.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking: Jennifer always cries. And it's partially true, but I really try to keep the out-loud-and-in-public weeping to the minimalest minimum at work. They don't smile kindly on ladies in career separates getting their weep on in earnest 'round about my corporatey-corporate workplace. But I did it. And it was on a teleconference too! I was pretty embarrassed. But afterwards, everyone was coming up and hugging me and congratulating me and it basically didn't matter at all. In fact, my old bossidy-boss came up to me later to tell me how touched he was that I was so surprised and happy about the award.

My crying brought people together! Even so, I'm going to try not to do that again.

In the bastard plantar fasciitis news, it went away for about a week, then came back again, but I'm confident I can get it to go away again. It's so frustrating. But I've been taking short walks and basically giving it a giant middle finger, so that helps. In a related story, I bought another pair of shoes in an effort to fit my foot and my orthotic into a shoe at the same time. Upon wearing the shoe for one work day, I discovered it doesn't actually fit me. Fucking yeah!

I had a membership to Planet Fitness. A few weeks ago, Scott helped me face the reality that I never go. Not just seldom. Never. So he drove me over there and I cancelled my membership easy-peasy. It was nothing. But I wouldn't have gone over there without his urging. And because he was there, I didn't get caught up in feeling like a loser for quitting the gym. Honestly, I couldn't stand it in there. It was a lowest-common-denominator playground, as far as I could tell. When I was going regularly for a while there, there was a series of nutso people basically parading around me the whole time. This one insane mother in particular screaming at her son for about a thousand hours while I was just trying to exercise for about 30 minutes set me into a bit of, oh, I don't know. If it weren't so goddamned funny, I might have had the panic. When did mothers start screaming at their kids like dogs in public? My mother always had the courtesy to whisper-shout at us through gritted teeth. If you weren't right next to her feeling the anger radiate off her like thermo-nuclear waves and experiencing her death grip sear your arm fat while her growly whisper-shout singed the extra-fine cilia in your inner ear, you might not even know she was angry. (I'm not sure I've adequately thanked her for keeping the public mortification to a minimum.) In any case, the number of people working out in their pajamas was basically stunning. Also, teenagers getting their pose on in earnest. It was madness is all I'm saying.

You might be thinking, "Jennifer, the common denominator in all this is you." And indeed you may be right. But no self-respecting establishment purporting to be a health and fitness gymnasium should have a weekly all-you-can-eat pizza night. Just sayin'.

This morning, my mother called my very popular radio program to put on Grandpa No-legs's Bass Boat. It was sold within a very short time, which gratified me to no end. In any event, there was a glorious moment while we were on the air when I asked my mother what the boat was made of, aluminum or fiberglass. She approximately replied, "Whatever Bass Boats are made of." I approximately said, "They can be made of either." I only know this because of the show that I host. We talk about these things. She approximately said, "People who know Bass Boats know what they're made of," like she was some kind of person who knew Bass Boats, which she couldn't be because she didn't know what it was made of. I approximately said, "Yes, of course, ma, either aluminum or fiberglass." I added "approximately" in there because I didn't record it. I only wish I had so I could get those quotes exactly and so I could listen to it in perpetuity and laugh and laugh. We raised the curtain on our relationship to the listening public. When it was over, my bossman at the station popped into the studio and said, "You've gotta have your mother call in more often." I said, "I wasn't sure if that was funny to outside people or not." He said, "Oh, it was."

It is a radio program on public air waves, so my mother can certainly call in whenever she wishes to do so.

I think we're all caught up now.

Ailment update - plus bedtime apparel

Did I ever tell you about how I got the Carpal Tunnel? Well, I did. It's mostly gone away, but I have to wear splints at night. I got an ergonomic keyboard at home and at work. Did you know ergonomic keyboards go for $68? Well, they do.

I stopped having to wear the splints, which I lovingly refer to as my mittens, at work, but I do have to wear them when I'm typing at home. Something about my set up at home is still off even though I've futzed around with it quite a bit, and if I spend any amount of time on the home computer without my mittens, I end up in a lot of wrist pain.

I feel like I'm on top of it, though. Things are turning around.

On the bastard plantar fasciitis front, I really am feeling mostly better, as long as I do my stretches and wear my foot splints to bed. I like to call these my boots. Anyway, last week I woke up on the middle of the night with my feet tingling and I was too groggy to fix the boots, so I just took them off. Holy hell. What a difference that made. I was in such a bad way that day!

