Goodnight, Sweet Boy

A Meal To Be Thankful For

Thanksgiving 2010 is more than a week past (geez, can that be right???  In so many ways, it feels like yesterday) and so it is time that I document what we did right, what we did not-so-right, what needs to return next year and what we can retire.

We had a total of 13 at the table, most of whom knew what to expect from The Awesome Boyfriend's kitchen work.  The newbies were funny to watch and listen to ... lots of "wait, so this ISN'T what you do for a living?" and quite a few offers of hiring us out to cater (not gonna happen), etc.  We also noticed that this year seemed calmer for both of us.  I guess just knowing what we were capable of and doing dishes that we'd mostly already created once before really helped.

Oh - and whenever I say "we" here, I really mean "he".  I know my limitations in the kitchen and if I can just keep up with the dishes in the sink and do a few basic tasks, it makes it easier for The Awesome Boyfriend to do what he does best ... which, in this situation, is pretty much everything else.

So now, here we go:

Rosemary Roasted Cashews.  Very much a hit, very much appreciated, kept folks out of the way while we finished with a few of the first courses and took all of about 8 minutes to make.  So yes, they'll be made again next year.

Toasted Cornbread Coins with Pear Preserves, Cracked Black Pepper, Bleu Cheese and Candied Bacon.  A hit.  These went so fast that I never got to try one.  In fact, they went before I could even tell everyone what it was.  Like the cashews, we made just the right amount, too.  They should appear at the table next year.

Oysters Bingo.  A huge, tasty hit.  I don't think anyone passed on these and we even had folks ask for more (which we had).  We purchased the right amount of oysters, had just enough left over for lunch the next day ... yes, another success.  As the only "fish" on the table, they should reappear next year.

Creme of Artichoke Soup with Truffle Oil.  I was surprised by how well this was received, actually.  The Awesome Boyfriend traditionally makes a different soup that I thought folks would expect but, once again, we had requests for recipes, etc.  We over-bought on the amount of artichokes and I think wound up using just half but, other than that, this was another hit (and easier than what he traditionally makes).  It'd be fine for a repeat next year.

Duck Fat Biscuits. A hit - and great to grab the last bits of soup with, too.  We should have maybe put one on each plate next to the soup, just to ensure everyone got each last drop but folks figured it out pretty easily.  We made enough for leftovers, too, but not too many.

Cranberry Champagne and Spiced Apple Cider Sorbets.  A nice way to make a clean break between the pre-meal and the main event.  Not sure how we could have better garnished this 'cause getting the apple slice to behave was damn near impossible, but the flavors were bright and clear, not overly sweet and gave everyone a chance to "take 5" while we got the main dishes on the table.  We may have made too much of the apple sorbet but I liked that flavor the best and will go have some when I am done writing about this.  :-)

Cornbread Stuffing with Sausage, Bacon, Apple, Dried Cranberries, and Toasted Pecans.  I refuse to just call this "stuffing" as it has so much more than just bread cubes in it.  For me, the apple is the star of this dish ('tho I've a fondness for apples) but it wouldn't be as successful if you removed anything from it.  We bake it in muffin tins, so that it's easier for folks to take a serving.  As usual, we made waaaay too much and had too many leftovers.  I've noted this on our recipe file and hope we get it right next year.  Flavor and texture wise, 'tho, this is a terrific stuffing.

Golden Corn Pull-Apart Rolls. Ok seriously - it was ridiculous how many of these we made.  And I got carried away on the size, too so not only do we need to cut the recipe down, but I need to be more judicious on how I factor these.  (And yes, on this dish, when I write "I", I mean "I" - these were my babies this year.)  They're delicious and tasty but we coulda fed 3 times the number of folks we had with them.

Green Bean Casserole and Creamy Parmesan Corn Casserole. If there was a way to make half recipes of these, we'd have the perfect amount. The flavors are terrific, the dishes are expected, and they reheat nicely so they work great for meals like this. We just had quite a bit to send away at the end of the meal. (And yes, for those with sharp eyes, that IS a can of cranberry you see on the table. Last year we tried various other ideas and what we learned is that there are somethings you just can't improve upon. Besides, the ridges tell you where to slice off your portion.)

Truffled Mashed Potatoes.  Creamy, earthy, not pasty or overly thick ... just right.  Not that many portions leftover either.  These potatoes stand up very nicely when you pour ...

Turkey Stock Gravy over them.  We added fresh thyme just before serving this up and it added a nice herbal note to it (and made everything a little less brown).  Next year, I'll make this a day ahead to deal with any thickness issues but, other than that, this worked very well.

Sweet Potato Streusel. I'm not a huge sweet potato fan and, honestly, I didn't have any of this - there wasn't room on my plate. This was easier to make than the sweet potato dish from 2009, 'tho, so at least we aren't locked into a difficult dish.  Folks seemed to enjoy this and we have our one sweet potato fan who volunteered to take the leftovers so I'd call this a hit.

Dry Brined Roast Turkey.  Everyone has THEIR way of doing a turkey.  Everyone swears by THEIR method  And that's fine, of course.  We're a dry-brined turkey family.  We serve a dry-brined turkey because we've served turkey cooked via other methods and we see and taste a difference.  If you try to dry brine a bird and you say your way of prep is easier or or produces a tastier bird ... well you're just wrong is all.  When we served our dry brined bird last year, we converted everyone at the table to this method.  It happened again this year.  No one left without their selection of leftover turkey and I know their meals the next day were awesome.

Kahula Chocolate Trifle.  We count on one of our guests to bring this each year.  It's chocolatey and kahula-y and is topped with crushed Heath bars (or crushed Skor bars).  This also is a dish where the leftovers are claimed as soon as the meal is over.

Chocolate Goldschlager Truffles.  Come on - it's cinnamon.  It's chocolate.  Of course they're good.  These were a last-moment add to the meal and probably not "required" but damn tasty anyway.

Pecan Pie with Bourbon Ice Cream and Brown Butter Caramel Sauce.  I'm not a big fan of pecan pie but I still enjoy a small slice from this recipe.  The Bourbon Ice Cream boosts the flavor nicely and the Brown Butter Caramel Sauce added a good richness and balanced the sugar well.

So, aside from making LESS of some things, we didn't have a clunker on the table.  Of course, what made it a great meal wasn't the food ... but it did give us all one more thing to be thankful for.

Goosebumps

You've probably already seen this and I'm CERTAIN you've already heard this (perhaps not this exact version but I'd doubt you'd never heard this song) but - especially this time of year, when it is easy to get lost in details and shopping and planning and list-making, I invite you to take a moment and just close your eyes and listen.



Honestly it just gives me goosebumps and I wanted to share it here so that it doesn't fade away into Internet history.

Are We There Yet?

After a pretty awful false start at introducing Tabby (resident cat) to Shiloh (upstart cat), the Awesome Boyfriend and I decided that the only fair thing to do was to find Shiloh a loving home and it didn't seem like  it was gonna be ours.

Things were tense when we first had them meet face to face but they got downright ugly one late Saturday night/Sunday morning when they formed the "little ball of fierce cat hate".  So we separated them and decided that each cat deserved a good home.  During the week that followed, the Awesome Boyfriend created a "free to a great home" flyer and I took multiple photos of Shiloh and said helpful things like "look friendly" while she vogued for the camera.

I also asked for the advice of various "cat" people, basically just to make sure that we'd done the right thing.  The resounding polite response was "no, actually, ya' didn't".  It seemed to everyone that we'd rushed it.  We saw things were going well and we pushed too hard.  Slowly we both agreed that we'd try again.

