New Website

Okay, so maybe I didn’t write that book.  Doesn’t matter.  I’ve got a fancy-pants website now!  That, folks, is what you call redemption.  I’m too young to write a memoir/autobiography, anyway.  

www.taleof2legs.com

Blog is Dead. Make Way for Book.

Well, hello, there to my scores of fans!  All two of you (and that's definitely wishful thinking)!  My last blog entry was almost exactly one year ago.  That should be evidence enough that this here blog died a very swift death in the scorching Dubai heat last summer and will not be resurrected any time soon.  Make that ever.

However, the good news is that I have settled down in Santa Fe, New Mexico for the next nine months with the sole purpose of combining all my crazy thoughts, stories, and nonsense into something resembling a book.  I have been wanting to write my memoirs for some time, but I always have excuses--no time, work is too stressful, my social life is too colorful, my surroundings aren't inspiring enough, blah blah blah.  Well, I have quit my job and moved to a place where I don't know a soul, and I'm living and writing in a little cottage that's nestled in the desert with stunning mountain views.  I no longer have excuses (except I can't find a damned desk chair that is stylish and comfortable and ergonomically works with my tall desk!).

Whether anyone will be foolish enough to publish my as yet unwritten book remains to be seen, but I am far more worried right now in how I aim to accomplish the frightening task of penning said book!

If I haven't at least written a first draft by March 31, 2013, then I will deem myself a writing failure forever and I will bury any dream of writing for as long as I live.  Amen.

Hello, My Name is Tiffany

Wine = Blog.  No Wine = Writer's Block.

Hello, my name is Tiffany, and I'm an alco-blogger.  I haven't had a drink in ten days. 

Alcohol detox is in full swing.  Alcohol detox doesn't end until Ramadan ends.  Ramadan doesn't end until August 31st.  Blog will most likely be neglected until August 31st.

I've tried to write.  Really, I have.  I got so frustrated with my loss of words and creativity sans vino that I came this close to popping open one teeny little innocent bottle of Malbec.  Miraculously, I resisted the urge. 

Perhaps once I get over the shakes I'll be able to write something...otherwise, see you in September!

Ten Months in Ten Seconds

Okay, in my previous blog I apologized for my ten-month anti-blogging slack-fest and subsequent deterioration in writing skills.  I explained my disastrous Italian holiday about-face that spurred said hiatus. Now, I'm going to attempt to break down the last ten months of my life in one blog entry. 

Symptomatic of my last 2.5 years, this ten-month period has been an ongoing rollercoaster ride of ups, downs, and lots of blah-I-can't-pinpoint-how-I'm-feeling-but-it's-not-great-and-it's-not-bad moments. Fortunately, there were many more ups than downs or blahs, so clearly my life is progressing for the better.

So how do I wrap up ten months in one blog entry?  Simple:  Bullet Points.**

• September 2010:  Left Italy.  Met Spaniard in Brussels.  Together went to Berlin for a week.  Finished trip in Switzerland.  He was working.  I was suffering post-solo-holiday-while-still-kind-of-on-holiday depression (it's a real thing). 
• October 2010:  Broke up with Spaniard (Hardest decision I've ever made...but it was for the best).  Job Interview Spree.  Accepted a job offer.  Flew to the US.  Brother's wedding in Georgia. 
• November 2010:  One week in Miami.  Two weeks of rehab at Project Walk in San Diego, California.  One weekend with old friends in LA.  Flew back to Dubai.  Started new job at http://www.zawya.com/ on November 28th.  Post-breakup depression hits.
• December 2010:  Moved into new apartment.  First business trip to Beirut, Lebanon.  Christmas alone.  Serious regret over breakup.
• January 2011:  Desert camping for New Year's Eve.  Settling into new job.  Housewarming Party. Front tooth broke out of mouth right before said housewarming party. Second business trip to Beirut.  Got tooth fixed.  No more break-up regret. 
• February 2011:  Visit from dear friend Jessica (who I met years ago while living in Korea).  Enjoying the weather.  Eric Clapton concert.
• March 2011:  Third business trip to Beirut.  31st Birthday and accompanying celebrations.
• April 2011:  Bought a car.  Finally got a handicap parking sticker.  Purchased new hot-pink crutches.  Getting warm in Dubai.
• May 2011:  Fourth business trip to Beirut.  Verge of nervous breakdown.  Booked spontaneous trip to Sri Lanka.  Went to Sri Lanka...alone...a decided improvement over Italy in terms of holiday destinations for the crippled.  Lost one hot-pink crutch in the ocean.  Typical.
• June 2011:  Returned from Sri Lanka feeling refreshed, energized, and full of passion for life again (More on that in the next blog entry...).  Sister had 2nd daughter.  Getting toasty in Dubai.
  
  
  Ten months...in a nutshell.  Bravo.