Of course, my current "in a bad way day" is about 100% better than my former "good day" levels of pain. It's all relative. In fact, what happens now isn't even pain more than it's tightness.

Bedtime is a real fashion show around here what with my boots and mittens. I also am wearing ear plugs to bed these days to drown out Scott's night-time deforestation project.

See, I got to feeling really guilty about running the fan all night for the white noise (I've tried several white noise machines to no avail; they just didn't sound like my fan) and I tried out the ear plugs. At first, they didn't really help, but now that I've gotten used to them, I'm nearly sleeping through the night. And we're not wasting electricity. It's like a miracle!

I am not sure if I should be feeling guilty about the ear plugs since they're made of plastic. They're disposable, but I reuse them until they're fall-apart-y. I'm not going to think about it.

Updates

My new orthotics seem to be helping. I'm not over the bastard plantar fasciitis yet or anything, so it's not time to have a party over it, but I think there's a good chance I'm on the right track.

I think when it's finally over, though, I really will have a party. I can't think of a better reason to celebrate than a return to good health.

Here's hoping it's sooner rather than later.

Some neighborhood hoodlums broke a window in our house. It was a giant ruckus and basically terrible. Mostly for reasons that had nothing to do with the window breaking and everything to do with Scott running after the children who did it and then not coming back or calling me for nearly an hour while I imagined the group of them pushing him down and kicking him in the head and leaving him dead in a ditch.

I'll say this: Scott runs like a gazelle. He's in great shape and he caught up with those kids before they even knew what hit them. I think the children know now that they can't fuck with us, because if they do, Scott will chase them and then talk with them about why they broke our window, while they all claim they had nothing to do with it (then why were they running away as soon as the window broke, pray?). Of course, we can't prove that any one of them was the one that broke it, so even though we made a report, basically the cops can't do anything. So frustrating!

Those fucking kids are ballsy, though. They did it while we were right there! Sweet god.

I bought us new cell phones (I got the black one; the Count got purple). They're much fancier than our old cell phones. I also bought myself a blue tooth device called Jawbone, which is apparently the top of the line. Now I get to walk around like one of those assholes with a bluetooth device in my ear in public. Don't worry. I'm not going to be that guy. I totally promise. I only got it because I sometimes have to be on conference calls for work and it's hard to be on the phone for an hour on a cell phone without hurting my arm, neck and ear. I'm just a human.

They sure do soak you for this bullshit. However, unlike basically everyone else in America, we sent in our rebate forms, so they're giving us some cash-money back.

It was really time for me to get a new one. I'd had my old one for three or more years. Upon my telling her that I got a new cell phone, my old carpool-mate at work pretended to lift up something very heavy, held it to her ear and said, "Hi, I'm Jennifer Myszkowski answering my phone."

Everyone is a comedian.

Story Corps is coming to the Basketball Hall of Fame. I really want to go and interview my dad about this story - either that or I want to interview my sister about, well, everything - either that or I want to haul No-legs down there and interview him about his role in the printing union in the '40s and '50s or accidentally setting off the alarm in San Francisco when he was on night watch during WWII - either that or I can think of about a hundred other topics/people to interview. I only wish I could do it all.

This is my favorite time of year, when it's still warm during the day, but it gets really cool at night and I can sleep with a blanket. It's supposed to be sunny and lovely this weekend, so I'm really excited about everything going on. It's about the busiest weekend of the summer for us so far.

I must spirit myself away to prepare.

Baby got a new pair of orthotics

I had a visit with the Foot Whisperer, a.k.a. Mark Fournier and Fournier Foot Care in Northampton yesterday. It's the bastard plantar fasciitis. It's dogging me at every turn! I can't seem to get better for real. I get sort of better-ish, then I try to cut back on the anti-inflammatory and I'm back at square one.

That's not how a person gets better from something.

On top of that, it was seeming like the painful foot massage was no longer helping - and was in fact hurting.

Suddenly, I was floundering around on the deck, not sure what to do next.

I decided to go back to my acupuncturist. I've had a couple sessions. We talked together about what to do next. She was looking at my feet and noticed these weird callouses I've developed because of the orthotic I got from my podiatrist. She said that she didn't think an orthotic that fit me should put callouses all over my feet.

Funny, because when I first got the orthotics and was feeling uncomfortable about the callouses, my podiatrist gave me a cock and bull story about how sometimes people get callouses from orthotics.