I had more hope this time that things would go well or, at least, better.  For five days, Shiloh lived in the office while Tabby continued to have the run of the house.  I kept hoping that Tabby would at least seem somewhat curious as to why the door was staying shut but - honestly - it appeared that she couldn't have cared less.  I wasn't sure this was a great thing - I wouldn't have minded seeing a little more interaction under the door - but I wasn't gonna push my luck.

This past Friday, Shiloh had a vet appointment.  This would be her final scheduled follow-up visit from when they'd first seen her a month prior - when she weighed just over 7 1/2 lbs, was feverish and trying to recover from having kittens.  It was surreal the difference that just a few weeks of food, attention, and care had made.  Not only had she outgrown the kitty carrier that was less than a month old, but she managed to gain close to 4 lbs!  Her coat, eyes, whiskers and attitude have all just thrived.

Boosted by our success, when the Awesome Boyfriend came home this past Friday, I opened the door to let Shiloh join us.  I don't know that I can say we held our breath, but I know that I was far more on edge than last time we'd tried this.

Well, we've so far done alright.  There is still the occasional hissing and spitting, and Tabby clearly doesn't like how Shiloh follows her every move, but at least Tabby isn't hiding under the bed for hours at a time.  We've also learned that Shiloh doesn't understand boundaries (human OR feline) so if you don't want her to follow you into the bathroom or downstairs, you'd best close the door as soon as you can.  For the next few weeks, she'll continue to sleep alone in the office at nights, just to give us all a little peace, and we'll make sure that one of us is here when they're both roaming about but maybe, just maybe we DID find her a loving home.

So for Thanksgiving this year, I'm pretty sure that we all need to thank Tabby, for giving us a second chance.

The Wednesday Wimper, Whine and Wallow

Just because I don't tend to write, talk, whine, discuss, whimiper, dwell, or wallow on the "not so great" parts of things going on in my orbit doesn't mean I don't have any such parts.  So, in no particular order and to just get everything out in the open, here's just three of my "not so greats"...

Whimper

• The 16-year old gray cat (already crying as I write those six words) that I left in good hands is dying.  I was care-ape to this feline ... this life-line to my weak grasp on sanity ... for more than 14 years.  He got me through *e*v*e*r*y*t*h*i*n*g*.  And now I'm a country-width away and am powerless to change anything.  (Realizing that I could have him sitting on my lap and I'd still be powerless.)  So I'm here waiting for the phone call to tell me that he's passed.

Whine

• The "new" cat that the Awesome Boyfriend and I have nursed back to health will need a forever home and it can't be ours.  I'm worried that it won't matter how great, fun, good, loving, soft, and beautiful she is that it won't be easy to find.  I don't wanna fail her after all this.  (See above bullet point for the line of guilt on this.)

Wallow

• The cousin who was fighting her cancer battle when her mother and I were doing the same is back on the "not recovering" list.  I got nothing more to add to this one.  I believe the amount of suckage involved here rather goes without saying.

So yes, I'm a little less social and a lot more bitter than usual.  As with most things, I will work through all of this  (I always do) but give me a break and let me figure it out.  Don't tell me how it'll all be alright.  Don't tell me how you can relate.  Don't tell me how it'll get easier - because, honestly, this part is NEVER easy.

I just don't wanna hear it right now.  I deserve a good wallow and I at least have enough decency to wallow quietly and to myself.  I know I'm not in fit shape right now to be good company to anyone so just be thankful I have enough respect to spare the rest of humanity.  I will recover when I'm ready to do so.  I'm just not ready yet.

Just because I don't share every crappy thing that happens doesn't mean I don't have crappy things.  We all do.  These are but three of mine.

Shiloh's Battle ... The Update

Shiloh, the little kitty who could, is in full-recovery mode.  Her coat is soft and clean and she's keeping herself looking beautiful.  Her appetite is balanced - she's no longer ravenous but she eats when she's hungry and enjoys treats on a regular basis.  She's playful, *loves* her catnip toys, and even her meow has improved.  She'll have one more vet appointment (a booster shot) and we have one more bit of medication to give to her but, other than those minor details, she's a very healthy - and clearly a much happier - kitty.

The Awesome Boyfriend and I introduced Shiloh to Tabby this weekend.  I can't speak for The Awesome Boyfriend, but I figured it'd be a cold reception and just hoped that Tabby would ignore Shiloh for the most part.  Well, long story short, we gave it a try but Tabby made it clear that she enjoys being in a one-kitty home.  (It was Shiloh that was doing the ignoring, actually - she was a very gracious "guest" visitor.)  But we decided at the onset that Tabby's was the only vote that would really count, so now a different journey begins.

Shiloh's primary job will be to continue to recover and I will do my best to find her her new family.  I don't know if it will be difficult or not.  She's got so much going for her ... I'd think there's gotta be lots of families just looking for a warm, loving, quiet, well-groomed, healthy, soft bundle of fun to welcome into their homes and I can't think of cat that has earned that more than Shiloh.  I'd like to think I've helped her in her recovery thus far so hopefully I can help her just a little bit more to find her a deserving forever home.

You Can't Go Back Again

There are few (if any) things that we, as a human collective, agree upon.  In most experiences or circumstances, there are too many variables to get even a group of a dozen people to all say "yes" or "no" if asked the same question.

So the question that is in my head currently is this:  If you could relive your high school experience again, would you do so?

Responses to this question tends to let you know what that person's experience was like.  I know people who couldn't wait to get out of high school, and others who enjoyed their years so much that they look forward to reunions and thumb regularly through their yearbooks while wearing their mascot-laden sweatshirt.  I'm somewhere in the middle - I know where my yearbooks are but haven't glanced at them in years and I actively avoid reunions.  (I'm not one for establishing friendships just because time has gone by and you've forgotten what a tool you were back then because now you've found peace or whatever.  If I was close to you way back then, I'm likely still close with you now.)

I started thinking about this today when I read about a Sundance movie that was released last month about five different stories of children going through various organizational issues in their high school.  One of the individuals highlighted is a student at the school I graduated from more than two decades ago, and as I read about her frustrations, I found myself squarely on the side of ... ... ... the school.

After all, that's My high school.

I loved my high school years.  I had a great group of close friends and extended acquaintances.  I had teachers who really cared and gave the extra effort.  I had extra-curricular activities that helped me express myself as a angst-ridden teen.  I also was part of one of the smallest graduating classes that the school had ever had so it's not an exaggeration to say that we all really did know each other - some of us had gone through our entire 12 years of lower education together.

But I don't want to relive that experience again.

You see, I visited My high school the year after I'd graduated to visit a favorite teacher and quickly realized that, in just less than a year, things really HAD changed.  This wasn't the place I'd left behind at all.  Sure, I still knew most the staff and a lot of the student body, but enough had changed that I saw this wasn't the school I remembered so fondly.  Time continued to go by and the school itself grew and changed (new buildings, new teachers, etc), but each time I drove by, I would remember my years there fondly.  The school I'd graduated from had changed, but the one I'd graduated from that still lived, untouched in my head, had not.  Time has a funny way of doing stuff like that.

Strangely enough, I found myself listening to my hometown radio station (online) today and they were talking about their high school reunions.  One speaker was repelled by the whole idea of reunions and how fake they can be and the other, who had gone to the same school but in a more recent decade, was in active (Facebook) communication with all his friends and teachers and was excited to see them again soon.