Just to summarize the above outline, coming back to Dubai felt like moving here for the first time.  The previous year I had rarely even been in the country, thanks to my travels and surgeries.  The year before that, I had basically lived in a little over-protected bubble, distancing and alienating myself from anyone and everyone, apart from Spaniard, of course, in whom I unhealthily placed all my trust, love, and dependence.

Imagine the shell-shock when, after two years of living in my own little world, I found myself back in Dubai with all the "new" boxes ticked:  newly single, new job, new apartment, new car, new friends, new life.  It was a beautiful (albeit scary!) concoction of excitement, loneliness, freedom, and fear.  I jumped into my new life with zest and zeal.  I made new friends and reconnected with old ones and I have learned the ropes of my new job.  But most importantly of all, I rediscovered the one thing that I truly missed the most these past 2.5 years...my independence.

And, as earlier insinuated, I had another introspective life-changing solo week, this time in Sri Lanka...more on that and its repercussions in the next blog.

**Footnote for the Nosy:  Front tooth broke out while opening a bag of shredded cheese.  I rocked it.  Job is at a financial intelligence website...no, of course I don't know what that means, I just do customer support and training.  Haven't seen Spaniard since January.  Don't ask.  No regrets.

Lacuna Matata

la·cu·na (noun) -- a gap or missing part, as in a manuscript, series, or logical argument; hiatus.  It's appalling that the lacuna in Tiffany's blog has lasted ten months.

I have been sitting here staring at the computer screen for the last fifteen minutes, trying to come up with a clever excuse for why my blog has suffered a lengthy lacuna.  Sure, I've been busy.  Yes, I've been lazy.  But I think the bottom line is that I have gone through such a transitional period these last ten months that I just had to take a break from blogging and ride the rollercoaster for a while.  (Not to mention the fact that someone very near and dear to me whose opinion is important to me told me that my blog was narcissistic...ouch.)

Now, I'm ready to pick up the metaphorical pen again and get back to it (and thank you to those of you out there who encouraged me to do so!). 

I last left you in August 2010 as I was preparing to embark on a solo trip to Italy.  Before I break down my time since (which will happen in my next blog entry), I want to briefly enlighten you on the change of heart and soul I experienced on that fateful trip (and please refrain from comparing me or my experiences to that self-absorbed woman who wrote "Eat, Pray, Love" or else I will puke). 

Colosseum

I knew the trip to Italy, my first solo backpacking trip since El Accidente, was going to be rough.  Understatement.  Cobblestones + steep hills + intense heat + stairs, stairs everywhere + strolling tourists who don't look where they're going because they're too busy mouth-raping gelato cones + ruins + crutches = HELL. ON. WHEELS.  And let's not forget that I had only been back on crutches after my bilateral ankle surgeries for just under two months, so I was still quite weak.  Two days in, I was berating myself for not having gone to the Maldives instead.  Nevertheless, despite all the factors working against me, and because of my irritatingly stubborn determination, I hobbled my way through the country for twelve days.

Trevi Fountain

I spent four days bulldozing through the major Roman sites and one day recovering in bed while watching "Jersey Shore" (the only English program on TV).  I then traveled north to the medieval town of Siena,  followed by a three-day stay at a 16th century farmhouse in the midst of an organic farm and vineyard in Tuscany.  The trip finished with a few lovely days in Florence and Milan.

 

Mmmm...

It was in that farmhouse in Tuscany, three days of reading, drinking wine, eating home-grown olives, cheese, and pesto picnic-style, where I entertained some deep thought processes regarding my life:  what it was before, what it was now, and what I wanted it to become.  I knew that even though the trip was exhausting and frustrating and at times extremely tear-inducing, it was not a complete failure because I finally felt like "Me" again.  I still had that exhilarating feeling inside that I hadn't felt in years; that feeling that only comes from hopping on and off public transportation and aimlessly wandering down quiet foreign streets with a backpack and without an itinerary.  I've always been my worst critic, but I finally felt proud of myself and thrilled with how far I had come and accomplished, all by myelf!  I had been depressed for months about my lack of independence, and finally I realized that I had recaptured it and I was certainly never going to let it go again. 

The introspective Italian holiday set the wheels in motion in helping me realize that I needed to completely (or at least mostly) stop depending on people, Spaniard included, and finally take charge and full control of my life again.  And that's what I did...and what I've been doing for the last ten months.

Next blog:  The 10-month breakdown...

Due Gambe in Italia...

According to trusty (and not always correct) Google Translate, that means "Two Legs in Italy..."

Last Wednesday I was riding the stationary bike, trying to remember why exactly I want a job, remembering that it has something to do with an ailing bank account, wondering where I'd spent all my money, remembering that it had all gone to physical therapy, flights to the US, doctor's appointments....

I thought about how dependent I've become, how I can't do anything for myself, how I always need people to help me do things, take me shopping, reach high objects, pick up things I'd dropped, piggy-back me when I'm too tired...