So I made an appointment with Mark and saw him yesterday. He said callouses are from rubbing, and a person's foot should not be rubbing their orthotic. If it's rubbing, it's not supporting. He took my orthotics and said he was going to try to modify them to work better, but as soon as he started taking them apart, he came back to me.

He said that he couldn't really fix them because they were basically all wrong. He wanted to make me a new one.

Secretly, that's what I wanted too.

To fit me for an orthotic, my podiatrist took a plaster cast of my foot and that was that. Mark made me stand in this contraption and looked at how I stood, looked at the alignment of my knees, back, everything. He took an impression of my foot and said, "Come back tomorrow."

Less than 24 hours later, I'm in a new orthotic. As soon as I put it on, I noticed a real difference and one of the near-constant pains in my foot seemed to subside. Immediately. Of course, other parts of my foot are feeling the pinch right now; getting used to a new orthotic always takes a little while and can be a little uncomfortable. Mark and his partner Les told me that if I wasn't seeing a distinct reduction in pain in two weeks to come back and they'd make adjustments.

I'm hoping that I never see them again. Not because I don't like them, because I like them both very much. I just want this motherfucking, bastard plantar fasciitis the hell out of my life.

Meanwhile, Mark carries shoes for giant lady feet. He's ordering some shoes that will fit me, and I won't be allowed to leave unless they do. Thank god, because those $130 shoes I bought several months back ended up not fitting me, but I didn't find out until I wore them three times, and so they were unreturnable.

Aside: Does anyone want a pair of these shoes in an 11WW?

Aside: I wish that when I started with the bastard plantar fasciitis that I had started a tally of exactly what I spent on it. I imagine that I'm close to $5,000 at this point. Motherfucking plantar fasciitis!

Anyway, I've got high hopes. Wish me luck. I'd like to be able to walk around like a normal person again soon and leave my gimpiness behind.

Conversation

After a discussion about the bastard plantar fasciitis and my enormous man feet...

Grandmother (looking at my feet): To me, your feet don't look that big.

Cousin Paul: Grandma, the bottoms of her shoes look like tires!

Everyone: Laughter.

And scene!

The latest

Well, we had our house inspection on Friday, and it all went off without a hitch. There are a few plugs with reverse polarity and a couple other small issues that we'll deal with after we close. It's happening in earnest.

I had a total meltdown - like total - on Wednesday night. Instead of celebrating our love, I spent the night crying out loud. The stress of the house buying just blew up over a very stupid request from the bank granting our mortgage. I got a raise on April 1 and they wanted me to submit a written statement explaining why it happened gradually over two paychecks. It happened gradually because it was effective on April 1, but April 1 was in the middle of a pay period, so one paycheck was partially my old rate and partially my new rate. My telling them this was not enough. I had to write a statement about it.

I don't know why this made me insane, but it totally did. I was actually howling from it.

It was, I guess, the last straw. I have given those people just about everything they could possibly want from me short of a blood sample. They took copies of my tax returns, pay stubs, then even more pay stubs. I signed forms, then more forms, then even more forms. I wanted to shout at them, "This raise means I will have more money to pay you back. What's wrong with you people?" Instead, I shouted and cried out loud. Scott lost patience with me for a little while, which scared me because he generally has an unending well of patience, but in retrospect, I can see why. I was completely out of my goddamned mind.

The good news is that I'm back in my mind. The other good news is that I ran into an acquaintance who recently went through a very similar situation and told me that she lost her mind for a while too. This gave me great comfort.

Scott and I both took the whole day off on Friday for the inspection and I'm glad we did. We were both so exhausted from all the recent madness that we came home after the inspection and slept all afternoon.

I've also gotten a lot of bad news lately. It seems like people are dropping like flies. Generally speaking, I'm not surrounded by death or disease, but lately people are falling ill or dropping dead. It's been taking a toll on my outlook.

I don't know if I mentioned that the bastard plantar fasciitis is back, but it is. I stopped having pain of any kind, became too excited about it, went for a regular walk and was fine, and then went for a too-vigorous walk and was decidedly not fine. I saw the podiatrist and I'm sort of starting over, which is disheartening, but okay, I guess. This time I at least know what works and what doesn't. I should get over it much more quickly - and when I do, I'll be sure not to go for any vigorous walks and will opt instead for bike rides.