I'll bet he was a tool.

The Battle of Shiloh

Sometime early last week, in the midst of feeding "white kitty", I noticed a new patron of our cat cafe.  First she was "gray kitty" and then "kinda fluffy gray kitty" and, soon enough, "wonder if she's pregnant gray kitty".  She didn't honestly look all that pregnant but, after she decided I was worthy of her trust (and her company), I could feel tiny little kitty bodies in her belly.  She was incredibly active and liked to jump to the balcony from the ground (at least 3 times her length) so I figured we had a few weeks to either figure something out for what would happen or that whomever she belonged to would notice she was too far along to keep letting her roam free.

Sure enough, when I went to do my chef duties at the cafe earlier this week, I realized that I wasn't seeing her anymore.  The Awesome Boyfriend confirmed that he wasn't seeing her either.  Two days went by and no pregnant gray kitty appeared.  "Good", I said to myself, "she's being taken care of and soon will be a mother.  How sweet.  I'm glad I could help out while she was outside."

While I was getting routine errands done around town, I stumbled across a sale of small warm blankets and purchased two of them, figuring that at some point this winter, maybe a make-shift den would be appreciated at the cafe and I'd use these to soften it up and provide a little warmth.

On Friday, I was in the living room and glanced out the side window ... and there, very slowly and pretty unsteadily walking towards our home, was no-longer-pregnant gray kitty.

And so the battle began.

Since Shiloh, as we've decided to call her, found us once again, we've slowly (and very cautiously) started to become a family ... humans and cat.  We, of course, already have a terrific feline to attend to and, over time, it will be up to the primary cat if we extend our pet count to two.

What we do know is that Shiloh is horribly under weight, tremendously tolerant of humans, and a little overwhelmed by the amount of change she's experienced in the past 48 hours.  We managed to find someone to take care of her surviving kittens (which Shiloh was too malnourished to care for), and she's been to her first vet appointment so that we could get her fever under control and have her tested for any issues, which save for dehydration, seem to be few.  In the short time she's been allowing us to care for her, she's already showing dramatic improvement and we hope she continues to let her body recover.

So, to whomever is reading this, allow me the pleasure of introducing Shiloh.

She's still fighting her battle (so she's not looking all that happy here), but we're fighting right along side of her and doing all we can to give her what she needs to not just survive but to really recover.

We hope she does.

Positive Energy

You know at least one person like this.  The "every cloud has a silver lining" person.  The "always look on the bright side, never let 'em get you down, tomorrow is another day, every closed door has an open window, the sun will come out tomorrow" type.  The seemingly always happy person.

They probably annoy you.  Even though they aren't causing you any actual harm, there are days when you'd REALLLLY like to tell them to get real.

How do I know this?  I am that person.

Which is *not* to say that I'm not moody.  I have my very dark days, too - TRUST me on this.  But those days are the exception.  I've noticed as I get older that I'm far more inclined to find the good in things.

Did your car breakdown?  At least it happened during the day.
Didn't get the news you wanted from your dentist?  Well now you can prepare for what's ahead of you.
Got passed up for that job?  Start on Plan B and I'll bet ya' the phone will ring with good news soon.

Yesterday, someone I don't know really rained all over my spirits.  If I weren't flu-ish and had a more focused brain, I woulda asked them who had peed on their cereal.

So - on behalf of all of us perpetually "things aren't so bad" people - let me ask a favor.  When you meet us, when we show you our personality, when you see that we're acting on a good impulse, try not to crush us with all your doom and gloom.

We KNOW the reality.  We realize how the real world works.  Crap happens.  Horrible stuff occurs every day to every one.  Even us.  We're just trying to get through as best we know how, and sometimes being positive takes all the energy we have.

So, if you have nothing positive to contribute, kindly shut the fuck up and just have a nice day.

Whoa, White Kitty (Bam-ba-lam)

Over the past several months, the Awesome Boyfriend and I have noticed a fully-grown, perfectly snow white cat hanging around.  She ... no, we don't KNOW if the cat is a "she" but that's how we refer to her ... it ... the cat.) Anyway she seems to live under the neighbors stairs, and finds shelter at the base of a HUGE pine tree in the front yard.  She is very, very timid, 'tho I don't think she's completely wild.  She likes to hunt in the backyard, and because of her coat, we can see her in the very dark nightfall, bounding about among the leaves and whatnot.

Tabby, our cat, sees her from time to time, too.  We know this because she'll bound from sitting on the back of the sofa in the living room to sitting on the trash container in our kitchen, and when I try to relax her and remind her that she's the queen of this household, she'll grumble at me.  Tabby knows.  She realizes that I'm a sucker for animals.  Especially animals who have lost their faith in human-kind.  She sees me leave with another can of food, or the container of dry cat food that we shake to get her attention, and Tabby realizes that I won't be satisfied with just feeding this interloper.

It'll start that way, 'tho.  It already has.  I feed "white kitty" (we haven't found the right name yet) at least twice a day.  Sometimes I just walk over and give her fresh water, and a lot of times I just wanna see if she's around.  It's a very slow process, trying to gain an animals trust.  You can't make sudden movements or loud noises.  You can't push your way in - you need to be invited.

But today was a milestone morning.  I couldn't get back to sleep after the Awesome Boyfriend left for work, so I started my day earlier than usual.  It was still dark when I went to the coffee shop, and I didn't want to startle "white kitty" if she was sleeping on the porch, so I decided to feed her when I got back.

It was lighter out when I returned, so I started off with the container of crunchies towards the porch.  "White kitty" was sitting on the railing, and when I shook the container to get her attention, she looked right at me.  I said good morning in a low voice and slowed my pace, to allow her time to hide under the stairs, as she typically does.

I dropped a few crunchies at the stairs, left a small pile on top of the table, another small pile on the railing where she'd just been, and refilled her container near the front door.  And then I sat down on the bench on the corner of the porch.

She peaked out from the stairs and I told her that I wasn't gonna try anything stupid.  She very hesitantly (but quickly) ate up the kibble on the stairs, and then looked at me as if to say "I'm trusting you here - don't blow it", and very very hesitantly she moved towards her bowl.  Which wasn't all that far away from my feet.

I didn't make eye contact with her - I wanted her to feel like she was undetected - and she started eating.  We sat there for a while, maybe 10 minutes or so, during which she'd eat for a bit, and then sneak a glance at me, and then she'd return to eating.

Anyway, it was a major victory for us both.  I respected her boundaries and she gave me a shot at being trusted.

Tabby has nothing to worry about.  It will be at least a few seasons - if ever - before I'm allowed to pet "white kitty", let alone asking her if she wants to come indoors.  But we both made progress today.

**********

(Thanks to the Awesome Boyfriend for the title of today's babble.  It's what he says whenever I say anything about "white kitty".)

Pearls of Wisdom

I'll bet that we've all heard a lot of apologies that ... aren't.

Someone saying "I'm sorry you're upset" - for instance - isn't the "offender" apologizing for said "offense".  No no - they're apologizing at the offended's low tolerance level for whatever they found so ... offensive ... in the first place.  Kinda like saying "I'm sorry you're upset that I wrecked your car" isn't the same as saying "I'm sorry I wrecked your car".

And I got to thinking about all this today after I read (and giggled over) the following:



I'm sorry if you found this strip offensive.

Whoops!

