I have a new chiropractor...

I'm in love.

Again.

With a back-crackin' fool.

(Will I never learn?)

I'd been seeing my regular chiropractor for quite some time, and the pain in my shoulder subsided enough to be bearable, but the pain in my lower back was increasing to Grandma-ish levels, so I went to the health fair.

And there he was. Right next to the skeleton.

Our eyes locked, and it was as if the sky opened up and angels started singing.

"Would you like to make an appointment?" he whispered into my half-opened mouth.

"Yes, YES, YES!!" I screamed with ecstasy, tossing my hair from side to side, and ripping my blouse from my shoulders.

His assistant (who is way prettier on a regular day than I was at prom -- and younger, too) handed me a card and a smile and sent me on my way.

All I had to do now was wait three days. (And wipe the drool from my chin.)

I felt bad cheating on my old chiropractor, but, truth be told, he wasn't really helping me all that much and I was just going back because it was free. The new chiropractor, though... yeah, he's free, too. (And he offers massage!)

"Dr. Jack," as Cutesy McGee at the front desk calls him, is probably all of 30, if even that. He looks dapper in his black scrubs, and has the harried look of a guy who is trying to do seventy five things at once. (Probably because he is.)

He took x-rays of my back and it turns out that my right hip is (to use a technical term) "all cocked up." And my lumbar spine is crooked. And my neck is curved the wrong way. And I'm single.

Oh, wait, that just slipped out.

To fix my hip, Dr. Jack will actually slam his body into my bent knee. I'll admit it, it's hot. I try to simply exhale, but, well, it comes out as more of a gasp. And (this is the sad part) I want him to think I'm awesome, so I relax my neck as much as humanly possible before he cracks it -- and I want you to know, not everyone can do this. I developed it through years of trust-building exercises in acting class. I doubt he even notices.

Tommy, the massage therapist, is an enormous muscle with hands that turn my back into pre-cooked meatloaf. Sweet as hell, but if you didn't know it, you'd be scared. Especially if he was taking his fist, jamming it into your hip socket, and swiveling your leg around. (He's good at what he does -- and likes Sinead O'Connor!)

It's the highlight of my day, going to the doctor. Which, now that I've written it down, makes me kind of sad.

stuff that has nothing to do with anything. (maybe.)

I had a date the other night that I thought was scheduled for a different night, so I didn't leave the house dressed the way I might normally dress for a first date. Luckily I was non-dowdy enough to actually go on the date and not reschedule it. I wasn't 100% confident about my outfit, though, so I asked Fernando if what I was wearing was ok.

"I wouldn't pretend I wasn't there to meet you if I saw you wearing that outfit."

Good old Nando. Always showering me with compliments.

------------

I left the house the other morning and saw my breath. [insert long, boring, complaint-filled paragraph with lots of muttering and head-shaking here.]

------------

There were lots of toilets in Greece where you weren't allowed to flush the toilet paper in the toilet. Which made for a lot of smelly bathrooms.

Also, on the island of Santorini, they tell you not to drink the water. And then they charge you €1.50 for a bottle of it. I smell a conspiracy (and a bathroom)!

------------

I spread my scarf across my face the other day and asked Fernando if I looked like a spooky ghost. "No," he said, "You look like you have pizza stretched across your face."

Oh, right. Duh.

------------

I cheated on my chiropractor today. I love him, I really do, and I'll be forever indebted to him for introducing me to the many joys of bone cracking. However, my new chiropractor? Ok, yeah, he's ridiculously hot. He knows it, too, so that ratchets it down a notch, but now I have to start thinking about what kind of underwear I wear to my appointments!

The best part? His office likes to focus on massage. (I got poked in the psoas today.) This could be the start of something wonderful...

------------

I'm reading a 920 page book right now and I've slogged all the way through to page 620. I'm not in love with it, but I'm committed to it at this point. My favorite part so far has been when the narrator described something unpleasant as "moisturizing with Tabasco."

------------

Crazy homeless man who haunts the 53rd Street station was back tonight. I took notes as he dictated. Learn ye this:

"When you sleep with the boss, you never have to work."

"The Senator had to beat his wife."