My massage therapist who I see for painful massages about the feet suggested that I consider having a regular full-body massage to help me cope with all the stress I'm under. At first I was kind of thinking that she was too smooth an operator and she was trying to capitalize on my stress (she is an extremely smooth operator), but then I realized it was a good idea. I called her today and she had an opening and now I'm a little bit slimy, but I feel much better.

I'm off to pick up a Mother's Day present for a lady who deserves more presents than I can give her. My mother has been dealing with about a thousand more stressful things that I have PLUS she's been hauling around No-legs, who, incidentally, is a bigger asshole than he's ever been. I wish there was some kind of putting-up-with-more-bullshit-than-anyone-else award because that lady would win it in spades. That he's still alive defies modern science; that my mother puts up with his bullshit proves she's got more compassion than just about anyone alive. She'd give the Dalai Llama a run for his money.

Anyway, that's about as meandering as an update could be. We've covered a number of topics and I think we're done.

Lard-asses Anonymous

Remember a couple years ago I invented Lard-asses Anonymous, the support group for lard asses who are trying to get in shape? Remember, we were supposed to meet once a week and talk about everything that was troubling us about being and trying not to be a lard ass, and then we were going to take a group walk?

I never really got it off the ground, I'm sorry to say. I contacted some of my lard-ass friends and everyone seemed into it, but then I was confounded by the bastard plantar fasciitis and couldn't go for walks and it seemed like it wouldn't work out.

I'm wondering if any lard asses out there might like to give it another whirl with me. I can't walk yet (I tried and hurt myself bad), but I can ride my bike. Maybe group bike rides?

I think making bike rides a social occasion could be just the ticket. Maybe?

If you're in, e-mail me. I've been frequenting the Manhan rail trail, but will go nearly anywhere so long as it isn't too hilly.

When you're buying a house, everyone wants to give you advice

People dressed as clowns are pouring out of miniature cars to line up at our door and give us advice about buying a house and home ownership in general.

Mostly, people are giving us good advice. But there a coupla people who clearly think I'm a moron.


Yes, we're getting the house inspected. Yes! Of course! I almost want to hire a sky writer so I don't have to say it ever again. First of all, it's practically the law. Second, every single publication aimed towards first-time home buyers contains a large-print, boldfaced section that screams, "Get a home inpsection, you moron!"


I know people give advice because they care, but - man! - it's a hard pill to swallow, the one where you realize people think you're a moron.

Speaking of our home inspection, we scheduled ours for next Friday, but the sellers are asking us to move it up and I'm not sure we can. After some research, I picked a seriously awesome inspector who I think is top notch. So do other people, it turns out, which is why he's booked up until next Friday. They gave me first available. Anyway, I hope it works out.

I started to freak out a little bit this afternoon about it, but then I went for a bike ride instead. Did I tell you my podiatrist gave me the a-okay for riding the actual bike? Well, he did. In any event, there was proper exercise and no throwing up or crying.

(Kelsey, we will never lose out-loud and in-public weeping to maturity. I mean, really. It's me!)

Giant lady feet strike again

I guess this will be both a plantar fasciitis update and a post about my giant lady feet.

As you know, I have giant lady feet. I also have been recovering for about a year and a half from plantar fasciitis. I found that I was having strange pains on the tops of my feet, particularly my left foot, when I wore my work shoes.

People with giant lady feet who are not wealthy have only a few pairs of shoes because shoes cost so goddamned much money. For example, my work shoes, which are very basic mary janes, cost upwards of $150. I've been wearing them since I got the go-ahead from the doctor to wear shoes again last summer sometime.

I realized that the new pain I was having in the tops of my feet was related to my work shoes. I only wear my work shoes three times a week (I work from home two days a week now), but the were still affecting me quite a bit. I decided I needed to buy a new pair of shoes.

I went down to Footprints in Newington, CT., because they actually keep giant lady shoes in stock. I often order giant lady shoes from a catalogue, but when I do, I have to send at least half of what I order back - sometimes more!

I tried on close to 25 pairs of shoes. Most didn't fit me. About a half-dozen shoes sort of did. The sales guy working with me brought out such gems as the taupe orthopedic old-lady shoe that is always number one on the hit parade. I actually said, "You're kidding, right? I'm only 32! I will not even try that shoe on."

Anyway, none fit so well as this one hideous pair that I ended up buying. Price tag: $130. I would never have bought the shoes if my mary janes weren't hurting me so badly. I just wanted a pair of shoes for work.