So I was gonna write about being accident prone.  How, as a child, I had a habit of getting myself into situations where I was destined to be injured and that now, as an adult, I have a propensity of cutting corners too sharply, scraping my shins while exiting from vehicles, and conking myself on the head when I know damn well to duck in that part of the basement.

Yes, yes I was gonna write about that.

So we'd had dinner and were relaxing in the living room.  We were enjoying a bit of downtime when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the cat had wandered into the space between the sofa and the wall, next to where The Awesome Boyfriend was seated.  She has been known to sit there, under the side-table at times, so this wasn't a new maneuver for her.  After a few minutes, The Awesome Boyfriend turned to me and said "hey - is the cat behind us?"

Thus began a 20-minute stress-filled, furniture moving exercise whereby we needed to figure out how our feline had climbed up into our couch and, far more importantly, how we were going to assist in her removal from it.  It wasn't until we started to urgently call for her, shine flashlights underneath the couch, and move it into the middle of the room that she started to meow rather strongly, probably more reacting to our increasing nervousness than any discomfort she was feeling.

Anyway so yes - I was going to write about my being a klutz but had to set that aside because our couch was trying to eat our cat.

It's nice to know that it runs in the family.
**********
(Follow Up:  The feline in question is perfectly fine and is blissfully slumbering in her bed, having chomped down on the large handful of treats she received after FINALLY emerging from our couch.  We, on the other hand, are still recovering from the stress, worry, and immediate response needed to ensure her safe extraction from what is clearly a cat-eating sofa.)

Gesundheit!

The Awesome Boyfriend and I were getting errands done recently and I felt a sneeze coming on.  Trouble was that it was taking its sweet time - as in minutes ... plural.  It was uncomfortable and odd, waiting for a sneeze that was gonna come, but hadn't yet.

I told the Awesome Boyfriend and he opened up the sunroof, pointing out that sunshine tends to make one sneeze and, sure enough, a few short seconds later, he sneezed.

And the REALLY weird part?  My sneeze went away.

... and counting.

While it's true that nothing has gone as planned (good or bad), I'm honored to have experienced it.

Privately Public

As promised from my last post, I'd like to address and further define a couple of words that I think have started to lose their meaning. In this, the very-digital age, where everything (and I do mean EVERYTHING) can be found online, it may be hard to remember how to categorize certain things. Why is categorization important? It brings order. It brings understanding.

In an effort to further my own understanding, I've decided to clarify the two words (and opposites) "public" and "private", and I'll include four points of definition.

Public. (Adjective) (1)Exposed to general view. (2)Well-known. (3)Prominent. (4)Perceptible.

Hmmm. Already I see a conflict - again, because of the digital-age. Something that is "exposed to general view" or "perceptible" may not be "well-known" or "prominent". Examples? There are individuals in the various entertainment industries (who, by virtue of their career path, are "exposed to general view") that have lives outside of their career that are not "prominent" or, even all that "perceptible". And as for "well-known", in the example I've given, that'd be more like "rumor", I suppose.

So already we have a contradiction problem. Drat. Let's step away and move to the other word.

Private. (Adjective) (1)Intended for or restricted to the use of a particular person, group, or class. (2)Belonging to or concerning an individual person, company, or interest. (3)Not known or intended to be known publicly. (4)Preferring to keep personal affairs to oneself.

Ok now we're achieving clarity! No fuzziness here ... but let's make sure by using my above-given example. This fictional entertainer could, in fact, be in the public eye but still have a private life. But only (and this is important) if that privacy is RESPECTED by the individuals who are not in the group or class where said private information was divulged.

Ahhhhhh ... there's the problem! The general population, other groups of individuals, family, friends, passing acquaintances and sometimes people that have not even met the subject in question - the PUBLIC - sometimes feels as though they are somehow owed access to a person's PRIVATE life.

And that respect is even harder to come by in this day of being able to find out damn near every detail of anything just by typing in a few terms to search by. How else would we know that Joanne Kathleen Rowling is better known as the author who writes under "J. K. Rowling"? That actor Tom Cruise is 5' 7"? That Mariah Carey was worth $225 Million in 2009? Heck - easy. We just type in a few key words and *bing* we get our answers. Ergo, one may assume that information that is found through electronic (or other) research is clearly public knowledge because, to use the definition, it is "exposed to general view".

But do we feel that we're owed that information, because we've done the research? Hmmm ... that's a slippery slope. It's one thing when the information is fairly harmless (one can estimate from photographs how tall Mr. Cruise is ... and from interviews she has given, Ms. Rowling herself has explained her initials and her reasons behind using them ... and tax records would show the 2009 income of Ms. Carey) but just because that information can be found, it is not all that "prominent" or, in many cases, all that "perceptible". It was discovered (verb - "to make known, to find out, uncovered"). Side-note ... the opposite of uncovered? Covered. 'Nuf said.

This issue becomes even murkier when dealing with a person who is not in the spotlight, such as a family member, a friend, a co-worker, or an acquaintance. Sometimes people who fall into that collective group feel that they ARE, in fact, owed such information. I know, for instance, that I could easily discover the cost of the home an acquaintance purchased, the current career path my ex-coworker is pursuing, the legal struggles that my cousin is going through, or the operating system, IP address, location, date, and time of every single person who ever reads this.

But just because I can find this information, just because this data is either part of public record, or word of mouth through family channels, or electronic search methods doesn't mean that the acquaintance, my ex-co-worker, my cousin, or you WANT me knowing these details of your private life. And I respect that.

For now.

Publically Private

*deep breath*

So here's the thing: There are public places, like shopping centers, and private places, like businesses. Public places need to be accessible to (duh) the public. No one is denying that. Private places can (but don't have to) allow the public "inside the doors" - if they desire.

What happens when these public places and these private places are under one security umbrella?

Example: When I worked at a Fortune 25 company, many years before the tragedy of 9/11, your vehicle was photographed as you parked in the company-provided parking structures. You were greeted at the front desk (even if it was just a nod and a wave) and that was as far as you could go without either a company escort or an employee badge. You couldn't access the elevators, the cafeterias, the bathrooms or even the back door exits into the campus without a badge or someone who had a badge.

Keep in mind that this was not a "private" company, in that they were publicly traded ... but they WERE private as far as their security was concerned. Now it's also true that if one was friendly with the receptionist staff and one had said, in advance, something like "my parents are coming to visit today and they want to meet me for lunch. Can you let them into the cafe in the forth building and tell them I'll be a few minutes late?" that it wouldn't be a big issue, but even so - for the most part, no badge, no entry.

*another deep breath*

I visited the Awesome Boyfriend at work recently. He works in one of those types of public/private facilities. I parked about a mile away and boarded a company-funded bus, where I was driven to the center where several buildings meet. This was shortly before Noon, and there were a total of four people on this bus, including me. The driver and the other two passengers had badges on lanyards draped around their necks. I did not. No one blinked at this at all, and as I exited the bus, I was wished a good day.

I opened my notebook to recall the instructions the Awesome Boyfriend had written as to which building I was to go to and, after refreshing my memory, I walked past the guard shack, where I noticed an individual wearing earbuds and reading a newspaper. This person never looked up at me, never saw me walk past, and likely wouldn't have heard me if I'd asked a question. I may have taken note of them but I saw no indication they took note of me.