I thought about my upcoming trip to Europe in September with Spaniard, I thought about how long it had been since I'd been anywhere by myself, for myself...how long it had been since I'd spent my money on something fun, something exciting, something other than these two freaking skinny-ass legs...!!!

Lightbulb!

Within 24 hours I had changed my flight to Frankfurt on September 3rd to a much earlier flight to Italy.  I'm off in just a few hours...I'm flying into Rome, staying in an apartment right next to Trevi Fountain in the city center for a few nights before heading to Tuscany, Florence, and Venice.  I'll have about twelve days to explore the country before I fly out of Milan on September 5th.  Punchline: By myself. Completely Solo. Me, my crutches, and a 20 Liter backpack...Now that's what you call a recipe for disaster!!

I'm completely excited and nervous and I have no idea what to expect.  I know it will probably be more miserable than fun, but I'm prepared for whatever challenges come my way, be it Roman ruins or Vatican staircases or Tuscan hills or Venetian bridges!  And this time I won't have anyone to carry me (or my bag!) when I get too tired!

 

I'll meet Spaniard in Brussels on the 5th and together we'll continue our pre-planned trip through Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland.  If you don't hear from me before then, then it means I've probably fallen into a gutter somewhere...

Hello Ramadan

Last Wednesday was the official moon sighting/start of the Holy Month of Ramadan.  If you're not well-versed on all things Islam, it's basically a month where the Muslims fast from food, drink, sex, smoke, and impure thoughts from sunrise to sunset.  Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, but I suppose that's the part that affects us non-Muslims the most.

Anyway, Dubai strictly enforces the fast, and most restaurants are closed until sunset.  If you want to eat, smoke, or even take a sip of water, you have to hide it well, or risk getting a ticket...even if you're not fasting!  Throughout the entire month, the city is eerily quiet during the day, roads are empty, and most businesses have shortened working hours.  However, when the sun dips below the horizon and the calls to prayer erupt from the minarets, the city comes alive.  The streets become snarled with traffic as drivers race to restaurants for the Iftar meal and shopping malls are bustling with shoppers taking advantage of extended opening hours.

Anyway, as you can imagine, Ramadan is basically a month where things slow down to the point of shut down, particularly true this year as it falls in the summer.  This also means that there are zero jobs on the market.  Not a good thing for me. 

Just yesterday I was contacted by the company with which I had interviewed in Abu Dhabi; unfortunately, they had to put the job on hold.  As soon as they told me, I felt a wave of relief...who was I kidding?  I did not want to move to boring old Abu Dhabi, no matter how much I tried to pep-talk myself into it!

So now it's back to square one...I've pretty much given up on the job search until after Ramadan.  Actually, I'm off to Europe for a few weeks the first week of September, so I might as well put it off until I'm back on the 25th!  No need to rush these things...

Omani Run

To celebrate my one-month anniversary back in Dubai, Spaniard and I decided to spend the weekend in Muscat, Oman (read:  My 30-day UAE visitor's visa was about to expire and I needed to make a run to the border). 

This was supposed to be a cheap trip.  After all, I am chronically unemployed.  Muscat is about a four to six-hour drive through the desert and mountains from Dubai (depeding on the busy-ness factor at the border).  Once you arrive, there are plenty of cheap, roachish motels in a corniche and souk area called Muttrah (one of my favorite places), not to mention tons of laid back and inexpensive restaurants. 

However, somehow things went a bit off course from the original plan.  First off, I found a special online deal at the über chi-chi Chedi Muscat:  Stay two nights, get the third night free.  Who in their right mind could ever pass up such a steal?  I then looked into flights and discovered that it's pretty cheap to fly...why drive when you can fly?  Hmmm...

So Thursday afternoon we were on a plane to Muscat!  We arrived at the swankypants Chedi  and were immediately whisked to our posh seaview room.  After that the weekend was a bit of a blur of delicious food, infinity pools, sunshine, prosecco, and even a facial.  We didn't even leave the hotel!  So much for my big plans of trying to be like locals for a weekend.

When we got in the taxi to leave the hotel on Sunday, I asked Spaniard if I could see the bill.  As I opened it, I gasped and tears began to well up in my eyes...No!  This can't be!  I can't afford this!  I felt my heartbeat quicken and Where was the fresh air?!  But then I figured that overall it wasn't so bad, considering it was three nights and all meals, not to mention that facial.  I began to calm down, and said, "Whew!  I was really worried for a second!"  But then Spaniard reminded me that we had already paid for the room online...this bill was only for the extras...

Let's Get Physical!

I am happy to say that I have finally started Physical Therapy.  Just over a month after el accidente, I went to San Diego, California for two months of intensive therapy at Project Walk.  I also traveled to Barcelona on two separate occasions within the past year for a bit more therapy.  As for all that time in between...well...I have pretty much done my own thing (if anything at all), and I'll admit that it has not been very consistent.