"Lesbians don't know they're women. Mental illness!"

Kettle, honey? It's pot. You're black.

ends and odds

1. I was doing my laundry at my friends' house this weekend when their kid, Max, who was hyped up on Sheer Attention Potential (both of his parents, his grandma, and I were all there to dote on him) followed me down to the basement.

"What's that?" he asked when I pulled the lint trap from the dryer.

"Lint."

"Lint? LINT!?!?"

And then he bounded away.

2. I was out this weekend when I heard three different sets of parents call to their children.

"Gatsby, no!"

"Yeats, come over here!"

"Karma, sweetie, time to go."

I'll give you three guesses as to where I was. (Hint: The answer rhymes with Ark Snope Slayground.)

3. There's apparently a perfume out there that you can bathe in that makes you smell like a big, fat, walking dryer sheet. I only know this because the woman sitting painfully close to me at a meeting on Friday had bathed in it. Eau de Bounce, anyone?

4. I watched Midnight Run recently and the screenwriters on that film have invented a new technique for dealing with sticky situations: when Robert DeNiro's character gets into a tight spot, he simply punches somebody's lights out. Doesn't matter if you're in a car, in an alleyway, flying an airplane... one good sock to the head and you're out!

5. On the train the other day, a very large, intimidating-looking black man got on and sat down next to me. I was thinking about feeling small and intimidated, but then this teeny tiny voice squeaked out of him, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for? I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your smile, you're all I've ever wanted and my arms are open wide..."

I think he was actually singing it to me, but I pretended that I didn't even hear him. Because really, am I going to be wooed by the cheesiest song in all of history? I don't care if you are large and intimidating. You're singing LIONEL RICHIE for crying out loud!

6. I had a dream the other night that I was dating my physical therapist (the one who used to yell at me but now treats me like a princess), and in my dream, we sat down to dinner with his parents and his twenty brothers and sisters. It cost $5,000. And then I woke up.

brand new thoughts (I swear!)

I finally left the house. But somewhere in my two and a half days of moping around, whining about my gurbling innards and the severe lack of cleanliness in my apartment, I managed to have a few original thoughts I'd like to share.

(surprise, surprise, right?)

First: Fernando tried to kill me the other day. He gave me a piece of this new gum that tasted, I'm not kidding, like a perfumed ass. Sort of a cross between a bottle of hairspray or the cologne department of Macy's with a ne'er-mucked stable, this eighth inch cubed piece of death was supposed to be "Apple Raspberry" flavored. (More like "Ass-pull Rass-bury")

My advice? Stay away from any gum claiming to have this flavor. (Also: stay away from Fernando. He's evil.)

Second, suspicious of the cleanliness of my sponge and its potential responsibility for the onset of my plague (I'm seeing everything with new eyes, much like I did after reading The Stand), I started using a new one. A blue one. This is exciting, mostly because a new sponge gives off bubbles in the color of the sponge and I've never had a blue sponge (or, for that matter, blue bubbles) before.

Wheee!

(Help!)

Third: In my office, I can often be heard saying, while lacing up my shoes, "I don't want to go to the gym." I go, but I donwanna. I've stopped saying it, just to spare Fernando, but the other day I slipped on my sneaks and looked at him. "You know what I'm about to say, right?"

"Yes" he replied. "Something about the local gymnasium and your general reluctance to attend?"

Fourth, I think the Oxygen Network tried to kill me while I was sick. They showed me movies that tugged on my heartstrings, like Love, Actually or Laws of Attraction (listen, I had a fever of 102, and that makes your heartstrings very vulnerable to pulling) and then, in the commercial breaks, four out of five of the commercials showed lusty, half-naked couples running around well-appointed (enormous) bedrooms spraying perfume on each other, whispering things like "when intense is not enough" or "don't pretend, feel what's real." I'm NOT KIDDING. Innocently sitting there, rubbing my poor little tummy, I was completely happy with my singlehood. Two hours and sixty five commercials later, I'm scouring every online dating site looking for a man with a sexy neck and hoping I look good in a piece of string.

Meanwhile, I told the chiropractor that he wasn't like all the other guys I meet. Mostly, I said, because I rarely meet guys who will jab their thumbs just the right way into just the right places to make my back feel better. He told me I wasn't trying hard enough.

