Damn Yankees: Chicken-fried gone wrong

One of my favorite country songs is “Chicken Fried” by Zac Brown Band. If you haven’t heard it, the refrain goes like this: “You know I like my chicken fried, cold beer on a Friday night, a pair of jeans that fit just right and the radio up …” To me, the song paints a perfect picture of the fact that you don’t need lots of money or excitement in your life to be happy.

Anyway, about a month ago, my boyfriend, Darek, and I decided that one Friday we should declare a Chicken Fried night – fry up some chicken, share a six pack and blast the song, while wearing our favorite jeans. Since he gave up fried foods for Lent and and I gave up alcohol, we had to wait until last Friday to have our event. We shared a bucket of KFC, drank Stella and Okocim beer and put the Chicken Fried song on repeat until we couldn’t stand it anymore. (OK, so we probably took the theme too far, but it was fun!)

Despite our lack of Southern authenticity, we were proud of our Chicken Fried reenactment. So yesterday when Darek and I met for coffee with our friends Irena and Steven, we told them what we’d done. Steven, who is from Alabama, looked at us if we’d just confessed to some kind of crime.

Chicken fried, he explained, is not fried chicken at all. Chicken fried is a way of preparing food – any food – that involves breading it in seasoned flour and pan-frying it. You can chicken-fry steak, chicken-fry chicken, or as Steven said, “You could chicken-fry that pole and it would taste good.” Our Midwestern interpretation of “chicken fried” was like foreigners thinking making hot dogs involved cooking the family pet.

Darek and I are planning a Chicken-Fried redo, this time with Irena and Steven. With the help of our Alabaman ambassador, we will get it right.

Would you rather ...?

Let’s play a game of “Would you rather...?”

Would you rather eat maggots off the streets of Detroit or be permanently injured and never able to run again?

Would you rather give up sex and alcohol for the rest of your life or be permanently injured and never able to run again?

Would you rather get beaten with a baseball bat …, lose all your hair ..., fall into a pit of tarantulas … The ridiculous (OK, psychotic) list in my head goes on and on as I contemplate all the things I’d rather do than put up with this knee injury.

Today I had a mental breakdown and was thisclose to scheduling an arthroscopic knee surgery. Even if there is no guarantee that surgery will solve my problem, I’ve exhausted almost all other options. Still, I’ve yet to have one person – not even the surgeon himself – recommend that I go under the knife.

For the past month, I’ve been seeing a chiropractor who practices Active Release Techniques (ART), which is sort of like a cross between chiropractic and massage therapy. He is so confident that my knee pain is an after-effect of some other freakish imbalance in my body. He thinks that knee surgery won’t address the root of the problem, but that digging his knuckles into my pelvis will.

Prior to this guy, I saw two different physical therapists, both of who strongly discouraged surgery and instead prescribed inordinate amounts of resistance band exercises.

Oh, and then there was the other chiropractor in Detroit, whose massage “technique” was akin to a steamroller running someone over.

I feel like one of those 10,000-piece puzzles that are impossible to put together. In the beginning, people see me as a challenge. Each time I go to a new physical therapist or doctor or chiropractor, he is so confident that he can fix me. But eventually, I am just a frustrating pile of junk that no one wants to waste their time figuring out.

Unfortunately, I am frustration with a timeline. If I want to have surgery as an option, I have two weeks to make up my mind. That’s when I have to decide whether to keep health insurance coverage under COBRA. If I don’t, I’m pretty much out of luck, since this is a pre-existing condition and no independent insurer is going to cover it.

School days!

I am a student! I started classes at the National Personal Trainer Institute this week, and it’s like college all over again except that:

• Half of my time in class is spent working out.
• Everything I’m learning is useful.
• My classmates are a bit less intellectual.

Every Mon.-Thurs., we have two hours of hands-on training, followed by two hours of anatomy and physiology in the classroom. I didn’t realize how refreshing it would be to learn something so completely different and new. It also seems ridiculous that I’ve gone through 17 years of education and until now, didn’t really know how my own body works (yet I could tell you all about the Ottoman Empire in 1530 – thanks, Northwestern).

As for my classmates, among them are Eric, a former sniper and cyclist who recently got run over by a semi; Don, a 20-year-old baby-daddy who’s on his third attempt to graduate; Keri, a displaced Miami-an who “missed orientation because Saturdays are reserved for vodka;” and Pamela, a Pilates instructor who nearly evacuated the classroom Wednesday with her childbirth-like hip abduction demonstration Clearly, I am a dull individual compared to the rest of the future trainers.

But the school is great. I already feel like I know twice as much as I did when I started, and I can’t wait to put everything to use. There are only two problems:

• Going to personal trainer school while injured is like being an alcoholic in bartending school.
• It’s costing me $11 to get to and from school every day (two train rides and two bus rides) and I have no regular income.

Yes, I am still dealing with the stupid knee injury. And no, I have not (yet) made millions as a freelance writer. So as much as I enjoy doing deadlifts with the cast of Real World: NPTI, right now I need to find a way to get fixed and get paid.

Barking barricades

I love dogs. I especially love big dogs. In fact, I used to wish I was Emily Elizabeth so I could have a big, red one like Clifford. However, living with my sister’s dog for the past few weeks has led me to realize how much of a nuisance it is to have to constantly maneuver around an animal.

Sprocket knows exactly where to stand to prevent you from getting to your destination. It is as if we are living with a student driver who feels the need to slow down whenever there is traffic. However, she is quite adept at parallel parking. She favors narrow doorways, small spaces and prime locations such as right in front of the kitchen sink.

Interestingly enough, I was perusing the New York Times online today when I saw this posting on the Well blog: A new study shows that more than 86,000 people a year end up in the emergency room because they tripped over the family pet. The data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention show that while we sometimes trip over our cats, dogs are the primary cause of pet-related falling accidents.

A few hundred Times readers posted comments about experiences tripping over their pets, but I’m curious as to whether anyone has come up with any creative solutions to prevent this from happening. Commands? Sensors? Super-strong magnets?