So now that I am back in Dubai and turning over a new leaf, I decided to jump right into my fitness aspirations again.  After some research, I finally settled on a certified Physical Therapist/Pilates Instructor who has experience working with cripples like myself and who is suprisingly familiar with the Project Walk method.  The week after I arrived, I had my first appointment.

The sessions are held one-on-one in a private room full of trapeze machines and mechanical chairs and springs and other Pilates gimmicks.  I don't do any major meathead moves or anything, but all the exercises hit right in those small muscle groups and I'm always tired at the end of each one-hour session; however, I'm not exhausted, but at the "Oh Dear Jesus!" price of $110 per hour, I can't exactly afford any extra time.  

At any rate, I'm going to physical therapy twice a week, riding a stationary bike for one hour every day, quickly depleting my bank account, and getting stronger by the day.  I've even started working on taking a few steps without using crutches (one crutch is pretty easy).  These tricks are definitely not ready for the public yet...I do still have my pride, after all.

Headband--Check.  Knee Socks--Check.  Off to physical therapy!

The Great Job Hunt

My number one priority now that I'm back in Dubai is to find a job.  Once I have a job, I will have free healthcare.  I will also have a paycheck.  I haven't had a paycheck in ten months, and my bank accounts are certainly looking worse for wear.  When I have a paycheck, I can finally kiss cohabitation goodbye (that's another blog altogether!) and move into my very own flat with all my own furniture and personal items and use the bathroom with the door open and eat cereal for dinner again.  But, like I said, I'll save all that for another blog. 

My point is this:  Job=Independence.  Now many of you out there might shake your heads in disagreement, convinced that slaving away 9 to 5 (8-8 in these parts) for, proverbially speaking, "The Man" is the antithesis of independent living.  I would have wholeheartedly agreed with you two years ago.  However, given my current circumstances, I just want to feel normal again, and by normal I mean no longer living out of a suitcase, no longer depending on others for everything, no longer being a leech.

Therefore, Operation Job Search has now commenced and I'm taking no prisoners.  Within days of arriving in Dubai, I began setting up meetings with recruiters, scouring job boards, sending my resume this way and that, even updating my Linked In profile (although I'm still not convinced people actually look at that).

So far, the search has been quite interesting, to say the least.  For example, a colleague had passed my resume on to a guy who was hiring.  This guy immediately began to constantly hound me for numerous examples of my previous work...I spent hours sending him this information while he ignored my requests to see the job description.  The final straw came when, after a week of back and forth correspondence, he asked for my picture.  I politely told him to *&%@ off. 

I have also started to get a bit disgruntled with recruiters in particular.  There have been countless incidents in which a recruiter has contacted me, told me about an available position with such-and-such company, asked for my updated resume, gotten me excited about it...and then disappeared off the face of the planet.  And when I do call them back to find out what's going on, they always act flustered and nervous and give me some lame run-around excuses, like "Oh, I was just about to call you!," and "Unfortunately, that position was put on hold," or "Yes, well, they were already in the final stages of interviewing when they received your resume..."  Cut the crap!  

Not all is doom and gloom, however, as yesterday I had my first official interview.  It was for the position of Training Manager at a US-based company in Abu Dhabi.  I met with the HR Director and the Head of Recruitment, and they loved me (naturally!).  The job sounds interesting, the company seems stable, and the pay is great...but it is in Abu Dhabi.  Abu Dhabi is an exhausting 70-minute drive from Dubai on a road where driving 80mph would put you in the slow lane.  I would never do that drive twice a day, so I would move to Abu Dhabi.  Since most of the good jobs seem to be in Abu Dhabi, I'm trying to make peace with the probability of having to move there.  Pros:  Fresh start, good salary, change of scenery, more cultural events (art, music, performances).  Cons:  Boring city, high rent, far from friends, chiropractor, social life (not that I really have one), and comfort zone. 

So let's see what happens.  I am trying to be open to everything but at the same time I don't want to get desperate and just jump for the first opportunity that comes my way.  Ramadan is coming up in just a few weeks and everything completely dies for a month, so I am hoping I can get something before then!

Oh, the joys of job hunting.  In the wise words of Dolly, "It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it!"

Back in the Sandpit

After seven official months away, I am finally back in Dubai--for good (hopefully).  Of course, I've been reminded numerous times that I could not have chosen an absolute worse time to return:  July is the smack dab middle of the stifling Middle Eastern summer and just a month shy of Ramadan.  Despite this, I am ecstatic to be back and to finally experience a bit of normalcy again after so many months of vagabonding.

As soon as I arrived at the airport and was met by the Spaniard, we immediately whisked to Ravi's, a former hole-in-the-wall cheap Pakistani secret in the heart of what I call "Real Dubai" that has gained a massive cult following among expats.  I had been craving the greasy, ghee-laden Palak Paneer, Dhal Fry, and hot Roti for months, and once again Ravi's did not disappoint.

