New-To-Me Coffeeshops and My New Imaginary Boyfriend

I haven't been getting out much. This recovery from my surgery reminds me a lot of the early days of the pandemic where I am sitting at home waiting for time to pass, and it is kind of freaky. I am not in any pain or discomfort, but boy am I tired. I am not fully housebound, but I don't have a ton of energy. I mostly walk around my neighborhood, which is nice because I live near Pike Place Market. In the past two weeks, I've been to three new-to-me coffeeshops that are within a few blocks of my condo. As a friend said, I am lucky to live near such abundance.

Here are the three new-to-me places:

The Moore Coffee Shop on Second Ave -- Think pink. The place is painted pink and gold. There are even two Moore coffee shops--the main one and spin off. The main one is cute and cozy.

Freya on Western -- This Scandinavian place is next to my craft store, Ugly Baby. When the sales clerk was out, my friend and I stopped by Freya for coffee. Wow. The pastries here are to die for. My friend and I shared a churro cruffin which doesn't sound Scandinavian at all but is omg so delicious. Think a croissant muffin with a creamy center and covered in cinnamon. Freya is a sister to Haden Coffee. Pike Place Market doesn't allow chains--which is a good call--so stores that want to have more than one location give their shop in the market a different name. Ta da! Everyone is happy. There is one major exception: The original Starbucks is in the Market and they didn't need to change their name.

Last but not least is Armistice on First, the place where Tech Bros go to hit on the barista. Actually, it is a nice place, very clean. The barista is nice to everyone, not just the Tech Bros. The Tech Bro that was hitting on the barista was annoyed that the barista and I got wrapped up in a conversation about the Spotify playlist she was listening to and the streaming series Bridgerton. What are you going to do?

In addition to exploring my neighborhood, I have a new imaginary boyfriend -- Brett Goldstein who plays Roy Kent on Ted Lasso. I have tickets to see his stand-up comedy in a few weeks at the Moore Theatre, not to be confused with the Moore Coffee Shop, which is adjacent. Brett also writes for Shrinking, a new show on Apple tv with Jason Segal and Harrison Ford. I just watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall starring Jason Segal and Kristen Bell, which is actually entertaining. I think it is from 2007, the era when I had two small kids and rarely got out. I don't know -- maybe I should dump Brett for Jason? Hmmm. I'll need to think on that. Brett swears more than I do, which is an impressive feat. 

Anyway, I'm looking forward to rejoining humanity one of these days.

Craft Studio v Books

When I was recovering from my ACL repair surgery several years ago, I read a lot. 

Like, three or four books a week. One book I read in less than twenty-four hours.

Was it bliss, having nothing else to do but read? 

Meh.

It was nice, but hard to say.

In this recovery, I've almost sworn off books. I didn't want to read. Instead, I've focused on creating. I turned my home office into a craft studio where I make adorable little animals and whatnot.

Ta da!

This week, I got desperate and opened a book. The first three chapters were brilliant, simply riveting.

Then, I got to the flashback of the main character's mother's death, right before he gets his very damaged foot amputated.

Yeah.

Not exactly a beach read. Now I remember why I swore off books during my recovery. 

Part of me wants to go back to reading, as I imagine I've already hit the bleakest and most depressing part less than halfway through the book. The rest of the story has to be up from that, right? Could it get worse?

Eventually, I'll let you know. In the meantime, back to sewing...

Second & Settled

My friends who have seen me after the surgery tell me I look "fantastic." Not good, not great, not healthy, hearty and hale. 

Fantastic.

So why do I look so good? Because this cyst I had removed was about the size of a fifteen week fetus. Basically, I was walking around with a belly pooch that made me look like I was in my second trimester. One friend who saw me the week before my surgery and days after said my stomach definitely looked flatter. And this was with post-surgery swelling.

Sure, I have my own little belly flab that's there both before and after the surgery. Before that belly flab sat above the cyst, now that flab is trying to move south, and its migration is not comfortable. (I had thought about asking the gynecologist to remove some flab while she was operating, but that might not have been good form. Plus, she might have removed some of the fat unevenly, and I might have been lumpy and lopsided.)

The surgery I had isn't so common that the healing and recovery patterns are dialed in. With my ACL surgery, they could predict how I would be doing day-to-day. I've never had a c-section, but those surgeries are so common that the recovery is well documented.

Removing a 9.5 cm cyst? Meh. Give it four to six weeks to feel better.

