M-O-O-N That Spells Bedtime

Inspirational song: Great Gig in the Sky (Pink Floyd)

Hey, y'all. I had a date with Barley tonight, and we stayed out later than we intended to. We just got home, and I have to crawl in bed right away, so that I can get up early and go to Fort Collins in the morning. It was just starting to snow (we could more hear it than see it) when I left Barley at his house and walked home, so I definitely need to leave early tomorrow so that I can drive safely.

We had gotten up early to watch the eclipse. I had a soft fleecy jacket and a soft fleecy blankie wrapped around me, and I was still shivering throughout the whole thing. It was kind of cool to watch, but I was naively hoping that the moon would be a whole lot redder than it was. I wanted it to look in real life like the photo from the Griffith Observatory appeared. I still liked it though. But this means I have been awake since five this morning. This means short blog and early bed. So I'm going to peace out now, and hope I get enough rest before morning.

Mo' Pets, Mo' Problems

Inspirational song: Blowin' In the Wind (Bob Dylan)

I had my dates mixed up. Bump went for his ultrasound today. Unfortunately the answers we got weren't encouraging. The imaging tech said that the tumor isn't in his bladder. It's up by his pancreas, and it's so big it's constricting his duodenum. That seems to explain why he can't get food to stay down. He has been pouting about dog kibble for months, but we had been putting it in water, old fashioned Gravy Train style, for over two years now. Bump always got his first, and then the other two who wolf down their meals (hence the water to slow them down), but they were still so fast that the food wouldn't soften enough for Beebe to digest his. He would let the others come over and finish his food off. Not to mention, they ate what he barfed too. So he is on puree only from here on out, as I said yesterday. The Mr pulled out the food processor to turn chicken, rice, egg, and broth into a smoothie. He also went ahead and gave the green light to the pharmacist to compound the medication we were told would treat bladder cancer before he went to the ultrasound. Now he needs to wait to hear what our regular vet says, but he expects to be told that prednisone will be the proper course of treatment.

When they arrived home, Bump jumped out of the truck, ran to me for a split second, and then went back to his papa to remind him that there were still french fries from the Magic Food Window they had passed on the way home from the ultrasound. At least he still wants to eat. It's as good as I could hope for, having learned that my (12 year old) puppy has what appears to be pancreatic cancer. His side was shaved for the scan. It always makes me sad to see animals with patches of fur shaved. It's never for good things. Well, not usually. Girl quadrupeds get their bellies shaved to be spayed, which is usually a good thing, but even then, I don't like making them go through surgery and feel icky. I do it, but I don't like it.

Speaking of that sort of thing, it's Harvey's turn to prevent unwanted pregnancies. He goes in Thursday morning for neutering. Poor guy isn't going to like us much come game night Thursday night. I figure he will hide in one of his unreachable spots, like inside the lining of the box springs under one of the beds. He won't be jumping on the table in the middle of our game, that's for sure. The way that kid eats, I'm making a prediction now: once he is neutered, he is going to get faaaaaaaaaaaaat. Like Jackie-level fat. He might have a chance at avoiding it with his super Siamese kitty genes, but I've seen that kid begging for second breakfast... and elevenses... and lunch... and afternoon snack... and appetizers to dinner...

Bucket List

Inspirational song: Keep Me In Your Heart (Warren Zevon)

We went to Costco with our neighbor to load up on Super Bowl foods, and came home to find Bumpy had thrown up all over his bed again. It's starting to really scare me, how serious this is. It was three and a half years ago when my cats Torden and Cricket evaporated in front of my eyes, barely eating and turning into just fur and bones before they died. I don't want to see Bumpy emaciated and weak like they were. I don't want to get there. I'm not ready. He is somewhere between twelve and thirteen years old (we will never know for sure -- he was half-grown, we think, when we rescued him from Route 66 in the California desert after some careless asshole turned him into their own private speed bump and drove off). For being a medium to large sized dog, he is reaching average life expectancy. Our time with him has been incredible, and he will live in family lore as long as my children have memories, until their old age. But we have to start thinking now about what these last months are going to look like.

