Back to Back

Our mattress is done for. We used to love it, and even on the best of vacations, we would talk all the way home of how much we looked forward to sleeping in our own bed.


I have a long history of back problems, dating back to my twenties. (Yes, I can remember back that far, thank you very much.) My brother has the same problem with the same disk, so we blame our parents. That’s fair, isn’t it? My kids blame me for everything they suffer from, so why should the buck stop here? I ain’t no Harry Truman, you know…

Anyhoo, this summer my back issues seemed to escalate, and by the fourth of July had really flared up (pun intended.) I was walking like the 2000-year old man: hunched over and grimacing in pain.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) suggested I try sleeping in the guest room. I gracefully declined, unwilling to believe I could blame my troubles on the mattress I had so loved and relied on for so long.

The problems with my back continued.

CoTU again suggested I give the guest room a try. After all, our guests were gone, and though that mattress is significantly older than the one we currently share, he posited that I had nothing to lose. I again declined, this time without a trace of grace, and got down on the floor to resume the physical therapy exercises that usually grant me relief. But like the Cardinals’ bullpen, there was not nearly enough relief to be had.

Within a few days I gave in to his urging, and gave the guest bedroom a try.

That room is now known as Lourdes.

The very first morning I woke up and walked upright for the first time in weeks! I slept better, felt better and moved a whole lot easier. Knowing CoTU as you do, you know how pleased he was to have been proven right.

Except for one thing. Now he can’t lure me back to the bed that causes me so much pain and discomfort.

He tried enticing me back with tales of his ‘invisible friend’. “She’s really special. She’s really hot,” he said.

“She’s really imaginary,” I replied.

Both beds are available for conjugal visits, but I insisted that he boot out his invisible friend before I agreed to go back. No more references to her, her specialness, or her hotness. “She doesn’t take care of you like I do,” I helpfully pointed out. “I haven’t noticed her helping with feeding you, for instance.”

“True,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t have to.”

Ouch! “You’re going to die,” I deadpanned.

“In your arms?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be the one in handcuffs.”

We’re going shopping for a new mattress. Today.

For English, Press 1

For English, press 1. For Spanish, lo siento de decirle que yo no le puedo ayudar. (I’m sorry to tell you that I can’t help you.)


I’ve been seeing some stuff on Facebook recently along the lines of “I shouldn’t have to press one for English, this is America!”

While I understand the frustration that leads to that sentiment, I must say that I’m not quite there yet. I’m far more impatient with the eight-level hierarchical menu of choices that I get when I call my doctor’s office. They start with a recording of their office hours, when they go to lunch, what holidays they observe, and the notification of the next twelve full moons. Then they launch into the series about who YOU are: “If you are a doctor’s office, press one. If you are a pharmacy, press two. If you are a drug rep, pick up pizza and salads for the sixteen of us, and stop by any time. If you are a patient, please stay on the line, as your call is important to us.” Then you are unceremoniously disconnected.

Anyhoo, I got the most curious document in the mail this week. It was from Ingenix, a company I swear I have never heard of until now. It contained a form letter that, in a nutshell, was trying to determine whether I had recently been in any kind of accident. You see, I had been having back pain, and my doctor (who I ultimately reached via smoke signals) ordered x-rays. Apparently, my insurance company, with whom I have had a very close personal relationship for at least five years, uses Ingenix to investigate claims they may not have to pay. You know, if I was getting x-rays because I had been in a car accident, or a street fight, Charming Insurance Company could disavow all responsibility for my care.

Here’s the connection to where we started this post. Right along with the letter asking me to supply all sorts of information about what happened (to wit, nothing) to justify the x-rays, there is an exact copy of the letter in Spanish.

Yes. In Spanish. To me, Leah Rubin. Not Leah Rubin Gonzales.

So I think that sending the form in two languages is pretty insane, unless they had a reason to believe that I needed to communicate in some language other than English. I mean, with a name like mine, they might as well have sent it in Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew, German, or Esperanto.

Especially since I’ve been with the same company for so long, with never a hint of inability to read and write in English… Oh… Unless they’ve been reading this blog, and they think I am illiterate. I hadn’t thought of that.

But really? We’re not killing enough trees? We’re not putting enough trash into the landfills? We’re not yet thinking about our carbon footprint enough to realize that maybe we shouldn’t send TWO copies of every form to our customers in two languages without some good reason?

Press ‘R’ for rant.