Touche, doctor, touche.

the online equivalent of dumping out the vacuum cleaner

Here, for your entertainment, but in no particular order are some thoughts I've collected in my brain (which doesn't lose suction!) over the last few days/weeks/eternities:

1. I used to think the Dyson vacuum commercials said "doesn't USE suction" instead of "doesn't LOSE suction." If it didn't use suction, I wondered, how did it get the dirt and crumbs into the vacuum? Gentle persuasion? Excessive compliments? Two-for-one drink offers?

2. One of the things I really like in life is being the first one to step on the freshly laid bathmat. Luckily, this is much more easily accomplished when single. Another benefit of being single? When your office won't let you bring a date to the holiday party, you can say, "Well screw you, I didn't have a date to bring, anyway!" (My company, however, is using reverse psychology on me and allowing me to bring a date, which, in a posture of strength, I am refusing! Respect my singlehood!) Although... I could bring the chiropractor. (And his girlfriend.)

3. Speaking of the chiropractor, I'm suffering from a little role reversal. Just last visit, the physical therapist (who was close to being cast off of Survivor: Chiropractic) told me that I was showing some improvement, and the chiropractor (who had previously been the sweetheart of the series) told me that I was "too far along to be showing this little progress."

Mixed messages. Hurt. My. Brain.

4. I pass a co-worker's desk at least ten times a day, and for the last month, she's had a bottle of "Chestal" on her desk. I swear to you that the first time I saw that bottle, I thought she was involved in some bizarre mammarian experiment. Apparently she just has a cold.

5. Someone at work recently threw out four quarts of milk. Full quarts. Right into the trash. With loose lids. Like that's not going to cause a mess. Don't these people throw things out at home?

6. Places where skin is acceptable: bodies, soups, butternut squash lasagna filling
Places where skin is not acceptable: jell-o, eyeballs, milk

7. There is a higher power, and I think it might be a Norse god. What's my proof, you ask? I tried to get a piece of furniture from Ikea twice, and was thwarted both times. Fool me once, etc., but after getting to Ikea and them being SOLD OUT of the piece of furniture I wanted? Well, we won't be fooled again.

(Editor's note: when I discovered that the Red Hook Ikea was out of the Hemnes Wardrobe (in white), I broke down in tears. There I was, just shy of 32 years old, weeping my little brains out in the boxed furniture department because I couldn't give the Swedes (who are my people, I'll have you know) an extra $400. It was sad. Three hours and a little rearranging later, I decided I didn't need the piece anyway. Take that, Thor!)

8. You've heard that joke, right? Thor, the Norse god, goes out to a bar one night and picks up this girl. They hit it off and head back to her apartment. After a wild night of knocking boots, he starts to feel bad and decides to tell his date of the evening who he really is. So he rolls over, gently strokes the woman's face and says, "There's something I haven't told you: I'm Thor."

"You're Thor?!?" she retorts. "I'm tho thore I can barely thee thtraight!"

And... that's a wrap.

a new wrinkle

There's a new wrinkle in my future marriage to the chiropractor.

Well, a couple, actually.

In fact, that relationship is so wrinkled, it's like a chain-smoking granny on a tanning bed wearing the blouse I ironed last weekend upsidedown and drunk. With a baby in my arms and one hand tied behind my back. Riverdancing.

Wrinkle Number 1: Meta-Relationship Goes De-Meta
My chiropractor knows about this blog. In fact, the whole office knows about it. (Well, except for the physical therapist, but that's because I've said less than flattering and fake-falling-in-love-with things about him.)

Does my imaginary love affair have to crumble when he knows I know he knows about it?

I vote no.

(Come on, the man still jabs his thumbs in some very important places and I am NOT willing to give that up yet.)

Wrinkle Number 2: What My Future Holds
Every Thanksgiving, when we go to Boston, we go to see the psychic. There's a whole tea room full of them near my sister's house, and we make it a practice to see what our future holds whenever we eat turkey. (Or non-turkey, as the case may be.) In the past, the psychics I've seen have told me that my current relationships wouldn't work out (which, surprise, surprise, they didn't), that I should stay away from "the man in uniform" (which I heard twice and found more than slightly creepy the second time around), and one, when I told her that I teach adults, asked me if the adults I teach are retarded. (I had a hard time saying no.)