If you were the best dog of all time (don't even pretend he isn't), what would you want your humans to do for you as your life wound down? I've seen viral videos on the internet of people who created bucket lists for their dogs, and took them to all sorts of places to make their final weeks special. He loves going to our mountain property, but it's under just enough snow right now that getting up there is difficult for everyone, humans and canines alike. We are on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, so getting to either ocean is a long haul right now, but if he wanted to dip his paws in Folly Beach water again, I would get in the car tomorrow. I'd love to take him with me in the car to the Magic Food Window for cheeseburgers and fries, but all he is doing is barfing, so maybe that makes more pain than the fun equals. He spends more time inside than he has been since we moved to the house with the heated garage, where he and Murray and Elsa are not criticized if a bladder overflows before sunrise, unlike the Original Park in Charleston where yelling happened when the wood floor in the dining room was used as a latrine. He likes it a lot when the girls come over to the house, so maybe on D&D night, when our foster daughter is here along with the gang, he can be our campaign dog, sitting on her feet while she leads our group. Our in-town daughter has promised to come visit more often, and I know he will like that. I will move heaven and earth to keep him going long enough for our older daughter to make it in from SoCal, for an extended cuddle and maybe a frolic with his niece dog Sheba if it's a road trip instead of a plane ride.

I spent a couple hours next door, talking with our neighbor and his dog Barley. For all that he helped me by letting me talk about Bump's illness and inevitable decline, we didn't come up with a solid plan for giving Bump the sendoff of a lifetime. He goes to Loveland on Thursday for an ultrasound to evaluate the tumor in his bladder, which could give us some sort of timeline for how long we have to celebrate with him present. We weren't able to get back to the pharmacist before closing time to approve the compounded meds, since they called and left a voice mail while I was at physical therapy for my own problems. I don't want to put off making a list any longer. Bump is the Best Dog Of All Time, and he needs to hear it every single day from now until he can no longer hear me speak to him. I'd appreciate suggestions, knowing that he is probably hurting and probably unable to keep down even the rice and egg diet we have switched him to. What do you think we should do together?

Small

Inspirational song: I Want to Break Free (Queen)

Bump seems to have had another so-so day today. He spent most of his time outside, because it was warm and sunny and more interesting for him to be outside barking at squirrels and cars driving down the alley. He came in once to have a cup of rice and chicken broth, and then to take a little nap by himself. Then this evening I tried to feed him regular dog food, and that went poorly. Elsa got two dinners and Bump came in to lie next to me while his tummy calmed down. It's really hard to see him get so sick, so fast. Just last summer, the Mr was complaining that B had gotten chunky, and he needed to take a lot more hikes up the mountain to work off some of his pudge. Now he looks so skinny and old. He has been getting meds since Friday, and has something special waiting for the same compounding pharmacy that I get my new stuff through. I hope the right pharmacist is there every Monday, so that he can have it right away, whatever it is. My main job will be to find things that will stay in his belly long enough to do him some good. I guess he is done with dry dog cereal for the foreseeable future. It's rice and sweet potatoes and chicken thighs for a while, I think. Maybe a little scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow, if they will stay down. I am also going to encourage him to spend more time inside than out, so that Murray doesn't pick on him, as he is wont to do. Bump doesn't need a bully while he's trying to get healthy.

Bump isn't the only one feeling small today. I tried to do way too much last week, and it caught up with me today. I kept falling back asleep hard all morning, and didn't actually get up to do anything useful until almost 2 in the afternoon. I ate almost nothing, so I couldn't exactly criticize my dog for doing the same. I need to carefully examine the sources of stress and fatigue in my life, and see which ones I can give the heave-ho. I have my eye on one particular stressful duty, one that makes me feel awful, that is supposed to be done weekly. If I can pass it off to anyone else (and I will be trying to find that anyone asap), then I will say goodbye to it without a second thought. It would free up a lot of emotional energy as well as physical to let it go. I was overly optimistic when I took it on, and I regret thinking I could keep up with it. I can't.