This weekend, I was feeling good and I stopped taking Tylenol and ibuprofen. Yesterday, I felt a little bit sore in my belly. Today, I called the nurse. 

"You can expect to be up-and-down with this. You'll have good days and bad," she said. "Just listen to your body."

Fini! and Forty Days

I remember this odd habit of my mother's when I was a kid. I would be working on a craft -- like paint-by-numbers or Shrinky-Dinks -- and she would say, "Don't finish it! Save it so you will have something to do for later." 

She might have meant, "don't rush through it," or "take your time," but I was a perfectionist little kid who was painfully careful and afraid of making mistakes. I was not going to rush.

The funny thing about saving things for later is that often later never comes. My mom died, and she left behind a massive collection of nice soap, including Crabtree & Evelyn's Seashell Soap, which was a my favorite soap ever. (I don't know when it was discontinued, but I now am using the last little bit of what I snagged from my dad's house.) My mom would buy nice things, and then not use them because she wanted to save them, which is so sad because she never did use them.

As I have mentioned in my previous blog post, I have been stocking up on craft projects during my surgery recovery so I have something to do. Even this weekend, I went out and bought more crafts. My stash is impressive. (See my new local favorite craft store in Pike Place Market, Ugly Baby.) 

So, am I buying so many crafts that I will "always have some to do later?" Or, will I end up, as I did as a child, will dozens of craft projects started but never finished?

I am fighting the tide and I am trying to finish what I am starting, but the problem is I am always starting something new. I never want to be caught without a project in process. The blank slate might freak me out, but that is a problem I'll need to address in the future, not now. Now I need to get through the boring part of this recovery from surgery.

In the meantime, I finished a project today! Woohoo! Check out this little lion! Isn't she cute?

She has a bag for shopping, which she needs because she doesn't have any shoes. Hello, Nordstrom Rack! Or Julia's Footwear. Or Birdies. Or Likelihood.

Anyhow, I finished this little cutie pie.

Which brings me to Theme 2 of today's blog post -- forty days. My doctor tells me it will take four to six weeks to recover from my recent abdominal surgery, and I have the time off from work. My therapist thinks I will get bored and I will go back to work early. Damn it, I hope he's using reverse psychology on me, because right now I want to dig my heels in and say to boredom "Bring it on! I can handle it!" It is Lent right now, just before Easter. I can spend forty days in the desert, metaphorically, sitting in my apartment doing crafts. Who knows where this will take me? There was an 85 year old lady in Ireland who knits every day. She learned when she was seven years old and now she knit sweaters for the cast in The Banshees of Inisherin. Maybe one day my embroidery will be featured in a Jane Austen movie!

I need crafts because I get suicidal watching television during the day. I could avoid this problem by watching television until 4 a.m., and then sleeping until noon, if I need that much distraction to stave of the doldrums. 

Ha. Just kidding. It is almost 9:00 p.m. and I am sleepy. There is no way I am making it until 4:00 a.m.

I am not kidding here about daytime tv making me seriously depressed. I can't do it very often. I can watch short YouTube videos, but that is about it. I will make some exceptions. I would stream shows when I was recovering from my ACL. I'd do leg lifts while watching Bletchley Park. 

Speaking of shows, I have found a new one: Shrinking on Apple TV. It is written by the same team who brought us Ted Lasso. Harrison Ford plays a kind but grumpy old fart. Brett Goldstein (aka Roy Kent) is a writer on the show, so every other word is an f-bomb. I love it.

Also, my therapist didn't know that Ted Lasso Season Three starts in two days. Whoop whoop! Maybe I can make an exception to my daytime television rule for Ted. I can binge watch it two or three times before I go back to work.

Tired, Empty & Dull

I am five days out from my surgery, and I am weary.

The first day out, I was high. Everyone in my family called starting at 9:00 a.m. to see how I was doing and it was one continuous conversation. It was lovely, and I felt great, thanks to the power of love and the miracle of opioids. Love lasts but opioids are a false friend, as we all know. I was going to write a blog post "Things I Can Do While I'm High," but I thought the better of it. Nevertheless, I was surprised that I could solve the Cryptogram in the NYT.

I had the good fortune to have friends stay with me during the surgery and for the first few days of recovery. It was nice to have company and someone make me breakfast. 