(Aside: I cried out loud on my way out of the store, so mortified was I at my shoe prospects. I had to weep for a while in the car before I could get it together to drive home.)

I have worn sneakers to work before. I have a note from my doctor so that I can. Thing is, I hate wearing sneakers to work. In a world where nearly everyone wears suits and high heals, I really felt like I stuck out in my sneakers. I hated wearing them!

So I got these new shoes. I work them three days last week. Guess what? They don't actually fit me! They made my feet hurt in new and different ways!

Guess what else? I can't take them back. Once worn, Footprints doesn't accept returns.

Mother fucker!

Now I'm back on sneakers at work, which is what I should have just done from the beginning. My pride got in the way of that.

I also need to make a new appointment with the podiatrist to find out why the top of my feet are hurting now. Free with my visit through the podiatry office comes a rousing lecture on how I need to lose some weight, so you can imagine how much I'm looking forward to this.

Unneighborly neighbor update

I've offered regular updates about my new neighbor situation over here. There's an update. There's been an update for upwards of two weeks. I didn't write it because, well, I was afraid the neighbor would find it here and a scene would be made.

I would have no fear of this except that his royal highness, the Count of Suffolk Street, Scottula D. Buttox, casually mentioned to the new neighbor that I have a blog.

But, friends, I can no longer stay silent.

A short recap:

• I over-rolled out the red carpet for the new neighbor
• After my shame (and a month) had passed, I left her (and everyone else in the building) a box of homemade cookies and candies for Christmas
• She replied with a tin of cookies containing mediocre chocolate peanut butter squares and delicious oatmeal cookies
• I replied with a thank you note and a request for the oatmeal cookie recipe
• She replied with a meticulously hand-written letter one full page long containing both the recipe and her hot tips for how to make cookies better, which were extremely involved and which I summed up here in about 1/20th of the number of words
• I was offended that she sent me cookie tips because I had made her some pretty fucking awesome cookies, but then chose not to be offended after anonymous advised me that she was trying to find common ground and obviously we both like cookies.

I showed the letter to a couple friends and asked them for their take. JBo said, "Listen, you're even now. You did something crazy with the shouting down the stairs. Now she's done something crazy with this letter and you're even."

I took real solace in this.

Two weeks ago I was arriving home from my extremely painful massage about the foot to alleviate the bastard plantar fasciitis. As I climbed the stairs, I heard our door open. I shouted up the stairs, "Darling, is that you?"

It sure was him. But he wasn't opening the door for me. Seems the new neighbor had knocked. She wanted to borrow an egg. I arrived at the top of the stairs just in time to inform her that we were plumb out of eggs, but that I could offer her dried egg-white powder, which works in a pinch.

She declined, but we got to talking, all casual and friendly-like about things.

Somehow, and I don't know how, I mentioned that my sister is a phlebotomist.

Her reply, "No offense, but you could train a monkey to do that job."

What?

I said, "Well, my sister is a human being who is a phlebotomist."

And she said again, "No offense, but you could train a monkey to do that job."

Scott and I started this whole trying-to-prove-that-Tesia-has-mad-phlebotomy-skillz-and-isn't-a-monkey thing. We're hopelessly devoted to her, after all.

Then she started talking about how serious she was about her cookie tips, and how important it is to avoid flat cookies by adding extra flour. (Aside: my cookies were definitely not flat!)

Scott started telling her that I worked in a bakery for six years. She wouldn't hear it. She just kept repeating her tips (or un-tips, as the case may be).

Then she asked me what radio station I work for. I told her. She replied, "My sister hates Country music."

Um, well, uh. "Great."

Our encounter ended with her telling us to stop by anytime. We said, "Yes! We will stop by!"

At first, upon mulling the whole thing over, I was wholly offended. Then I realized that this is a human who clearly does not know how to communicate with other people and her extreme negativity must come from a place of insecurity. I don't know how telling me my sister has the job of a monkey, that I need to avoid flat cookies and that her sister hates Country music helps her deal with her insecurities. And maybe this is just a story I'm telling myself so that we can all be pleasant if we bump into each other in the hall.

I have to admit, though, that I'm hella disappointed. I really, really wanted a pal in the building.

Of course I do have a pal in the building. He sleeps in the bed next to me. He's the Count Scottula D. Buttox.

Responding to my adoring public

My adoring public (also known as my good friend Damien) asked in the comments if the Count and I have any New Year's resolutions.