I walked to the correct building - there were several to choose from, entered through the doorway, and saw the elevator bank. I pressed the button, got onto the elevator (alone), and exited a few floors up, where I'd been told (by the Awesome Boyfriend) a cafe would be. I walked to a small cluster of chairs outside the cafe area, checked my messages and let the Awesome Boyfriend know I'd arrived, and then entered the cafe. I set down my purse and notebook on a nearby table, strolled over to the cash register area, and purchased a cookie and a beverage, using cash. I returned to my table and nibbled at my cookie while reading from my notebook. I sat alone for about 20 minutes, then caught up with the Awesome Boyfriend who dropped by for about 10 minutes. After he departed, I continued to sit alone for about 30 minutes.

At the appropriate time, I got up from my table, gathered my items, and decided to freshen up in the restroom. As I had time before my meeting, I brushed my teeth and my hair and, since it was warm outside, cooled down with a paper towel dampened with water. Afterwards, I again gathered my belongings, got back into the elevators (this time it was not empty), pressed the appropriate button and exited at the correct floor.

I found my meeting location (where no one asked me if I had any difficulty in getting there - or where I'd parked) and had my meeting. Of the four individuals I was meeting with, only one had ever met me before. When the discussion was concluded, I left the room, exited into the hallway alone (since no one offered to escort me) and got onto the elevators. I'd decided to refresh myself with another cool paper towel and got off on the "cafe" floor, and revisited that same restroom. I returned to the elevator bank, got onto a fairly crowded elevator, and exited on the ground floor.

I left the building, walked past the guard shack (where a guard was having a sports-related discussion with someone standing outside the window), and waited for a bus - which arrived after about 8 minutes. I boarded, with about 7 other folks, most of which were still wearing their badges, and we were returned to the parking lot. I paid my parking fee (in cash), got into my vehicle, and drove away.

As far as that time period went, one would be hard-pressed to prove I'd ever been there at all.

Yes, it's possible that there are cameras in the halls, parking lots and elevators, but those don't prevent access .... they just identify who has done the accessing. I had every right to be in the building at the appropriate time, but I honestly had no business using the company-provided bus, or the cafe, or even exiting on any other floor but the one my meeting was on.

And yesterday, some terrible things happened at this facility. Not in the building where I'd been, but in a building where the same "security" procedures are (supposedly) in place. Do I want to tell someone how flawed their "security" is? Absolutely I do. I wouldn't know where to start, and don't mean to frighten anyone but I'm not exactly stealthy and I wasn't try to be invisible or secretive. I just strolled around that facility looking like I knew what I was doing and no one ever asked me if I did. It was easy.

In fact, it was too easy. It shouldn't be that easy. More importantly, we - the post 9/11 public - can't afford for it to be that easy.

As for the whole "going places where people have no business being" topic, I'll save that for another day.

A Place For My Stuff

The Awesome Boyfriend and I have taken to watching "American Pickers" on The History Channel. It's pretty entertaining as we, the viewing audience, are introduced to folks and neighborhoods and sheds and buildings as the two main hosts wade through piles and piles of "stuff" looking for things they can sell or restore or add to THEIR collections.

There are various shows like this - "Pawn Stars" springs to mind, as does "Antique Road Show" - but this one is different in that we see the owners of said "stuff" in their own environment. Sometimes it's a very neat, very orderly collection (which the hosts don't tend to enjoy much because the chances for buying things from a neat collection tends to be slim) but more often than not, it's the back building with the door that doesn't quite really open and the lock that rusted off during that snowstorm in '73 and, when the camera is finally able to get through, it looks like what it is ... a bunch of crap that was maybe at one time a treasured collection that has since gone neglected.

Which, in a strange route of thinking, lead me to think of this space. I use this space for a number of things but, first and foremost, it's entertainment for me. That's why there are music videos and pictures of cats and memories of cars and stories of dogs and descriptions of food and random news stories ... and that's just what I've hit the "Publish Post" button on. In the "Drafts" area, I have dribs and drabs, rants and ravings, stories half-written and memories semi-described ... all sitting waiting to be discarded or finished.

And, like those folks we meet in "American Pickers", I'm faced with the question of "why don't you finish this or discard it now?" Sometimes it's in draft stage because the topic isn't fully-formed in my head, sometimes the stuff I've written isn't clear enough as I re-read it to make much sense, sometimes the appropriate moment has passed, and a lot of times I just wanted to write it out so that I didn't have to think on it anymore. (That last one tends to be mostly of the "rant" category.)

I think that a lot of the population does something like this, either with ideas or memories or lessons learned or actual, physical things. We hold onto those pieces ... to our "stuff" ... because we're not done with our collection yet, in one way or another. And, at some point, there will be a time, a place, a person, or an event that lets us know we need to decide if we're keeping it or letting it go.

Watch & tell me ya' don't "awww"

Just saw this ad while watching the football and I really liked it. I like the message, I like the graphics, and I liked how the story unfolds.

Fabulousness Made Deliciously

While I typically make jam alone, in July, and in a few basic flavors, it's safe to say that this has - in so many wonderful, tragic, stretching, learning, loving ways - NOT been a typical year. So it makes sense that I made jam in August, with The Awesome Boyfriend, in 12 mostly new and vastly different flavors.

I had no intentions of making jam this year. For one thing, I didn't need another distraction to take away from the things I really SHOULD be doing. Also, it's never clean or neat. And ... finally ... it's ALWAAAAYS expensive. It's true ... next time you're in a grocery store and you find yourself rolling your eyes at the price tag associated with that "high-end" jam concoction, stop and consider: the cost of sugar, the cost - and time limitations - of large quantities of good fruit, the cost of containers, and my word the cost of the TIME it takes to go from "nice strawberries ... we should do something with them" to "good heavens, would you just look at the deep red color inside that jar of tastiness?" Honestly, I don't think anyone who has never made jam ... seriously made jam (as in "more than three batches in a day") ... has a clue as to how expensive a project it can be.

And then there's the distribution aspect of it. After all, now you have a large quantity of awesome flavors that you wanna share with friends and family, right? So you go to the office supply store and buy two ginormous rolls of bubble wrap, packing tape, some boxes (when using the USPS boxes aren't the cheapest option), and you spend time picking out which flavors go to which person, and you wrap and label and tape and ship and pretty soon, you're easily into this fun little hobby for (no fooling here, folks) about $500. Easily.

I've never charged for my jam. Ever. I've accepted just ONE order ... from a co-worker who was making boutique-style baskets for her Christmas list ... and it honestly took all the fun out of it for me. This is a hobby. A fun little tradition. For it to be a money-maker, I'd have to charge about $12 per half-pint and I just can't bring myself to do that.

So what do I ... and now we ... get outta this deal? Well, there's knowing that we can make different flavors next year and bring back the ones we really liked making this year. There's randomly surprising our friends and family with occasional jars of yumminess. There's the satisfaction of shelving 107 jars of jam that was made over a four-day period and using it throughout the coming year in various delicious ways. And there's also the kinda cool feeling of knowing that the jams we made have been shared with - and hopefully enjoyed in -16 homes (thus far) in 9 states throughout the US.

And you know something? That "knowing we done good and shared with other people" part? Well, while making jam may be costly, that last part is just priceless.

The Angry Dream

So I had this dream last night, and it made me angry. Which is strange - I mean, I think it was strange that my subconscious made me angry anyway. Maybe it's not so uncommon for others, but it seemed weird to me.

In this dream, I was in a hotel room. The check-out time was 10am, and it was about 9:30am. There was a dining room table - an oval one - near the door to exit the room, and it had six chairs seated around it. There was (oddly enough) another door on an adjoining wall (where the couch was) that appeared to also be an exit.