Today, I am tired. My friend Ellen said it is good that I am tired--it will keep me from overdoing it. The nurse from the clinic said I should not be laying in bed all day, but I should be moving around. I guess they don't want me to get weak muscles or blood clots. Still, I am tired. A friend came over for dinner last night and she asked I was in pain. I am not in pain, or even really discomfort. Instead, I feel like I am walking around with a carton of eggs in my belly that I can't see or feel, but I know I don't want them to break.

At the same time, my belly feels empty. I don't feel the cyst blocking up my southern abdomen. My belly gurgles and sputters at me, happily re-adjusting and filling in the empty space.

And I am dull, emotionally and intellectually. I read the newspaper, but no one is going to give me a quiz on it, and if they did, I'd probably flunk. I listened to a mediation last night and the topic was fractals. I lost the thread. Oy. I am too dull to watch stream movies and shows. I am glad I am not making any big decisions or purchases in the next month. I talked to my manager yesterday, and he asked if I wanted an update on the office. I deftly avoided the topic by talking about my short-term disability program. I didn't want him to realize that my IQ and EQ have both dropped by fifty points since the surgery.

I am planning to bounce back soon, though. One of my friends said anesthesia can linger in your systems for days after major surgery. No wonder I am feeling dull and groggy. 

Nevertheless, I am glad stocked up on crafts before the surgery. I have something simple and fun to keep me busy while I am stuck inside.

More later...

Art & Crafts

The last time I had surgery and went under general anesthesia, I had this fear I was going to die: I could possibly die while unconscious, and then die of boredom during recovery (assuming I survived the operation.)

I thwarted death then, but here I am facing surgery today.

I've known about this surgery for a few weeks, and since then I've been busy getting ready. I was talking to my manager at work, I told him most of the stress has been trying to take care of things to support myself while I live alone. I have a string of friends lined up to help me during and after the surgery, and I am grateful for their support. 

Nevertheless, I have been cleaning my condo like I have OCD for the past three weeks. I mean no disrespect to people who actually suffer from OCD, but I had a small window in what it must be like to want to quote Allie Brosh "clean all the things" all the time. I've become an evangelist for eCloth, which has a collection of microfiber cloths where you can clean without chemicals. (Think no Windex or SoftScrub.) I've washed my interior windows and cleaned the fridge and the inside of the microwave oven. All towels and sheets are clean.

When I was recovering from my torn ACL, I read constantly, mostly novels. I read at least three books a week. I finished one book in less than 24 hours. Now for this surgery, my attention is turned to crafts. I have needlepoint, embroidery and felting projects galore. I have at least a hundred hours of activities. As my friend Linda said when I was purchasing a pillow cover to felt, "This guarantees you a three day recovery." I'll take it.

I have my post-op activities ready to, but surgery is also a good incentive to cross of things on my bucket list. Ever since I've taken art history classes in college, I've wanted to collect art. I am not talking fancy or extravagantly expensive paintings by famous artists, or bidding on things at Sotheby's. I just want nice things to hang on my walls, that mean something to me.

It has been a rough few months, with my mother's death and dying, my dad being hospitalized, my divorce being finalized and my need to for surgery.

So I have bought a few paintings, that are just my own. I didn't need to ask permission to buy them, and I didn't need to collaborate with anyone to see if we should get them. These are things that speak to me, and they are only my decision. Might I get sick of a painting after a bit? Maybe. Then I can change things up.

What I have learned more in the past few months that except for death, nothing is permanent. We may try to keep things as they are, but things change. We evolve. The only thing we can do is be present in the moment.

Guts

I was reading somewhere sometime about the head, the heart and the gut in terms of how they function in our emotional and spiritual lives. The gut has nerves and feelings and whatnot that help it function as a sort of second brain, like how we feel things in our gut, or do a gut check. Sometimes we have to trust our gut more than our minds, as if our emotional memories are stored in our bellies and bowels.

So what happens to my ability to trust myself when my gut is being partially blocked by this unpleasant and unwelcome "benign" cyst on my ovary? When I get it removed, will I have some new clarity, new insights into my life, that were previously blocked?

Or, will I just be able to poop like a normal person, without the ball of blech sitting on my large intestine?

In either case, I'll take it. It will be better than what I have now. 

Benign

WARNING: This post contains TMI.

Benign.

What a bullshit adjective.

It means gentle and kind, mild and favorable, not not harmful or malignant. It sounds fun or good.

It's not.

