Recently in The Post Season Category

"Not enough, but never too much...leave a trail of busted stuff..."

I am busted stuff.

I went to Chicago to see DMB in September. After the first night's show, Dave threw a guitar pick. It landed in front of me, but over the rail between the people and the stage. A man, I don't know if he was a photographer or security, picked it up and handed it over the rail.

I reached for it, and the girl to my right, the one with the big LoVE sign, reached for it.

Except she then, with my fingers still in her hand, yanked. Hard.

When I got my hand back, my ring finger was on top of my hand, and bent 90 degrees counterclockwise.

I turned to the girl, held my hand up to her and said, "Oh my god, you broke my finger!"

When I turned to the people on my left, people I had spent all day with, and asked them to try to find some help, my finger flopped off the top of my hand and started dangling around. No free will, just gravity.

I'm pretty sure that was when I freaked out.

Girl that broke my finger said, "Sorry." And kept the pick.

Security took me through the crowd, to a medic, who took some information, and then gave me a wad of gauze to bite down on while the doctor put my finger kind-of back where it was supposed to be.

The doctor wrapped my whole hand in gauze and said I needed to go to the emergency room.

So the ambulance took me to the emergency room. I had three rounds of X-rays, some anti-anxiety medicine, and walked out six hours later with three prescriptions to be filled, a CD with my xrays on it, and a cast covered in two inches of padding going halfway up my right arm.

(Oh, had I not mentioned this was my right hand? My bad.)

Note: I didn't put the arrow on the xray but I did laugh at seeing it. I'm pretty sure even without the arrow a doctor could pinpoint, with some speed, the finger that needed attention.

I took a cab back to my hotel, made a few critical pone calls, put the do not disturb sign on my door, and slept for a few hours.

When I woke up, I put the hotel laundry bag over my arm, showered the best I could, got some coffee, and headed to Wrigley. I found a CVS near there, got my pills filled, and caught up with friends at Bernie's.

T'was there that Busted Stuff got her name.

But not before I found out that the guitar pick that Dave threw out was a Taylor Swift pick he had in his pocket. (Presumably from when they played the NFL show in New Orleans.)

(Yeah, I got broken for a Taylor Swift pick. Which is rather embarrassing.)

On the other hand, (ar ar), I found true compassion and care (and good humor) in the folks I spent that second afternoon and evening with. They know who they are. And they know that I am forever grateful.

The show was awesome, as expected. I took the train back to my hotel, got a decent night's sleep, packed up in the morning, went to the airport, and came home Sunday.

Tuesday I had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. He took a look at my X-rays and said it was a very bad break. And he wasn't comfortable fixing it, he'd prefer I see someone that only does hands.

So Wednesday I went to see another doctor. He said the bones in the knuckle were "pulverized." He'd do surgery the next day. Possibly with external pins, but the authorization form I signed said he could put hardware inside if that was what it took.

Well, that was what it took. A T-shaped plate, extra bone, and six tiny screws.

I came home with another cast half way up my right arm.

He did leave my index finger and thumb out of the cast. I could get my index finger to the keyboard if I turned my hand, so I was able to type with left hand, plus a finger.

A week after surgery the cast came off and I got a splint.

And started therapy. Which made me cry. Not because it hurt, but because up to that point I guess I didn't have any idea just how severe this injury was. Yes, there was only one "break" per se, but my middle finger and pinky finger had both sustained quite a bit of trauma as well.

I had been prepared to have one finger that wasn't working properly, but wasn't prepared to see three fingers refusing to bend when I told them to.

Right after that first round of therapy, I had a follow-up with the doctor.

"This was one of the worst breaks I've seen." (I'm number one, or two!")

He explained that I was looking at months of rehab, and a lot of hard work to get my hand right.

He also said that I should expect him to take the plate and screws out in a few months. Yes, they are meant to be left in, but because there is so little room on top of one's knucke and finger, he'd take the plate out, and also would be able to address any scar tissue problems at the same time.