While I stayed at home with my batteries completely drained, the Mr went up to check on a neighbor's property up the mountain. He sent back some amazing photos, a couple of which in thumbnail size, I seriously couldn't tell were from ground level. I thought he had gone airborne over the tops of the Rockies. It made me a little wistful for those days when I teased that we needed a little purple helicopter to access the mining claim, and I imagined there was a way to acquire one. It would have been lovely to have the freedom to soar over the mountaintops, to get the kind of pictures I thought these were.

Plain to See

Inspirational song: Map of the World (Marillion)

I'd like to go into a rambling nature vs nurture monologue right about now, but in all honesty, I can't take credit for any part of what I saw today. I was just proud that my foster daughter and I share an affinity for map-making, without ever having discussed it. That was quite literally my favorite part of elementary and middle school, being encouraged to draw maps during social studies class. Today, my foster daughter pulled out a hand-drawn map for our game that was absolutely beautiful. She has actual drafting training and gets paid to do these things sometimes, while I was just a little Hermione Granger who knew she had a skill and refused to hide it. I never taught her how to do it when we lived together, and we share no DNA. But I still feel like there is a new bond there.

Bumpy the little red-headed dog had a good day today. Rather than trying to get him to eat his regular-sized two meals today, he got brought inside a few times today to have a small scoop of rice, while the other dogs were outside hosting neighbor dog Barley. Bump appears to have kept the rice down a little better than his standard dog food diet. He also liked getting to visit with his human friends while Barley worked out Murray's excess energy.

We had friends over all day. They arrived early this morning, and we did our thing for hours. I thought perhaps the fact that we usually met at night was why I was so tired after two or three hours. No, it wasn't the time of day. It was my total lack of stamina. I had to disappear for 20 minutes mid-afternoon to lie down with my eyes closed while everyone else did a little bookkeeping. When they left at sunset, I sat in my chair and almost instantly fell asleep sitting up. I managed to make it through the rest of the night without crawling into bed, but that was only so that I could take my nighttime pills on time. I'm starting to wonder whether the new stuff is resetting my circadian rhythm. It's making me feel a lot better, but wow, is it hard to stay up late enough to blog. I'm going to have to work my banter out much earlier in the day. I'll work on it. I promise.

Advance Directives

Inspirational song: Darkness (The Police)

I've been stuck thinking about obituaries the entire day. This isn't a bad thing. I actually saw the most glorious obit of all time this morning. The Rude Pundit shared it on Twitter (and I retweeted it, so it appeared on my Facebook pages). It isn't my own writing, so I won't quote swathes of it, but I from what I remember, it sounded more like a roast of someone who was deeply loved than a syrupy sweet whitewash of someone's life. It was one last chance to tease husband/dad/grandpa about how he turned on Phineas and Ferb for the grandkids, sometimes when they were even there. He was preceded in death by family members, his car, and his hip. That sort of thing went on for several paragraphs. All I could think of was if my family goes so far as to put an obit in the paper for me, they had damned well better write something like this. I suppose if my parents or brother want the same treatment, we should start planning now. If the kids are nice, I'll even make notes for them ahead of time.

When we were still in high school, my favorite person from those days (okay, yes, there was an on-again-off-again crush that never once went anywhere) told us what songs he wanted played at his funeral. He was the biggest fan of The Police back then, and he said we were to play "Darkness" and "Secret Journey" for him if/when he died. He and I lost touch in our 30s, and I wasn't aware when he went through a battle with cancer. Thankfully he won that battle, so I didn't miss out on my chance to swoop in and remember his advance directive from the mid 1980s. I typically write him on his birthday (we don't communicate much beyond that), so maybe I should ask if that's something he still wants. I bet he doesn't even remember it.