So I have this "benign" dermoid cyst on my ovary as if "benign" is a good thing, a happy event. This cyst is bigger than my fist, bigger than my uterus, Of course, I am glad I don't have cancer or a tumor with its own blood supply, but I'd rather have no cyst, no need for surgery to get the damn thing removed. 

The cyst is 9x8x5 cm in size. (In inches, I think it is about 3.5 x 3 x 2.5.) I made a similar size object out of legos for comparison. Obviously, the cyst doesn't have sharp edges, but that is the approximate size. Dr. Who is there for comparison.

Dr. Who looks pissed. He's not happy about this cyst, either. It could be worse, right? Like the size of a grapefruit, or a cantaloup? No, I am not following that false logic. Let me have a few days to be sad and angry and pissed.

The doctor who called me last night (not to be confused with Dr. Who)  was straight and to the point. "You saw your chart, right?"

Yeah.

"You have a large cyst and it needs to be removed. It is benign..."

That is it. I appreciated her straightforwardness, her lack of bullshit. I get that this is benign, but root word of benign doesn't fit for a cyst. Benign implies something it an assets, a positive trait. No cyst is positive, and just because it isn't cancerous means that it is good. I want this thing out as soon as possible. I want it out now, please.

So what is this lump causing?

Constipation. It is squashing my colon, making it harder for me to poop. I used to think constipation was a character flaw, that people got it because they ate too much fried food and never heard of apples. I was judgmental that people couldn't manage their own diet. Ha! That was so mean.

Plus, I can't fully bend over to tie my shoes. I had thought it was a flexibility thing, so I kept going to yoga. Stretching is well and good, but I think this lump was causing me problems moving in certain ways.

That is enough for now. If you are super curious, you can google "dermoid cyst," but I wouldn't. It is gross.

Matthew Perry & Self-Love

This weekend I finished Matthew Perry's (aka Chandler Bing) memoir. A typical celebrity memoir might be name drop central, or list after list of bad decisions, but this book is about his recovery from addictions.

And his shitty treatment of women.

For years. 

Decades.

Okay, he is not a bona fide asshole. He was seriously afraid of commitment, pathologically afraid of getting close to people, and as a result, he pushed people way before he could get hurt. He had one girlfriend he dated for two years and she nursed him back to health during two years of him being in and out of rehab. As soon as he got out, he dumped her.

WFT? Who does this?

Repeat this pattern until he is fifty-three years old and still single with no family. He falls in love with woman. She falls in love with him. He turns into a chicken shit and dumps her. For no reason.

His book did him no favors, either, because now he can only date women who haven't read the book because they would run like hell to the hills if he came knocking on their door.

Or, they'd think "Oh I can fix this poor fucked up soul! I know he can change!"

Bullshit. And that would be the exact type of woman he wouldn't need.

I shouldn't be so harsh on the guy. Really, I shouldn't.

Around 85% into the book, I though he was an asshole and I hated him. I almost didn't finish the book, but I had to find out of he could stay sober. I am assuming he did, but ya know, I wanted to read how he got there.

I also know that sobriety is a fragile thing--people relapse all of the time. Some people with addition can be sober for thirty or forty or fifty years. Other people bounce in and out over the years.

By the end of the book, I felt heart broken for Perry instead of thinking he was a jerk. I felt bad for him that he could never feel settled in a relationship. 

But I also understood something I heard before: in order to love someone else, we must love ourselves first. Previously, I had thought that was maybe not quite true, or I didn't fully understand what that meant. I've also heard that people don't love themselves can be helped when they are in a healthy relationship -- that they can learn to love themselves when someone else loves them first. They can see themselves as worthy.

But sometimes the holes in the soul can be challengingly deep, and without a small baselines of self-love, it is hard.

So, Matthew Perry--and anyone else out there struggling from similar kinds of addictions and fear of love-- I wish you self-love. I wish that you could see yourself as others love you. I wish that you didn't have to face your demons and darkness all alone. I wish you peace.

Friends

I used to dream I was on Friends.

I was in my twenties living in a hip Chicago neighborhood when Friends was on the air. I am younger than Jennifer Aniston and older than Matthew Perry. Older people watched the show and remembered their youth. Younger people watched and dreamed this is what their lives would be like. People around the globe thought this is what is meant to be American. Meanwhile, I was living the dream, a young urban professional living around the corner from a coffee shop and across the street from Tower Records.

In my dreams (more than one, I am sad to say), I was an extra character on the set - one without lines, watching everyone chatter and carry on while I sat quietly on the couch with a large cup of tea. Did they know I was there? Did they care? I was invisible.