Much of the weekend was spent relaxing by the pool, catching up with friends, and of course battling my jet lag.  However, the highlight was yesterday's World Cup Final.  I donned my thick polyester Spanish jersey, emblazoned with a mustard-yellow 9 and Torres (my new football/soccer crush...Cristiano Ronaldo just doesn't do it for me anymore), and watched the match at an empty flat in the building.  Thankfully, the Spaniard was able to continue riding his high with the slightly boring but nevertheless happpy-ending match. 

On another note, I am back on my feet...since getting my cast removed last week, I am now sporting two bulky black walking boots and therefore out of the wheelchair and moving about on crutches.  You wouldn't believe how wonderful it feels to walk again after five months sitting on my bony bum...I am pleasantly surprised that while my legs are still quite scrawny and pathetic, I haven't lost as much strength as expected, and my walking gait is 100 times better than what it was before my surgery.

Anyway, at this point I have pretty much beaten the jet lag bug and am now focused on the biggest challenge of all:  getting a job.  Here we go!

Up, Up, and Away

I can't believe it's been two weeks since my last blog-fession.  I have no idea what I have been doing with my time.

Let's see...I rode down with my parents to my sister's place in Miami on Monday the 28th.  The following day, I went to see Dr. Muy Caliente for another follow-up appointment.  First, they cracked off my ugly, dingy, brownish (formerly off-white) cast to reveal an extremely skinny gorilla-esque right leg.  Who knew I could put Robin Williams to shame?  Despite attempts at light-hearted banter and eyelash batting, I couldn't distract the doctor's eyes from my leg.

The doctor moved on to my toes, and with a bit off coaxing, he yanked out the metal pins; needless to say, it didn't hurt a bit.  The doctor then proceeded to explain a few things about my recovery and walking boots and splints and physical therapy and probably some other monotonous information that I wasn't listening to, as the only question on my mind was:  "How long do I have to stay here in the US???"  I got the answer I was hoping for:  "You can go now!"  Jackpot. 

So the next day I went to get fitted for new ankle splints (also known as AFOs...ugly, enormous, and unattractive devices that I'll have to wear at all times to keep my newly floppy feet from...well...from flopping).  After the fitting I was immediately at the Delta Airlines ticket counter, booking my seat on the following Wednesday's flight back to Dubai.

This past weekend was 4th of July, and it was my first in the US since 2004.  Of course, in Miami the heat and torrential summer downpours prevented any type of beach or bbq action, but we did manage to get a few hours of calm to watch some fireworks.

So now it's Tuesday, and we're heading back up north to my parents' place in Valdosta.  We first must stop by the Orthotics place so that I can pick up my new AFOs.  There's also a massive Zappos box full of shoes waiting for me at my parents' house, so tonight upon arrival I will be busy trying on shoes and packing up my bags, because after a morning haircut and a few errands, I'll be off on the 6:00 pm flight tomorrow for Dubai.

Cabin Fever

I am so bored.  Bored, bored, bored.  I looked up synonyms for the word bored, and everything pales in comparison.  Blasé, disinterested, dull, fatigued, inattentive, sick and tired, spiritless, tired, turned off...none of these words express what I'm feeling like the word bored.  Bored.  Bored.

Yesterday was the first day I went outside since seeing off Spaniard at the airport last Friday.  Yesterday was the highlight of my week.  Yesterday I went to the dentist.

I have always been a big fan of going to the dentist.  Nothing quite compares to that smooth, slippery clean tooth feeling.  I love getting all that plaque scraped out from between my teeth, because I will admit right here that I only floss the day or two leading up to a dentist appointment and various times throughout the year as needed.  Regardless of what's going on between my teeth, my dentist told me years ago that I have "Excellent brushing technique!", and I've depended on that to make up for my flossing failings.

Why am I discussing my oral hygiene habits?  Because I'm bored.  Bored.  Bored. 

I'm still staying with my parents at their house, but my dad the "Funmaker" is out of town and my mom keeps herself busy piddling around in the kitchen doing God only knows what.  Therefore, I pass my days indoors in my pajamas, watching the World Cup, perusing the Internet, stretching my foot, and watching home real estate shows on TV.  Could I be using this time more productively?  Like, say, studying Spanish, catching up on blogging (December 2008 onwards), reading?  Well, I'm afraid to say that this is where bored turns into blasé.  I have no excuse for why I haven't been more proactive indoors, but in my defense, I physically can't go outside by myself because every exit from the house involves stairs.   I think it's a conspiracy.  And I think I need a change of scenery pronto.

Oh, but today I flossed my teeth...the day after a dentist appointment.  Perhaps I am turning this boredom into productivity after all!

Woes of a Single Girlfriend

Well, I've taken a short hiatus from the blog, albeit an excusable one, as I was busy spending the past week entertaining the Spaniard during his short visit to the "Dirty South". 