I was in the process of gathering my things. I don't know what I'd been there for, but there seemed to be a lot of computer-type bags that I was packing. And then, without warning or even a knock, the door next to the table opened and hotel workers walked in and started to replace a trash can.

I looked at them blankly and said "I have the room until 10am - and you could have knocked, yanno." They apologized, and left. I continued to pack, a little more rapidly than before, and suddenly there were workers in both doors, coming through with new furniture and whatnot and I gathered that my room was some part of a renovation.

I started to yell. I cursed ... loudly. There was a camera crew (???) filming the new and improved room and I took the camera and threw it into the newly-installed flat screen TV and I remember too that I picked up the woman behind the camera and physically removed her - not so kindly - out of the hotel room. "Stop it!" I was screaming. "Don't you understand how incredibly rude you're all being?"

I got on the phone, called the front desk, and asked for the hotel General Manager. I was asked if there was a problem, and I believe I responded with something like "you bet your ass there's a problem". I went off, and went between apologizing for screeching at the front desk attendant who was only doing their job to demanding security to keep people from entering my room.

The problem with dreams is that you don't get to decide when to awaken from them. This dream was "loud" enough, apparently, that it woke me up. The Awesome Boyfriend was stirring slightly so I mumbled "what time is it?" and he said it was about 6am.

It's now almost 12 hours later and I'm still a little miffed at ... well see, that's the part that is difficult. How can you be angry about something that occurred only in your head?

Tradition!

(and now you have "Fiddler On The Roof" playing in your head)

I come from a family of few traditions. Oh sure - there's the traditional Ramos Fizz on Easter Sunday before service, Black Russians on Christmas Eve, Champagne if it is on sale ... hmmm, quite a few alcohol-based traditions there. *shrug* What can I say - my family of few traditions IS, after all, Irish.

There is one tradition that is just for my mother and I. Entertainment Awards Shows. The real ones, 'tho - not the "best same-sex kiss in worst teenage movie" ones. I'm talking Oscar and his gal-pal Emmy.

I used to see a LOT of movies when I was in my teens and twenties. It was good entertainment, it was fairly inexpensive at just $5.50 for the latest blockbuster, and it was something that I really enjoyed doing. I know a lot of folks go to the movies to escape or to avoid doing something else - but I really liked just being entertained for a few hours. NOW when ya' go, it's about a $40 payment, the multiplex has paper-thin walls so you get to hear all the other movies around you, parking is impossible and if you haven't seen the previous four movies that this one follow and haven't bothered to read the book, the interviews, aren't reading the tweets and haven't "friended" the movie crew, screw it - you'd never understand the plot here either.

My movie-going came to a trickle for a lot of years, when there was no one would could go to the movies with me. (This is what happens when everyone you're friends with starts having a family.) So my mother and I started going together. We'd typically see either the latest Harry Potter (which, in fairness, we HAD read) or something fun and weightless - aka "the chick flick". Plus - as a bonus to seeing the current releases, we'd have someone to root for during the Oscar broadcast.

Ahhhh the Oscars. We'd been watching it together for yeaaaars ... long before Joan Rivers' kid was broadcasting. We'd discuss the dresses, the dates, the teases, the bad sketches, the host - oh, and the winners and losers. It was great fun.

When the movie-going slowed down, the show to watch became the Emmys. It was easier to watch the Emmys and to root for people because you didn't have to remember back in March which God-awful movie Ben Affleck had been in. These folks on TV - on the shows we'd watch - came into our homes each week. If the series was REALLY good, I'd even have the DVDs of the seasons - so yeah, watching the Emmys worked really well.

Tonight I was startled to see something about "2010 Emmy Fashion" online. I guess it had escaped my attention that the broadcast was tonight. I've already called my folks once today so I don't want to bother them with a stupid call to say "hey Mom - Emmy's are tonight". But watching them together was what we did. And since last years ceremony was broadcast in mid-September, I guess this is the first year we really won't watch and comment to each other.

It's a tradition I will miss.

(I still can't believe that Johnny Galecki isn't nominated. Jim Parsons had BETTER win.)

Let Us Call This Entry "Karma"

Since I was in my early 20s, I've believed in Karma. I may not have always known what to call it, and I didn't always practice in trying to balance my own karma but, for lack of a better word, I have honestly believed in doing what was right. Sometimes I did what was right to my own detriment, sometimes against my better judgement, and occasionally I did it very begrudgingly ... but still, I endeavored to at least TRY to do right.

I didn't always do what was right quietly, which I believe - for me anyway - should be part of the equation. Things that are done for the best intentions get tarnished when noise is made while doing them. And, yes, it's possible that the person doing "right" may be unfairly judged as being boastful or proud when, in fact, that could not be the case. When I was younger, I'm not ashamed to admit that I sometimes enjoyed the attention that came with doing right. I never once looked for that recognition, but I never walked away from it, either. I know now - for me anyway - that pride has no place in doing the right thing.

Like most folks walking this planet, I have had quite a few people - some who knew me, some who never met me - pass judgement on my "karma-driven" actions. And, like most folks walking this planet, I know I have passed judgement on others for their "karma-driven" actions, too. Damn that whole "being human" thing!

So it is because of all of what I've just written that I find myself in a state of confusion. If someone does something that is, in polite society, unseemly, should that person be surprised if karma smacks them around a little bit? What about if that person does something unseemly time and again ... are they still entitled to attention and/or support when things go badly for them? At what point does the individual providing sympathy sit down and say "yanno, Albert Einstein famously said that the very definition of 'insanity' was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results". In other words, when is it alright to wipe your hands of a highly-probable mess in the making and walk away?

I have known some people who only learn from their mistakes. I mean that they EXCLUSIVELY learn from just their foul-ups ... nothing else counts. It is difficult to not feel a little smug ... self-righteous ... or at least sing a verse of "I told you so" to yourself when the wheels fall from their cart. In the German language, they go beyond "smug" and call this sensation "Schadenfreude" - pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. There is a whole huge industry built on this feeling and, if you think I'm wrong, then you've obviously never read a tabloid-magazine in your life.

Typically I try to wrap things up by this point, but I'm still chewing on the turmoil in my gut. I have empathy for people when things go wrong, and I have sadness when I realize that others are experiencing pain, loss, disappointment ... but the question still nags: "How did you not realize this was going to go badly?"

The trick, I think, is to realize that it is not my place to comment, not my judgement to make, and not my karma to deliver.

I'll Take "Movies About Driving" for $300 please, Alex.

So I was leaving my coffee shop today and heading back home. The shop is located in a strip-mall-ish kinda gigantic parking lot. The exit to the coffee shop is a left turn that is directly opposite parking for home improvement store, and after that left turn, there is a stop sign.

This stop sign is for folks driving around the parking lot. There is not a stop sign for the drivers that have just come off from the main road so cross-traffic DOES need to stop while the "fresh off the road" traffic does not. However I've noticed that nine times in ten, traffic in both directions does seem to stop and break down into a "I'm waiving you to go ahead", "No, I'm waiving YOU to go" sort of a battle.

Anyway as I said, I was leaving my coffee shop. I came to that stop sign and there was no one at the intersection. I started to shift Jake into first gear when I noticed a large white pickup truck coming in from off the main road. So I stopped because *duh* I legally am required to do so and also because while I could have gone sprinting across the front of this truck safely, I wasn't in a hurry. It was then that the truck turned his right blinker on, so I waited a moment to make sure that he was, in fact, turning and not going straight in front of me and then started to proceed through the intersection.