I'd be depressed when I'd wake up in the morning after one of these dreams, mad at myself for catching a rerun at 10:30 p.m. before I went to bed. No wonder I dreamt about being on the tv show--it was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

I started watching when I was young and single. When the show ended, I had gotten married, given birth three times, had a miscarriage and moved to St. Louis. I haven't watched reruns of Friends since it was originally aired. 

Now I am reading Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing by Matthew Perry about his brutal and nearly fatal battle with addiction. I've read and heard numerous stories about addiction and recovery, and this one is particularly harrowing.

In the 1990's, he was dating Julia Roberts, had a job he loved, was making a $1M a week and was not happy. He had everything except self-love. The only place he could find peace was at the bottom of a bottle vodka. He'd get the "handle" party-size, which also meant he was drinking shit vodka, not the fancy stuff.

WTF?

The scariest part of this book is my own reaction to it. 

Matthew Perry complains about being single. Could I date him?

The dude is sweet and handsome and charming and funny and an emotional train wreck. He likes art. He has a Banksy.

Do I think I could be special, different enough to save this guy? The answer should be an obvious and easy hard no. Instead, I ponder this hypothetical question instead of screaming "FTS. Run away!" 

Perry goes into lots of details about how he was the the worst partner. He dumped Julia Robert because...for no good reason. He said he was afraid of getting too close and then she would dump him. He cured his fear of being dumped by a woman he loved...by dumping her first. Which makes no sense. His own fear of abandonment caused him to abandon others. He wanted to be loved, but he pushed people away.

Later, Perry proposed to a woman while he was high. He didn't remember and couldn't figure out why she moved with her two dogs. She dumped him when he asked why she was there.

I am two-thirds of the way done with the book, and I can't put it down. Does he get sober? Does he peace and solace in the hole in his soul? 

God I hope so. It is heartbreaking that anyone could be so tormented, so haunted. I know he's not dead, but I hope he finds peace.

The Husbands: He Laughed, I Cried

When my friend Elena's husband was at the library a few weeks ago, he picked up the novel The Husbands by Chandler Baker. When he got home, he was laughing out loud reading it.

Elena suggested I might need a laugh, and threw the book out there as a suggestion, given the mountains of unhappy events in my life in the past few weeks.

I downloaded the book to my Kindle. Where Kevin laughed, I cried. Here we have a working mom whose educated, salesman husband can't figure out how to buy new shoes for a four year old, so he dumps the task on his working wife. 

According to Elena, Kevin related to the husband in the book. "I do these things!" Kevin laughed. "I can't believe it." To Kevin's credit, Elena saw an him step up. His incompetence decreased.

Yes, men who run multi-national corporations (I am exaggerating) can't figure out how to run a bath,  make a meal, or take a load of laundry from start to finish. No, putting the clothes in the machine, adding soap and starting it doesn't get you half credit. The clothes need to be folded and put away for the task to count.

Anyway, the world needs more men to read stories like this, and then have then take on more emotional load. Likewise, it would be nice if men had more awareness of the totality of the work mother do, and then demonstrate sincere appreciation and awe at the work we do every day to maintain our families and homes.

Self Love and God, Failure and Enlightenment

I am taking an interesting online course called "Breathing Under Water" by Richard Rohr. He is a Franciscan priest who finds the similarities of 12 steps programs to the original intent of the gospels and the roots of Catholicism. It is fascinating. Here are some of my thoughts from what I am reading and learning.

Part of 12 step program is the "praying only for knowledge of [God's] will for us and the power to carry that out."

So how do we know what God's will for us is? How can we tell which of the many voices in our heads and hearts should we follow?

I was reading New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton, and in chapter 3, he writes:

"In all the situations of life the 'will of God' comes to us not merely as an external dictate of impersonal law, but above all as an interior invitation of personal love."

I never thought of it this way, but is self love equal to God, or knowing God equal to loving ourselves?

By self-love, I am not talking about the ego. The ego might need a new sports car to feel powerful and strong, or a bikini body to feel worthy or attractive.

What about failure? Are we learning from our failures, or are our failures an opportunity to exercise self-hatred? Hopefully, our failures are an opportunity for enlightenment and compassion. Can we maintain self-love even when we fall?

Can we have god without self-love? Good question. I suppose god can come first, and then self love will eventually follow.