I flew out of Miami last Friday and met up with Spaniard at the Atlanta airport as he was arriving from Dubai.  It was exciting to see him, after two months of Skype conversations and 8,000 miles apart.  We had dinner together in the airport before flying on to Valdosta, GA, the local airport near my parents' home.  We spent the weekend relaxing around their house, barrelling through the woods in my dad's souped-up golf cart, watching football (ahem...soccer), river kayaking (I had to stylishly wrap my cast in plastic bags and silver duct tape), and even fishing.  I actually caught my first fish since I was a kid!  The trick?  Casting out the line and leaving it out in the water while my dad circled the boat around the lake a few times (as I loosely held onto the fishing pole while staring off into space) until finally some stupid fish took a bite and I reeled it in hysterically...Spaniard caught a fish with the same technique.

Anyway, after a few days of redneck fun, Spaniard and I drove down to St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States.  It was actually a former Spanish settlement, complete with fort and cobblestones, but Spaniard did not seem too impressed with our young country's version of an old town.  At any rate, we had a very relaxed time...except for the constant bickering!  You would think that after two months apart, two people could pick up right where things left off and have a lovely time, especially when they only have a few days together. 

Unfortunately, I can be a bit of a drama queen and hard to handle at my best, so I take full credit for the tension.  I have always loved my independence, and let's face it, I truly believe being single can be so much more pleasurable than being in a relationship.  You can be as selfish and obnoxious and immature as you want, you can do what you want when you want, and you don't have to worry about anyone else's feelings.  I suppose during my two months away from Spaniard, I had morphed back into my insouciant single persona, and I only had a few days to try to revert back into Girlfriend.  Nevertheless, I failed miserably, making sure to be bipolar and melodramatic at all the right moments.

Fortunately, by the time Spaniard left yesterday, we were friends again and I was forgiven and all was calm.  I'm actually looking forward to getting back to Dubai, and (after inevitably pushing through yet another Hell Week) becoming Girlfriend again...it's not such a bad thing, once you get used to it!

Hasta Luego Miami

Well, this was inevitable.  As much as I love being here in Miami, the time has come to say goodbye.  Coming here was actually never on the agenda, but when I couldn't find a decent surgeon in North Florida that would accept my Florida Medicaid plan, I had to drive six hours south for a result.  I am glad I did, as I love my hot doctor, had a terrific surgery, and have enjoyed staying with my sister and her family.  My niece, Lucia, is one cool little kid, and it has been fun hanging out with her and getting to know her (considering I've only seen her maybe four times before in her 2 1/2-year life, thanks to the fact that I live 8,000 miles away). 

So in an hour I'm off to the airport to fly north to Atlanta, where I will rendezvous with the Spaniard (who is also flying in from Dubai) and together we will connect to another flight that will take us down to my hometown, Valdosta, Georgia (a small town on the South Georgia/North Florida border...my parents actually live right over the state line in what we like to call BFE--Bum Fu** Egypt--or, the Middle of the Woods, Florida).  We will spend the weekend doing various redneck type activities, such as riding a golf cart through mud puddles, fishing, and/or shooting guns at metal barrels before heading down to St. Augustine, Florida a for few days.

I'm saying goodbye to Miami for now, but I will be back down here in just a few weeks for my next visit with Rico Suave, MD.  I will probably have to stay down here for some time after that, as I should be getting my cast off and starting physical therapy on my right foot. 

Ugly Cast

I went to Dr. Hot Cubano Thursday for my follow-up appointment after my Barbie-Feet-Fixing Surgery.  My right-leg splint was cut off to reveal a very Frankenstein-like foot...Scars and stitches galore!  I was kicking myself for not remembering my camera.  X-rays seemed to confirm a nice healing process, but all I noticed was that the little metal pins that pop out of the tips of my toes actually extend all the way down to the middle of my foot!  Needless to say, the nurse whispered that it might be a good idea to take some pain medicine before my next appointment and subsequent pin removal!

The doctor breezed in, said everything was fine, prescribed physical therapy for my left foot, and floated out with instructions for the nurse to apply a fiberglass cast to my right foot.  This was the moment I had been looking forward to for ages!  I excitedly rolled onto my stomach and tried my best to keep my knee bent, my uber-weak hamstrings working over-time!  After a few minutes, the nurse announced that she was finished...but wait, she didn't ask me what color I wanted!!!  So I said, "Umm...don't you have any fancy colors?"  And she just laughed at me!  I rolled over and stared at my new cast with disgust.  White.  Not even white--Off-white!  Yellowy, eggshell, creamy, off-white!  Ugh!  I had decided ages ago what color I was going to choose, I was going to go with a nice teal blue or maybe even a royal blue, but here I am, stuck with a big black Velcro boot on my left leg and an off-white cast that's already covered with dirt stains and drops of my niece's blue bubble solution on my right leg.  Fantastic. 