I asked about work, and he said I'd be out for three months, maybe less depending on my progress.

And that's where I'm at today. I've got another physical therapy appointment this afternoon. I'm excited to have the therapist put the little measuring thing on my fingers to see how much further I can bend them today, from the baseline measurements last week.

And whatever it is, I'll take it.

I am so Karma's bitch. I check a bag maybe twice a year. Twice a year it will get lost and Delta has to deliver it to me.

This was one of those days. And since it's my last trip for work this year, the last time I'll have to check a bag.

I don't mind. I know the guy who delivers them. We have a nice chat. And I never check anything I can't do without.

I was concerned that I would miss some of the ball game. When my bag didn't show up off the belt, I checked in at mlb.com and saw that there was a rain delay. And smiled. I may have laughed out loud too.

I got my little claim check and had another nice chat with another agent I know, and off to Jalepeno I go. Get home, get the mail, go inside, put my one bag down, and turn on the TV.

Cole is just warming up.

I was pulling for Tampa but I gotta say that is a lovely pileup of red out there on the mound.

Thanks boys. See you next year.

Not long before my birthday I bought myself a new pair of shoes from Zappos.com. I'm not much for brands. I found a pair I liked, they had them in my size, I clicked the button. They were on my doorstep in what seemed like minutes.

They were the perfect size, comfortable, seemed durable, and they were red.

Only after I bought them did I look up the brand.

They are Doc Martens.

The first word I saw in the the first link I found was the word "subculture." I read on. Apparently Doc Martens are popular with the skinheads.

Oh well. I like them, and I don't care what anyone else thinks.

So I wore the shoes to the next family gathering. My sister and I were in my car driving, and I told her that I read after I bought the shoes that apparently they are popular with the skinheads.

"And pimps. And rappers," she added helpfully.

Later that day sitting around with the family, my sister and I were relaying our conversation.

My sister said, "give it a couple of months, and the nerds will be wearing them too."

Shea laughed so hard I thought she was going to spit something out her nose.

My sister claims she meant it as a compliment.

I've been called lots of things, but I don't remember anyone ever calling me a nerd.

But I laughed too.

Cause I suppose I am the nerd of the family. (Peferable, methinks, to being pimp, rapper, or skinhead.)

But the only one with red shoes.

(And yes I did, in fact, get baseball tickets while in Boston. Me and my red shoes got to see the Red Sox play. At Fenway. In the postseason.)

Karma blows up my balloons all the time.

Sometimes karma pops them.

(It has to. I'm a Libra.)

Chicago, I will be hopeful for you once again, next year.

Meanwhile, Hank and I are looking forward to an exciting rest of the post season.

Just one more grand slam.

Now would be a good time.

(And once again ladies and gentlemen...)

Hello, October.

It's only three days old and it's already been delightful.

Yum.

For the first time (I think ever but I'll have to check my notes) I will be working in a city that has a team in the postseason. I may not actually make it to the game, but the fact that there is the potential to do so alone is exciting.

I remain hopeful for Chicago.

After an on-time, direct flight to Houston last weekend, I found my name on the rental car board, got my space number, and walked to it. I saw the car in the space, figured there was a mistake, walked back to the board, rechecked the number, it hadn't changed, and walked back to the car, put my stuff in it, and drove it away.

It was a brand-new mustang with Sirius satellite radio. Ergo, Coffeehouse and Dave and Maroon 5 for days.

Last night I reversed the trip, and boarded the plane in Houston. I took my aisle seat. As the plane filled up, a group of three ladies boarded. One of them was next to me in the window seat. She was an elderly lady, and while she in no way looked fragile, I offered to move to the window if she wanted the aisle seat.

She did.

When she sat down she asked me if the airplane had a bathroom on it. I said yes, and told her it was in the back. She said she preferred the aisle because it made it easier for her to get to the bathroom. I said it was no problem, that I actually was going to nap, and sitting next to the window suited me better.