I don't. Neither does the Count.

I don't really believe in New Year's resolutions, mostly because I don't think a person needs a special day to make a change. I like to think of myself as an ever-evolving being. I'm not sure how much truth there is in describing myself as ever-evolving, but I try.

Although I did announce that I would recover from the Bastard Plantar Fasciitis this year, I'm not sure that counts as a resolution. In fact, I announced that I would be mostly better by the end of 2007 and all the way better by the end of the first quarter, as you may recall. Announcing things like that to the Universe in public can be pretty powerful. Allow me to offer an update:

Thanks to my murderous massage therapist, Cassie at Abudant Wellness, I definitely am mostly better. I'm healing up in earnest now. I realized that my feet weren't hurting anymore at all about a week or two ago, so I decided to half my anti-inflammatory dose (I've been on 1200 mg of Daypro for about 6 months). So I did. The first few days, I felt great. Then I had a bad day, so I took a full dose, but I've been taking a half dose ever since.

On the half dose, my feet have started hurting a little bit again, which I'm taking as a reminder to keep doing my stretching exercises. It's sometimes hard to stay inspired to get my stretch on when I already feel great. So while discomfort is bad, the reminder to take care of myself is welcome.

And the thing is, even with this little bit of discomfort, it's nothing compared to what I had before I started seeing Cassie while on a full dose of Daypro and stretching all the goddamned time. I actually see Cassie for a half hour twice a week. Cassie is lining her coffers thanks to me.

But you know what? I was reflecting on the PF recently and how things happen when they're supposed to happen for reasons we can't know. I don't know if I mentioned this before, but my first podiatrist told me that PF is happening inside your body for about 10 years before you start feeling pain. My feet could have started hurting in that debilitating way at any time, but they didn't start hurting until a week after I started a job that allowed me to afford to actually take care of it. If it had started earlier, I would basically have been screwed.

So I'm looking forward to getting all the way better in 2008. And as a result of getting all the way better, I'm looking forward to being able to take walks again.

Let's not lie: my pants are pretty fucking tight on me right now from my sedentary lifestyle. I only have about a half-dozen pairs of pants that it isn't obscene for me to wear. I'm eager to take a fucking walk and lose a little weight, but I'm not looking to lose more than what would make my pants fit me properly again and it's not in honor of the new year more than it would be in honor of the beauty of being able to walk again.

And I have been talking to my therapist about my body issues again because I am so afraid of losing my mind as related to exercise and diet, etc. But again, that's something I've been doing right along and not a resolution. I don't even know why I'm mentioning it now other than weight crap is what everyone talks about at New Year's time, and I was talking about weight related to my feet.

Oh, whatever.

Anyway, I'm also eager to be able to sleep without my PF boots on, mostly because I hate accidentally kicking Scott with them in the night and also because I've just started having carpal tunnel hand numbness and swelling at night again (I started having those symptoms as a cake decorator in 1997 and '98 and haven't had them since) and I'm going to have to start wearing the wrist splints to bed. Scott suggested that maybe I should get a full-body splint and just cut to the chase.

Get that guy a spotlight and a microphone. He's hilarious.

Anyway, happy New Year.

The question on everyone's mind: What's going on with your feet, Jennifer?

Thanks for asking. Well, I think we've had an actual breakthrough. It could be a fluke, but I think it might be for realz.

My massage therapist, Cassie at Abundant Wellness, started scraping the hell out of the bottom of my feet with a Chinese soup spoon. Not with the bowl of the spoon, but with the hard edge of it. I have never known pain like this before. Even when Cassie gave me hell of painful massages before, I didn't know it could be like this. Seriously, it's the worst ever. My feet have jumped away from her - recoiled in fear, if you will - and she's had to hold them down. I have had no control of the movements of my feet.

But here's the craziest part: all of a sudden I can move my feet better than I have in more than a year. After crying from the pain, I was crying from the joy of it. I think this new method is just the thing to whip me into shape.

I just want to make an announcement: I will get over this Plantar Fasciitis. I'm not joking. It's my first order of business right now. I want - nay, demand - a full recovery in short order and I will not stop until I have it in my hand (foot). I intend to be most of the way better by Jan. 1 and all the way better by the end of the first quarter.

First quarter? Look who's been working at Big Company a little too long.

Who cares. By the end of March, I'm going to be 100% and I'm not fucking around about it.

Thank you for your kind support in this and many other matters.