  

Yesterday I went in for my first physical therapy session.  After discussing my injury and surgery, the therapist informed me that with the Achilles lengthening, all I have to do is simply stretch my left foot and toes a few times a day.  Clearly, this is something I can do on my own, so I don't have to go into the rehab center again.  Of course, after my cast is removed this will be a different story, as my right foot underwent more elaborate procedures and therefore will need more elaborate therapy.  In the meantime, I'm happy to stay in my pajamas all day and not have to have a reason to go outside!

Writer's Block Unblocked!

I want to take this opportunity to make you all aware that I have decided to keep plugging into the "past" portion of this blog. Therefore, you will find a brand-new post in the December 2008 section that details what happened when I woke up the day after the Christmas Party. You wouldn't believe how relieved and instantly gratified I feel to finally have written that post! I tried and tried to get out of it, even threatening to write a book instead (as if!), but I finally overcame my fears, reminding myself that this blog is for me and I can do it how and when I want!

I do promise (to you and to myself) that from now on I will continuously update and get myself back on track with the purpose for which this blog was created in the first place.

Oh, who am I kidding with all that self-motivating BS?  The thing is, I really have an impossible amount of catching up to do, and let's be honest, I know along the way I'll get tired of it, or wonder "What's the point?", and when (not if) that happens I'll probably try to bail out again. Fact.  But then again, maybe I'll just get lucky and a screenwriter sees my fine blog-in-the-making and decides that it's a story made for Hollywood and gives me a crapload of money, or a publisher reads what I've got so far and says, "Amazing! I want to read more! Here's a $100,000 cash advance!".  Hmmm...

Barbie Feet

It has been exactly two weeks since my double foot surgery, and looking back on my previous posts, I have realized that I never thoroughly explained why I had these procedures.  Of course I attribute this information omission to the fact that I'm writing this blog ass-backwards.  At any rate, let me give you a short history leading up to my surgery.

One of the results of the nerve damage I received from my accident is that I have Chronic Foot Drop.  This means that whichever nerve operates my feet and ankles was damaged and I do not have the power to point or flex my feet at the ankles or wiggle my toes (I could move a few toes right after my accident, but not anymore!).  Therefore, my feet flop into a limp pointing position when I'm seated or lying down, and while walking I have to wear ankle braces to keep my limp feet from dragging on the ground and tripping me.

However, within a few months of my accident I began to notice that my feet and toes were beginning to stiffen into that pointed position, a position I like to call "Barbie Feet".  When I would wake up in the morning, my Achilles tendons would be so tight and contracted that upon getting out of bed I would have to stand still for about five minutes on my tippy-toes and allow my body weight to slowly push my heels back on the ground. 

This was really no problem until I stopped going to work everyday and started getting lazy, not walking much if I could help it and not stretching my feet enough.  My foot drop quickly worsened, and after spending a month on bed-rest due to a toe infection, my poor little Barbie feet were so bad that no matter how much I stretched them or stood on them, I could no longer push my heels to the floor!  Actually, my Achilles tendons were so tight that my ankles started bending and twisting in weird directions, so that only the big toe of each foot was on the ground, and I was afraid that I would eventually snap my ankles in half.

As you can imagine, it was very difficult to walk with all that going on below the ankles.  I had been told by several doctors in the US and Spain that I would need the Achilles lengthening/tendon transfer surgeries if I wanted to walk properly again, but I fought it.  After all, it was just some tight muscles...surely I could stretch them back out if I put my mind to it?

I later learned that with spinal cord injuries and nerve damage, the "Barbie Feet" syndrome is actually quite common, and sometimes no amount of stretching or exercise can prevent it from getting worse, especially in the first eighteen months following one's accident.  As you can imagine, I was thrilled to shift the blame away from my laziness to the injury! 

So now I have had the surgeries to loosen up the Achilles contractures and to bring my feet back into pleasant ninety-degree angles.  The doctors actually performed more procedures on my right foot because A) it was worse and B) they wanted to make sure the surgery was successful, as I'm still in the 18-month-things-could-still-get-worse range.  They also put metal pins through each toe of my right foot to straighten them out, as even the little muscles in my toes have tightened, creating little claws.

I will still have plenty of physical therapy ahead of me (probably for the rest of my life), and I must always wear ankle braces while I walk and when I sleep to keep my feet from permanently dropping again, but I will do everything in my power to make sure that my feet will not regress and I will not need a repeat of this surgery in the future.  I am also looking forward to walking again (albeit on my trusty crutches)!

Tomorrow is my first follow-up appointment with Hot Doctor since the surgery...hopefully all is healing well and I will trade in my post-op splints for a pair of fancy plaster casts.

Bye-bye Barbie Feet!