The Nose Knows

Today I’m going under the knife, as they say, to correct my severely deviated septum. This should fix my breathing problems, after the swelling subsides and the pain ebbs. If I live that long. Whatever. (The septum is a wall inside your nose that separates the nasal passages.  In cases like mine, instead of being straight, the septum veer to one side and screws up your breathing, partially blocking air flow.) By the way, this is not to be confused with a 'nose job', and there will be no changing of my outward appearance.  Damn! 

There are lots of photos of 'septoplasty' on the web, and even lots of videos of the actual surgery, but I'll spare you.


I’m just saying, why didn’t someone fix this twenty years ago, when I was younger and healing was so much easier? Plus I would have had twenty more years of decent breathing. Breathing is not optional, I like to say. Although in this case it appears to be pretty much elective.

I’m going to see whether CoTU wants to bring his camera to the hospital and document the experience…Not the gory surgery stuff-- just the ugly swollen and bandaged me post-op.  It might make a good blog post later on. To paraphrase the great Gail Collins of the New York Times, I am not one of those people who believe everything happens for a reason, but I do believe that everything happens so I can blog about it.

Anyhoo, if I’m AWOL for a few days, I’m just wallowing in the pain. Or the drugs. Or the pain. You really won’t know which. Unless CoTU invades the blog and starts begging for a merciful end to MY suffering.

See you on the other side! --no, I’m not going to die, I mean the other side of the blogosphere. If I can find it. (And this is before the drugs.) 

Totally Awkward Tuesday

In tribute to the delightful, but sadly missing-in-action Tova Darling, here is my Totally Awkward Tuesday...

I have a history of back problems. Fortunately, if I’m careful about how I move and the things I lift, I can go for years at a time without it flaring up, but every once in a while, it’s one false move and I’m paralyzed with pain.

And one false move can be anything from how I brush my teeth to moving a piece of furniture. Of course when your back goes out, people always ask you how it happened, and it would be oh-so-satisfying to say “Skydiving.” But as you know, I do value the truth, and besides who would believe me?

When that disk bulges I have often been sent to physical therapy for relief. It has always worked wonders for me, and anything that keeps me away from surgery sounds good to me.

So a few years ago, my back goes out. Let’s just say I was neither brushing my teeth nor skydiving at the time. Leave it at that, okay? The doctor sends me to physical therapy three mornings a week; I get the earliest appointment at 7:30 a.m. so I can go directly to work after the session. Yes, I get in a little late, but I work through lunch or stay late to make up for it.

I shower at home, and dress in sweats and sneakers so that the therapist can apply the heat to my back, and put me through my delicate paces without wrinkling my work clothes. I leave home taking a garment bag with my suit, business-type blouse, panty-hose, jewelry and grown-up shoes. When I get to work, I lock my office door and change my clothes—voila! Transformed from borderline-cripple to middle manager.

This works great for the first week and a half. Then. One. Day. I go to work, and my staff is already busy doing their thing, except that there is a mini-crisis at the front desk. I put my garment bag and purse in my office, and come back to the front to problem-solve, and effectively (if I do say so myself) put out the brush fire.

Feeling pretty good about the day, I go to my office, lock the door and change. Sweats off, pantyhose on, blouse on, skirt—hey, where’s my skirt??? It should be on this hanger with my suit jacket. It’s not. Oh—my staff! There are a couple of jokers out there, and I’ll just bet that while I was distracted at the front desk, one of them came back and kidnapped my skirt just for sport!

I put the sweatpants back on, unlock my door, and call the primary suspect back to my office. She denies everything, but she does snicker and giggle at the idea. I reluctantly go to the desks of a couple of other possible perpetrators, dressed like a professional from the waist up, and like a cat burglar from the waist down. Everyone proclaims their innocence. I’m screwed. I have a whole day of meetings and work in front of me, and no choice but to wear my hybrid pro-cat outfit.

I think about hanging a sign on my door that says “No skirt, no service.” But I know it would be futile. Life must go on, even if you’re not appropriately dressed for it. I do get two meetings changed from another person’s office to mine, just so I don’t have to parade in front of more people than necessary. But I take a lot of ribbing about it for a long time.

Yep, when I get home that night, I find the skirt in the closet on a separate hanger. I never do figure out why I hadn’t hung the skirt and jacket together, but I also never leave home again without checking the hanger twice.

And that, dear readers, is my Totally Awkward Tuesday.