Anyway, this year the psychic told my mother that I'd be marrying a doctor. (I was too busy asking my psychic about what to do with my job to think about who I was going to marry.) She also said "the family would be growing" which I think my mother hopefully interpreted as my sister having kids. (I had to remind her that it might just be my doctor...)

Now, I wonder this: was the psychic a) telling my mom something guaranteed to make 90% of mothers in this country happy, b) picking up on the vibes I've been putting out on my blog, or c) telling me something... special?

I'm voting somewhere between b and c, but that's just because I'm the author of the whole imaginary romantic kerfuffle to begin with, and I pretty much get to determine how it goes.

Wrinkle Number 3: The Prescribing Doctor
There's a new doctor in the office. Well, he's not new, but he's new to me. (He's the one who legally has to write my prescription for physical therapy.) And boy is he pretty (for a not particularly tall guy)! I'm thinking he's probably at home alone right now, despondently moping around his apartment, wishing I was there with him to warm up this clammy winter's night. A bottle of wine, a crackling fire in the fireplace, and me in my sexiest outfit -- a big, bulky sweater that makes me look like I weigh three hundred pounds, some truly sexy medical shorts that I'm pretty sure will be released on the Victoria's Secret runway next season, and my barefeet in my shoes.

Oh, no, wait, that's the outfit I was wearing when I met him. (Awesome.)

He, too, says really romantic things like the chiropractor used to. Like "I'm going to push on your head now. Tell me if it hurts." (Sadly, I found this exceptionally funny.) (I blame the shorts.) Ever the epitome of lashing wit, when he rubbed my brainstem and asked how it felt, I replied, "You could do that all day and I wouldn't mind a bit." (Great.) He pulled on my knees, yanked my legs over my head, poked me in the hip and didn't even break a sweat. I, of course, was spouting out charming witticisms the whole time like a fucking idiot.

He did mention my boobs and how luscious they were. (Well, ok, he told me to move my bra strap out of the x-ray so the metal wouldn't show up, but that's kind of close, right?)

*sigh*

With my luck, he's probably gay and only wants me... to shop for less ugly clothes.

wedding bells are gonna' chime

The chiropractor and I are moving in together!* Maybe to one of those beautiful new high-rise buildings on the water in Long Island City. You know, the ones with a gym and a Healthy Foods Store at the bottom of the building, and lots and lots of babies. It’ll be perfect!

Proof that we’re in love:

1) We discuss some very important stuff. Like sandwiches. And logosophy.

2) We’re pretty romantic. We hug a lot, and he rubs my back. And as you know, we talk about farts and fat people. Today he even said to me, “Suck me, beautiful.” (I’m not actually making this one up. He really did say it.)**

I am, however, getting some mixed signals. He always wants to talk about the men I’m dating. And he’s willing to share me with the physical therapist. And he keeps mentioning his “girlfriend” (even though I know he’s really talking about his cleaning lady). Is that supposed to be funny? Maybe it just means he’s an understanding guy…

*Ok, ok, he and his girlfriend are thinking of moving out of my neighborhood and into a nice new condo of their own. But that’s hardly an important detail.

**But before you go get all riled up and weirded out by this, apparently it’s a quote from American Pie (a movie I loved myself enough to avoid) that applied somewhat obliquely to the conversation we were actually having.

tricks and treats

It may no longer be Halloween (and, please, Park Nope, take note that it's NOT Christmas, either), but that doesn't mean we have to be done with all the tricking and treating.

Treat:

I collect photos of geriatric pumpkins. You can see the last few years' worth here. This year, I thought it was only fair to also include exuberantly joyous pumpkins.

So, for your delight, this year's inhabitants of the Old Folks' Pumpkin Home:

And some adorable little candy stripers:

Trick:

The physical therapist is killing me. And, my right thigh is getting thinner and more cut than my left. This is NOT good. I'll have to walk more arduously with my left leg to make up for it. Or only wear skirts on my right leg.