Well, I didn't nap at all.

Mary Edith was 77 years old. She had lost her husband three years, almost to the day, earlier. She was travelling with two of her girlfriends on buddy passes because one of her friends' sons-in-law (?) is a pilot.

Mary Edith was known to her friends back home (Iowa) as Edith, but when she and her husband moved to California she began to go by Mary. I called her Mary Edith because that was what she seemed to prefer.

She has four children, seven grandchildren, one of whom, a grandson, also does something with computers, and lives in Washington state. She has three great grandchildren, and three more on the way - one set of twins, girls, and another one of as yet undetermined sex.

She wanted to name one of her daughters Jolene, but her Dad didn't like the name, so she deferred to him. And has always regretted doing so. She hoped one of her twin great granddaughters would have Jolene in her name.

(I got to hoping so too.)

Mary Edith had a wicked sense of humor. I don't have the focus at the moment to tell the whole story about the priest and the weapons, but I will give you the punch line.

I said, "so we asked the priest whether he preferred a .38 or a .22."

Mary Edith said, "if you didn't know the story, that could be taken the wrong way."

She paused, then added, "is that her waist size or her bust size?"

She then mentioned Sarah Palin.

And I told her I really paid no attention to politics, and it was really one of those three things I wouldn't discuss anyway.

She got the hint and we went on to other things.

She asked me if I go to church. I gave her the short answer, no.

Mary Edith wasn't so willing to let that one go. I didn't take any offense at it at all, I just said gently to her that religion was there with politics for me. One of the things about me I simply don't defend to anyone.

She went on for a bit longer. I give her credit for persistence, but eventually I did say to her, "Mary Edith, you're going to have to find another topic of conversation."

Then she got the hint, and we went on to other things.

What she packed. Why she packed it. How she packed it. And whether it was gate checked, or regular checked baggage.

Gatlinburg. The beaches of North Carolina. The Phillipines, Greenville, and Guam.

She still wears her wedding ring, and still has pictures of her husband in her bedroom. She misses him. They were married for 54 years.

At some point Mary Edith asked me where I thought we were, geographically. I took a look out the window, and in that brief moment, Mary Edith leaned across the aisle and struck up a conversation with the young lady in 1A. (Three seats across.)

Very soon, Mary Edith was introducing me to Keeke. Keeke was her real name, it had a familial origin and she liked her name now but didn't while she was younger.

Keeke had recently moved to Houson, had graduated from college five months ago, and worked with very small kids in a very large church in Houston. She was going to visit her family for the weekend.

Keeke was without power for only 24 hours after Ike, and without water for three days. She knew she was one of the very lucky ones.

When we landed and got off the plane, Mary Edith forget to wait for her gate-checked bag. As we walked up the jetway she wondered whether she should go back for it, or whether her girlfriends, who were at the back of the plane, would see it and get it for her.

I suggested that we wait up in the terminal, and if they didn't bring her bag, I would go down and get it for her.

So while we were standing there saying that, a man from the flight said that her friends down the jetway had seen Mary Edith's bag sitting there, discussed the possibility that she had forgotten it, and were bringing it to her.

Mary Edith introduced me to her two friends. Mary Edith told them that when she got on the plane I had said I was going to nap. Julia said to me, "I bet you didn't get any sleep at all."

She said that everywhere they go they have to pull Mary Edith away from conversations with people.

I was not surprised in the least.

Nor was I surprised we landed early.

October just has that way about it.

In other yesterday news, I made the decision on what and where for my new tattoos. I'm getting two, although just one in October. I'm going to put off the third one until December when I go to Guam.

Just because I can.

And I haven't even mentioned October's best news thus far.

I have 11 days at home centered around my birthday.

And I STILL haven't mentioned October's best news thus far.

And don't intend to. It's mine.

Happy birthday to me.