Writer's Block

Okay, so I don't really have writer's block, but I do have a bit of inner turmoil over what to do with this blog.  The original plan was to write about my life since the accident, starting with the day of the accident.  This means that I have tons of catching up to do in order to fill in the blanks from the last seventeen months.  However, I've also been wanting to write a book (doesn't that sound cliche!) about this whole ordeal for quite some time.  Because I was so unmotivated, not to mention scared @$#%-less, of taking on such a seemingly impossible endeavor, I decided to take baby steps by starting this blog instead. 

I had hoped that by writing a blog, I would finally have a less intimidating outlet for recording my little dramatic history, and that by the time I caught up on those seventeen months, then...Voila!  My book would be written! 

But now I'm feeling like that's a very backwards approach.  I mean, isn't a blog supposed to be written in the present tense, as one records his/her daily thoughts/activities/theories?  And isn't a book written in retrospect?  I feel like I'm a bit late in the game.

So now I'm trying to decide where to go with this.  Do I dive into this blog, slowly type out my history, and then finally print it out, pat myself on the back, and mail it off to various publishing houses?  Or do I suck it all up, tear myself away from my current paperback-reading, reality TV-watching lifestlye, leave you all hanging with "And...blackness.....," and finally sit down and write the damn book already?  And am I wrongly feeling a sense of self-entitlement, as if anyone even flippin' cares what I do or whether I write a book or not or even if anyone gives a crap about my story in the first place?

These are some things I need to work through, and until I make a decision, I am leaving the December 2008 blog section as-is.  Whatever decision I make, I will still continue with this blog, even if it is just May 2010 onwards. 

What to do???

Operation Feet

I've tried writing this particular post several times over the last two days, but considering the high levels of Vicodin in my system, the task has proven to be a bit of a challenge!

So, Wednesday was the big surgery day (well, not exactly the surgery day, considering this is the fifth surgery in my 30-year lifespan, but hopefully the only surgery day for 2010).  My sister, Tarah, took me to the hospital at 6:30 am (I was up at 5 am to make sure my feet were well-scrubbed and my legs smoothly shaven).  After about an hour in the waiting room, I was called into an office to complete paperwork before being sent off to change into a gown and booties and climb aboard a bed, making sure to discreetly stuff the third piece of my uniform, a blue mesh shower cap, under my pillow.  I was rolled into the pre-op room around 8:30 am, where I was immediately hooked up to a blood pressure machine, heart rate monitor, oxygen, and, after a difficult search for a usable vein, an IV in my hand. 

Not surprisingly, as soon as I was all hooked up I had to go to the bathroom, and much to the nurse's annoyance, I was firm in my refusal to use a bedpan.  Once I was reattached to all the machines, I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Finally the nurse started pumping a soothing and relaxing IV fluid into my system, and soon thereafter an anesthesiologist ordered me to flip over into prone position so he could place a "block" behind my knee in order to completely deaden my right foot. Because of my nerve damage, I don't feel sensations of pain below my knees, but I certainly didn't tell him that...just in case!

Finally, I was rolled into the operating room, shower cap on my head, and transferred to a hard table, where my arms were spread out and strapped down crucifix-style.  An oxygen mask, entirely too large for my face, was crammed over my mouth and poked into my eyes, but I couldn't fight it with my arms pinned down.  My eyeballs started to burn and my throat closed up, but just as soon as I was about to have a meltdown, I was off in la-la land.

In a nutshell, the surgeries consisted of the following:

• Both Feet:  Achilles tendon lengthening--Routine 10-minute surgery to release the foot-drop-causing contractures in my feet by cutting "Z" shapes into my Achilles tendons.
• Right Foot only:  Tendon Transfer--Reconstruction of the tendons and muscles in the ankle, to further prevent drop foot and keep the foot from becoming deformed.
• Right Foot Toes:  Metal pins in each toe to straighten them out.

All of these issues were a result of my injury and had been consistently getting worse in the last few months, to the point that I could no longer walk, even with the aid of crutches.

The next thing I knew, I was shaking uncontrollably in a bed in the recovery room.  I was freezing cold, but I threw the blanket off my legs to check out my new bionic feet.  All in all, my surgeries went well.  My left foot was in a black walking boot and my right foot was wrapped in an ACE bandage.  Sticking out of the tops of my toes were claw-shaped metal rods tipped with rubber (see photos to get the full effect).  After an hour in the recovery room, I was moved to a post-recovery room, where I changed out of my gown and into my clothes and was met by my sister.  Upon receiving my discharge instructions from a bored nurse, we left the hospital around 5 pm, ten and a half hours after arriving.

Now I am recovering at my sister's house.  Keeping the feet elevated.  Popping a pill every few hours.  Sleeping.  Having crazy dreams.  Eating.  I cannot put any weight on either foot, so I am rolling around in the old wheelchair to get around.  To get up and down the stairs, to and from my bedroom, I slide around on my bum.  I'm scheduled for my first follow-up appointment in two weeks, so I suppose in the meantime I will stick to my little routine and continue enjoying the Vicodin while I can!