Treat:

A fun link for those of us who have a small crush on the future commander in chief. (Thanks, Sarah!)

Treat:

Further juicy details involving my love affair with my chiropractor.

1. He hugged me today.*
2. In so doing, he somehow managed to unhook my brassiere.**
3. We're getting married.***

*when I say "hugged" it's really a layman's term for some sort of fancy back cracking. It was, honestly, the most physical I've been with a man in a long time, but, alas, utterly non-romantic.

** it's one of those annoying, racerback-optional bras in which the straps can come out of their loops so you can cross them in the back. I have never done this. I have, however, unhooked myself as many as 14 times in one day. Note to self: buy more non-racerback-optional bras.

*** this is an out and out fabrication.

Trick:

The heat came on in my apartment today and the whole place now smells like hot dust.

Trick:

I had a dream last night in which I was relegated to sleeping in a sewage drain with mouse poos and rat poos and Indeterminate Vermin Poos (which were long, greenish, and scary). In the same dream, I had one of those odd substitutions that make perfect sense (but only in dream-world) -- a gentleman caller (from my real life) was replaced with Owen Wilson. And we were grocery shopping with his father, who wanted to wait until the cashier he "knew" showed up so we could get all the good grocery "deals." I'm sure there's a message there, but I'm too tired from dreaming it to suss it out.

further thoughts on chiropracty

I can't imagine that any of you are even remotely interested in my continuing chiropractic woes and jubliations (except maybe Lisa -- hi, Lisa!), but they're going to continue until my spine is shaped the way it's supposed to be. So take in a deep breath... now let it out... (CRUNCH!)

Today I got Activated! (I feel like a sleeper cell or something.) I went to the chiropractor with a painful muscle below my right shoulderblade. When I told the doctor about it, he poked it and said, "Oh, yeah, it feels like you twisted a rib."

I TWISTED A RIB? How does one even do that?? (Probably while gasping for breath near Patchouli Man -- who was back again today, Iamnotkidding.)

He poked it some more and then he left to go get his "Activator" from the other room.

In a mild panic, I considered bolting from the room. The Activator?? Visions of my sister danced through my head -- Polly in her flannel nightgown, shuffling her wool-sock-clad feet across the carpeting, hair sticking straight up and outstretched finger aimed right for my nose. That had to somehow be involved in "Activation," didn't it? That, or cattle prods. I wasn't sure I wanted to stick around to find out.

When he came back, I was still face down on the table (suffocating on my own bad breath) so I didn't see the activator until he told me to stick out my finger. (For a second, I swore I saw flannel pajamas sticking out of his pants.) He activated my finger and it felt like nothing. He activated my rib and it felt like a million bucks. I don't know how this little door-stopper-like device could fix my twisted rib, but I like it. Activate me all you want, My True Love Chiropractor!

Unrelatedly, while he was working on me, he apologized for having mints in his mouth.

"I went to the dentist today," he said, "and I got my teeth cleaned. But Dr. Chow said that my breath smelled like Dr. Golden's Fart, so I'm trying to fix that."

"That's ok, I can barely breathe in here, what with my face jammed into this table."
(pause)
"He said your breath smelled like fart?"

"Yeah."

"What'd they do to you at the dentist??"

The visit wrapped up with him telling me about how the other doctors in his practice will often sneak into a room when he's with a patient, fart, and then leave, ensuring that the patient thinks that he, Dr. Chiro, was the one who farted. I am secretly tempted now to fart, and blame it on the other doctors...

brokened, part II

I've been cracked!

(but regular readers already knew that about me.)

The chiropractor is my new best friend. We're gonna get those necklace charms where we each get half -- mine'll say "BE FRI" and his'll say "ST ENDS." It'll be great!

(The scary part is that he's half Long Island and half South Florida -- you know, shaves his chest and unbuttons too many buttons -- so he might actually wear his half.)

Anyway, I got in there, he pushed on all the hurty muscles in all the right ways, lined me up on the table and practically yanked my head off its stalk. It was awesome. I came out standing taller, more easily and with less pain in my shoulder already! I almost asked him out it was that good.

Prepared to tackle the world, I headed to the physical therapist. Who reduced me to tears without even touching me!

