So I am in physical therapy now, and I don't know how I feel about it. They have given me a TENS unit which makes a lot of life's activities livable to me again. We do find it discouraging that they can treat my symptoms but cannot cure the source of the pain, but such is life I suppose—at least electrotherapy reduces the need for so much pain medication.

My physical therapist sent me home with exercises to do every other day because apparently I have very little strength in my butt. On my belly, she had me lift one leg and [try to] resist while she pushed down. I think she merely exhaled and my leg fell back to the table. So, as the paperwork says, I am officially in butt-retraining. I guess that's what happens when you spend three years with an HMO who would rather give you pills than send you to a specialist.

I'm glad I switched at the beginning of this year, but I am kicking myself for not doing so sooner. I told myself that my problems would be temporary and not worth the headache to switch. Turns out, they're not so fleeting after all. In the half-year I've been with my new insurance provider, I've seen a colorectal surgeon (without a referral process that I've had to fight to get approved!), referred to the pain clinic, undergone steroid injections to my sacroiliac joints, and been assigned butt exercises. I know it's not as posh as prescription narcotics, but my tummy isn't as upset anymore.

Physical Therapy has also been the only place where someone has really explained to me why sitting hurts—I mean, pulled out models, diagrams, and even my own x-rays to show me what a sacrum is supposed to look like. Honestly, call me ignorant all you want, but I had never even heard of a sacrum until my mother was diagnosed with end-stage cancer, and it had something to do with that area.

Beyond PT, I'm still plugging away at school and work while trying to enjoy the warm(er) weather. After homework, I'm usually not thrilled to be on the computer for anything non-essential. Sophie got a haircut last week...a summer doo, if you will. She seems to like it, rubbing up against walls and the carpet because itching yourself without all that fur is much more effective. Nick (who famously has not mastered stairs), up and broke his toe on Friday, so there's his update. Until next time, ta-ta!

I had the pleasure of seeing a really wonderful (awesome, earth-shattering) concert on Thursday night. I remember when my friend Anna went to see Paul McCartney live, she told me that she experienced something akin to the famed "Beatlemania". (I don't know if I'll ever get to see Pauly live, but I think I'd wet myself.)

Well, the feeling that came over me when Elton John took the stage reminded me of her story. We had terrific seats, and E was sitting on our side of the stage. I couldn't believe that I was THAT close to a legend. As the duo sang "My Song", I felt tears welling behind my eyes. Nothing against Billy Joel—another phenomenal artist—but when you have a taste for music of days past, you sort of build an expectation that you will never hear that music live. Hearing "Rocket Man" that night was one of the highlights of my life.

When the jumbo-tron showed closeups of their hands floating across the ivories, I was spellbound…oh, how I would love to play like that! Billy Joel sang "We Didn't Start the Fire" and I was just tingly. Harry Truman, Dorris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray, South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio…

B and E combined to sing "Piano Man" at the end, and after the last verse, Elton John crooned, "You're a pretty good crowd, for a Thursday…" and the audience took a crack at the chorus. It was the coolest night of my life.

Consumer Reports published an article on thrift in this month's issue. Containing several handy tips on how to save a buck, one entry had us swearing we'd eat rotten eggs before going to that extreme. The tip was to squeeze the toilet paper roll so that the person in need would use less because the cylinder was no longer round and wouldn't pull as easily.

Now, I would not be surprised if we are more "anal" (excuse the pun) on the subject of bathroom hygiene than most, but it's right up there with brushing your teeth (and you know how I am with my teeth). We buy toilet paper in bulk, and I cannot remember the last time we had less than 30 rolls waiting to be used in the storage closet. Isn't a clean butt one of those basic human rights up there with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Well, it is in this house.

I can think of much less drastic ways to save money...like not pointing my browser to www.amazon.com, for instance. I say wipe to your heart's content and clip coupons instead.

He opened the back hatch of his SUV, the place where his golf clubs will live during the next several months. On Thursdays, Nick plays in a golf league, and the first game of the season is in a few days. Walking into the garage, he grabbed two pairs of shoes and threw them in the back with the rest of the golf paraphernalia. Back in the glory days of 2006, I had golf lesson with Brenda—as you can tell from that entry, we learned more than enough from that first go that we didn't really see the need to go back.

In any event, the instructor never covered golf shoes; I had to ask.

"So, why two different shoes? Is one pair for wet conditions and the other for dry?"

(Nick) "Nope."

"Is one pair to change into after the game is over?"

(Nick) "Nope."

"Are you giving one pair to a teammate?"

(Nick) "Nope."

The sound of crickets was suddenly deafening as I stared him down.

"WHAT'S WITH THE SHOES?" Damn, I wish I had finished those lessons with Brenda, 'cause this was just plain irritating.

(Nick) "I pick which pair I wear depending if black or brown goes better with my outfit."

…

Ah, my little metrosexual. I should have guessed. Screw golf lessons: we left at our peak.