Brakes were slammed on immediately. The pick up, it seemed, had decided to not turn after all, but had neglected to turn off signal. The passenger in the pickup, a man who appeared to be in his 50s or so, rolled down his window and proceeded to tell me that I was a "stupid bitch who had no business being behind the wheel" and how women shouldn't be allowed to drive and that I was in the wrong because, after all, I had a stop sign and they didn't.

While this individual was yelling at me, I could see the driver trying to tell his passenger that he'd forgotten to turn off his blinker but the guy was in full rage mode so there was nothing to do but let him rant. The whole thing was an event that took less than half a minute, and they drove off (going straight) with the passenger giving me a hearty one-fingered salute. I rolled my eyes when I saw the bumper sticker on the truck: Passengers should sit down, strap in, shut up, and hang on. How appropriate.

I collected myself for a moment, and started to drive away, shaking my head at being yelled at for a mistake that was not mine when I noticed that Jake was now turning right. I don't actively remember thinking "that's not right and it's not fair and I'm gonna address this" ... but apparently I had decided to not just laugh it off.

By now, these two individuals had parked their vehicle and were exiting the truck so I pulled up in front of it and, in a calm and measured voice, I said "Yanno, I realize that you had the right of way. I've been at that intersection every day for the past 11 months and I know the traffic pattern there. But what you failed to see, Ricky Bobby, was that your buddy behind the wheel there had turned on his right blinker so I guess, me being a 'stupid bitch' and all, I actually expected him to turn right."

The up-till-now quiet driver turned to his passenger and said "See, I was trying to tell you that, Jason. She's right - I thought we were going to the loading dock so I had my right blinker on."

The passenger - Jason - turned to me and said "Oh wow. I'm sorry about that. Geez, I guess I didn't know ..." but I wasn't having any of it. "Of course you didn't know because you weren't behind the wheel. So, Jason, maybe you should just shut your damn mouth and leave the driving to actual drivers, like your bumper sticker says. Oh, and one more thing - giving me the finger?" Jason was now looking down at his feet, and I could see I'd made my point and may be starting to push my luck. "I'm willing to be 'a stupid bitch' but I am classier than resorting to that and THAT'S probably why women are allowed to drive, to keep the balance for little boys like you. Now you two have a nice day, alright?" With that, I once again put Jake into first gear and drove back to the stop sign, turned my blinker on and waved - with all my fingers, not just one - as I left.

And as I write this sitting safely at home, something occurs to me. I've never even SEEN "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby".

Comin' Around Again

In all the ways that I am very typically Irish, there is one “typical Irish” trait I do not seem to possess ... I do not seethe. Which is not to say that I don’t fume (or whatever similar word you’d plug in here) when I’m upset. I just don’t pout for hours on end. I don’t chew endlessly on my anger like a wad of gum. I don’t see the need. It’d serve no purpose, it’d take energy and honestly, dwelling on being angry doesn’t CHANGE whatever it is that angered you in the first place. I get mad, I allow myself to vent however necessary, and I recover.

I can honestly say that this lack of never-ending rage is true of all the disappointments and letdowns and double-crosses I’ve experienced in life thus far (and friends, trust me when I say that there have been some real doozies). However, like a lot of “rules”, there is an exception.

My “hot” button gets pushed with one topic – something I’ve tried (and failed) to chill out about for five years now. A discussion where I cannot see both sides, I cannot see the truth in opposing points of view, I cannot tolerate … and do not tolerate … those who pontificate and sermonize with answers now that they have had half a decade to research and study and learn about a situation that they were never in, never experienced for themselves, and never responded to in any way.

I’m referring to August 29th, 2005. The day that Hurricane Katrina made landfall. And I realize that I am guilty of being too close to this topic to discuss it without being biased. I accept that, and I agree that I am VERY biased about Katrina and what the Gulf Coast experienced.

It has been five years.

I still cannot think about that place, those people, their homes, the neighborhoods, and their history without getting emotional. The thing I’ve noticed is that I’m no longer angry about the topic, but I realize that I will always be passionate about it. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think that having passion for something … caring about something so deeply that discussing it moves you, brings you joy, makes you think, or just gives you pause for a moment for you to catch your breath or wipe your eyes … that kind of passion is what helps form us as individuals.

As the 29th looms closer and the various news and media outlets revisit Hurricane Katrina, I may or may not watch their shows or read their headlines, but I have my own story to recall and revisit. I do not seethe, but I will remember.

There's A Name For My Pain

I get migraines.

I started getting them in my 20s, actually, but whenever I complained of having a really bad headache, my well-intentioned friends and family would say things like "every headache is bad" or "you just have a low tolerance for pain" (completely untrue), or "that's not a headache, that's a hangover" (occasionally true).

After doing a little research on what a migraine is, and knowing that a large population of migraine sufferers are women and that it can be an inherited problem, I asked my mother if she'd ever had one. She had not, and as far as she knew, no one in her family ever had one, either. I got the same answer from my father, along with "well, maybe your aunts get them but they're both nuts, too so let's hope you didn't inherit ANYTHING from them, ok?" They were not exactly helpful, but probably accurate, responses.

I started keeping a record of when my migraines would settle in, how long they lasted, and any other notes I could make. I had already changed my diet as much as possible, including the very difficult decision to completely cut out caffeine. Also, I had already recognized a pattern of what kind of pain it was ... located in the front right part of my head above my eye socket that would also block half of my nasal passage, it was a constant pressure sort of an ache, not a pulsating one. Semi-sensitive to light and very sensitive to noise, I'd apply an ice pack (or, in the early years, a frozen bag of peas) to my forehead and just concentrate on not worrying about the pain. I couldn't read, and would have trouble keeping a train of thought or carry on a conversation. My taste buds would be off and things would taste sour or bland in my mouth. I'd get muddled in my head ... starting something as basic as brushing my teeth and stopping after putting toothpaste on my brush. I'd look in the mirror and notice my eyes were bloodshot so I'd add some eye drops and go sit down. And then I'd realize I hadn't brushed my teeth and try to start all over again.

The ache would come in waves, too. For a few hours, I was inhuman and unfit to do anything. And then I'd get about 40 "good" minutes. I could still feel the pain - but I was able to be well enough to make food, draw a bath, get my mail, and MAYBE drive ('tho only for a short distance). I knew the "good" time would come to a close so I made sure to be as organized as possible and to use that time wisely.

Years passed and - honestly - I just lived with it. 2003 was the deal-breaker, though. In 2003, I had a total of 25 migraine-laden days. October alone was responsible for 5 of those days. I had reached my limit.

With my family history and my "migraine diary" with me, I finally made a doctor's appointment. I saw the doctor, showed her my records, and said that this had become a quality of life issue for me. She reviewed the symptoms, discussed the pain, and came to the same conclusion I had already decided upon myself - yes, they were for sure migraines; yes, they were mostly cyclical to my body clock; yes, they were known as "cluster" migraines (which explained why I would have waves of pain followed by minutes of clarity); and yes, they were nearly unavoidable. The good news is that she thought they COULD be managed.

After a few different attempts at various medications, we settled upon a two-prong approach. I'd take a daily blood-thinner (even though I have low blood pressure already) to allow for better blood flow throughout my body and, when a migraine would occur, I'd take a self-dissolving mint-flavored pill, apply my cold pack, and wait for it to pass. For several years, this worked wonders. I'd even allowed myself to have the occasional glass of red wine - after avoiding it for a time because of migraine-inducing sulfites - and it was as 'tho I'd been given a second chance at life. Even when a migraine did occur (and they did, from time to time), they weren't the multiple-day long types I'd been having and the secondary medication seemed to tame them quickly. In 2005, for instance, I had just two days of migraines. In 2006, I had no migraine days at all. In the entire year. It was nothing short of shocking.