Now, here's the thing. I cry easily and frequently. All that means is that I get to the other side of difficult things more readily if I shed a tear or two. So when the physical therapist told me I couldn't go to the gym for three weeks, I cried. (And no, they weren't tears of joy. I need me that gym to keep the crazies at bay!)

Instead of just passing me a tissue and telling me it was my choice -- going to the gym and taking longer with PT, or scaling back on the gym and taking less time in PT -- this guy was so scared, he practically called homeland security. He must have told me 100 times why not going was good for me and then clarifying for me 120 times what was wrong with me, and then VERIFYING 150 times that I understood the information. It was all very edifying. And annoying.

What's wrong, Kate? I hear you clamoring. Well, one leg is longer than the other, both legs turn to the right at the hip, my hips tilt up and backwards (wheee!) and my trunk sits on the left side of my legs. (or is it my right???) This is putting strain on my knees, ankles and hips. And, apparently, scaring the crap out of my physical therapist.

The best part? I went to get a massage today and my massage therapist told me that one leg was longer than the other and that my shoulder was really tense. So it might actually be true and not just a ploy to get me to bend myself into quasi-compromising positions while wearing burlap shorts!

I'm brokened

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

(They, incidentally, are not chiropractors.)

On a free-toothbrush-and-free-but-shitty-backrub induced high, I left the health fair at work with one of those little appointment cards. "__Kate Surgeon__ has an appointment with __Dr. Goldberg___ at __2pm__ on __October 21__ at Murray Hill Chiropractic," it read, in inocuous little green letters. This man, this Dr. Goldberg, in my mind, was the Prince Charming of Shoulders, here to rescue me from the gobbling maw of Malfunctional Seratus Doom (a.k.a. wikkid chickeny-winged shoulder blades).

Little did I know what additional horrors lay in store for me.

I showed up for my consultation and x-rays wearing a dress. (Oops.) Apparently it's not so much with the legal to do exams on women with no pants, so they put me in this pair of really ugly surgical gown shorts. (Yes, I said "surgical gown shorts.") Imagine, if you will, everything awful about those gowns they give you at the gynecologist (or, if you prefer, the proctologist), and then sew them into a pair of shorts. And then put them on.

So I'm in my burlap shorts and Prince Goldberg asks me what hurts.

"My shoulder, mostly."

(he scribbles notes.)

"Oh, and my hip. I forgot about my hip."

(he scribbles more notes. I flip over.)

"Oh, and my Achille's tendon. I forgot to mention that, because I thought it wasn't relevant."

After I list the three things I think are wrong with me (and really start to feel like an octogenarian), he starts testing me. Poking me here and then there, asking if I felt the difference (usually no), and then moving on to poke me somewhere else. Then he starts warning me that he is going to poke me in some of my more personal areas -- like the outside of my hip! (Please, hasn't he met ex-actors before?)

So just as I think all the tests are over and I can take off these nasty-ass shorts, he puts his hands around my right knee.

"Flex your leg."

I do, and it's fine.

He switches to my left leg.

"Flex this leg."

I do, and things are decidedly not right anymore.

"OW!" I shout, surprised, since my knees haven't hurt since I was 13 and growing faster than they could keep up.

He repositions his hands and says, "Ok, flex again."

"Um, no." I say. "Not if it's going to feel like that again!"

"It won't," he claims, but I'm wary, and very slowly and gingerly flex my leg.

That's when he tells me I have femural-patellar shift. And I didn't even come in here with knee problems! While I was innocently and uncomfortably sitting there in shorts made out of the back side of industrial carpeting, he's given me Runner's Knee.

Rude.

The moral of the story is: Just when you think the chiropractor is a prince who will save you from Pathetically Droopy Shoulder Syndrome, watch out! He will actually give you problems, most likley femoral-patellar shift, a strain in the ligaments around your sartorius muscle (or the "tailor's muscle") and thickened ligaments in your Achille's tendon. Oh, and because he's such a prince, he'll let you keep the retarded shoulder you came in with.

(In his defense, he hasn't cracked a single bone in my body yet, and I think that when he does, I'll forgive him for giving me other old lady diseases.)