But the body evolves and adjusts. In 2009, I had 5 total days of migraines. This year has seen 5 days, too, and I'll likely have more before the year is up. I'm not being gloomy about that - for me, I see it as a high possibility and probable fact.

But yesterday ... yesterday actually scared me. The migraine I had yesterday was the grand-daddy of them all.

It started first thing in the morning. (Well, really during my sleep on Friday, but I digress.) I had a dry mouth, a stuffy nose and it felt like my brain was on fire. The Awesome Boyfriend came in with a cold pack ... as he'd do about 10 times throughout the day. The cat wouldn't leave my side and her constant purring was a comfort - the only constant sound that I could really tolerate. Breathing hurt. Turning over in bed was an effort. Getting to an upright position was about a ten minute ordeal. My eyes wouldn't open for long periods of time and I know that I wasn't communicating very well. When the Awesome Boyfriend asked if he should run to the coffee shop for my usual order, I could barely focus long enough to tell him not to bother. When he later asked if I wanted lunch, I mumbled something but I don't think it was an actual cohesive idea. I felt like I had experienced a stroke followed by my head being deep-fried. My skull felt blistered. I kept touching my forehead where the pain was centered to make sure it wasn't bulging.

I knew that I should take one of my migraine pills but eating something - even something that would help ease the pain - made me queasy. I lamented staying in bed on such a beautiful weekend day, but I knew that I was deep in the throes of a serious head-buster and there was nothing I could do but ride it out. I finally ate some fruit snacks - slowly - around 1pm - but couldn't even eat one small snack-sized bag of them and bit off tiny pieces of each one, letting it dissolve slowly in my mouth before swallowing, and made sure that I was keeping that bite down before taking another small nibble.

At 3pm, the Awesome Boyfriend suggested scrambled eggs and some toast and I decided to try to eat. I managed to slowly sit up, trudge to the couch (half-naked, as I couldn't imagine the amount of energy it would have taken to try to get dressed), wrapped myself in a blanket (on an 80-degree day) and got down a single scrambled egg and a slice of buttered toast.

At 6:40pm, the Awesome Boyfriend more strongly suggested I take a pill and, having successfully kept down the eggs, I finally acquiesced. I even managed to eat a few bites of dinner but, most happily, I had an appetite for the brown butter chocolate chip cookies he worked on all day. (I ate one. It was incredible ... even for my still slightly wonky taste buds.)

For anyone reading this who doesn't have experience with migraine headaches, all of this may sound rather exaggerated. And I could see where some would think that my tolerance for pain is, perhaps, not as high as it could be. If that's your opinion, you are of course very entitled to it. However I know that I am, if anything, UNDER-stating how much physical pain is involved with a migraine. I wouldn't wish a migraine on anyone. When in the clutches of a migraine, I dream of scooping out my eyeballs to ease the pressure. My long hair feels like the roots are embedding themselves deep into my brain and I consider cutting it all off, in case that will stop the ache. Honestly, if I didn't know that there were options to stop the pain, I could see where having migraines would cause a person to lose hope of experiencing good health again. As it was, I did have a light crying jag while trying to get myself together before eating dinner, even as I knew that the medication I had taken was slowly beginning to help me recover.

My Saturday ended well. By 8pm, the veil had lifted and I was able say that the migraine had passed. I woke up today and stepped outside for the first time since Friday evening. And though the day is a bit gray and it will likely rain soon, the air outside ... the trees moving in the wind ... the bright skies ... it all feels terrific once again.

The Decade Of "Zoom"

It was the Winter of 1989. I had a reliable, if not boring, vehicle already that was trouble-free. However, I started considering having another one in my life pretty much from the moment I saw the first advertisement. It was a two-page spread inside the front cover of a magazine that was flipping through. It was, and still is, the first time I took notice of each feature and detail, every carefully designed curve and even the color. "Coming soon, to a driveway near you", it read. I cut the advertisement out and tacked it behind my company-provided Macintosh SE30 against the office wall. I memorized it.

I never made any proclamation or announcement about it. It's not like I dialed the company-wide intercom system and said "Attention co-workers: One day, this will be mine." In fact, honestly it never occurred to me that I'd be able to set aside that kind of spare income. Affording a "second car", when one is living in a studio apartment and thinks of steamed rice and a Pepsi as "dinner", seems beyond nuts ... it becomes ridiculous.

But when the whole "dot com" age erupted and I was making ... well, ridiculous money, suddenly the numbers seemed within reach. And since the vehicle had proven not just popular but almost instantly "classic", I was intrigued. Captivated. Driven. And so it was that one Sunday morning I stopped thinking and started doing.

When the salesperson approached, it was as tho' I was not there. I was alright with being ignored - he didn't know that I'd be the buyer and the extra time allowed me to check out the bells and whistles without being "sold to". When it was made obvious that the purchase was mine to make, we went on a test drive. (It was, in my eyes, unnecessary. I knew as I saw the car that I'd be buying it but I felt it was only polite to go through the motions.)

I hadn't driven a stick in several years but the gears were close together (aka "a short throw") and the clutch was tight and low, just as I'd always imagined it would be. I drove us onto the freeway as the salesperson started with a pitch that I remember verbatim. "The passenger airbag can be turned off by putting your ignition key in this slot here, making it safe for a baby seat", he said, sounding satisfied with himself. "Right" , I said as I slipped easily into fifth gear, "because this is, after all, such a great 'Mommy' car." I could feel him look over at me and, from the corner of my vision, I noticed his face turn red from embarrassment at the idiocy of his statement.

He was quiet for about a mile or so and when I heard him take a breath to get ready for another "selling statement", I stopped him short with a speech I'd actually rehearsed. It was said in a confident voice, not snotty or arrogant - just factual. "Anything you say at this point will only kill this deal. I will be buying this car and I know what my offer will be. If you are unable to accept it, I know of two other dealerships who haven't made their numbers for the season and I'm sure they will happily take my money. Let's just enjoy this ride, alright?" And so we did, in silence.

We returned to the dealership, where he showed me the number he had prepared and I handed him my pre-written response card, with the number I'd prepared. Mine was only about $450 lower and I was proud that I'd done enough research - and was taken seriously enough - that the delta was that tight. A few "extras" were discussed ("I'm not paying $80 for floor mats when I can get them for $20 at the auto store near my house" was met with "Oh, we'll happily give you those - sorry, let me remove that") and we shook hands.

I glanced at the odometer when I got behind the wheel of the car I'd just signed for. The digital number showed the mileage as 23. (I would later pace out the route I'd taken as a test drive and it measured at a distance of 18 miles.) It had been over ten years since I saw that first advertisement. That first tease. Showing a beautiful coupe sitting in the summer sun while the country was in the midst of a rainy, cold Winter season. "Coming soon, to a driveway near you."

I turned the ... his ... wheel to the right and pulled into the driveway. "Here we are," I thought to myself. "Home at last."
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Jake will turn 10 years old tomorrow. Earlier this month, his odometer turned over to 47,000 miles. I don't know if the person who put those first 5 miles on him enjoyed the experience, but I sure have enjoyed the other 46,995.

And, like the other man in my life, he was more than worth the wait.