I need to warn everyone that one of the stars of Scenes from Smith Park is not well, and I don't mean me. My little red-headed dog has always been a picky eater. At first we weren't overly concerned when he refused a couple of breakfasts. But it has gotten more frequent, and he hasn't been keeping any food down lately. The reason his official name is Captain Speed Bump is that he was once "the dead dog in the road" who popped his head up right as we were driving by. He always had problems with kidney stones after being hit by a car before we found him. So when I noticed he has started taking longer to pee again, I assumed there was another stone. Bump went to the vet today, and he has lost nearly 10 pounds since last summer. He had blood work and x-rays done, and after being held for hours for observation, they concluded he might have a tumor in his bladder. When I scratched his belly at bedtime tonight, I felt all of his ribs. This weight loss seems very sudden. He is the greatest dog of all time, so we are not just going to ignore this, but for those who consider themselves fans of his, I wanted you to have time to prepare. I promise, we are going to discuss him with specialists, and make sure we do what is best for him. But at 12 years old, we know he may need to start telling us how he wants to be memorialized. Getting a choir of squirrels to sing his praises is going to be difficult, but I bet that is his first ask.

Character Development

Inspirational song: Play the Game (Queen)

These weekly game nights are starting to get really good. Over the course of about a month and a half, we have gone from being either totally rusty or entirely brand new to the idea of role playing games, to diving deeply into our characters and knowing just how to wear their skin for the whole night. We are starting to understand how our alter egos differ from our normal selves, and it's no longer awkward trying to interact with each other with unfamiliar dynamics as a group. Tonight, we were fully immersed, and to put it bluntly, we got crap done. There was a whole lot less discussion, almost no "should we do this?" It played into my hands very well, too. As I have said many times about my own character, "I am a dwarf of action. I start moving." I have a high intelligence score, but to put it generously, slightly below average wisdom. After a few game nights, I have come to understand that this makes me over-confident and impulsive. The last two weeks I have set off on my own while others were still discussing strategy. Was that smart? Maybe yes, maybe no. Was it annoying to the others? Might have been. Would my character have intuited that? Doubtful.

After years of feeling cut off from the world, this new trend of getting together with people that I like, and participating in group activities is the most valuable, treasured thing in my life right now. I want it to keep going, and to expand. I keep talking to more people about the idea of having periodic mah jongg and bunco nights too, and so far I'm seeing positive feedback. I'm not the only one who wants this connection. This thrills me.

I will need to poll my friends and family to see what schedules look like, and how soon I can get at least 12 people here to play bunco. That's the easiest big game of all to put together, if I can find the people. I used to run the bunco club for the base spouses, before it became so popular that it was a regularly scheduled social that nearly every single person showed up to play. Once people find out how easy and fun it is, they get hooked. Come on in, kids. You're going to like playing here.

Day on a Bald Mountain

Inspirational song: Women Like to Slow Dance (Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers)

My very first clients ever to make it to the closing table and I participated in a year-long courtship dance. I met them two months after I got my license, and I saw them every few weeks after that until we closed thirteen months later. Some weeks I was driving up to Greeley to look at places two or three times a week. I enjoyed the hell out of it, and learned a whole lot about the business, the market, and myself. After they closed, I let them have their own life without me. I didn't creep on them. But I won't lie, I miss them. I really liked the woman who was my contemporary. She was cool.

I've been corresponding with new clients who want to live up in the mountains for a year now. The husband was one of the very last leads to come in from our old web site, and I've been sending him automated updates every time a new property hits the market, plus discussing sites that he sees elsewhere. But they live on the other side of the country, so I had never met them in person until today. They're in Colorado to drive all over the mountains, to make sure their initial target area was really where they wanted to be. They spent days circling around south of I-70, and today made it significantly farther north. We met for the first time face-to-face up at Estes Park, and I rode with them up to several locations. We had to knock it off early when the highway between Drake (tiny mountain town) and Loveland was still closed, and it would have taken an extra hour or more to circle back through Estes, across to Longmont, and then back up to Fort Collins to get to the far northern properties on our list.

It felt a lot like Goldilocks and the three real estate professionals. (The wife is a former agent herself, and the husband is so good at research, he might as well be.) The first site was too steep. The second site was beautiful, but had no real views. The third site took us waaaaaay back in the deep back woods, to the most insane views, all the way to Greeley really, but we never found the actual building site. The road doesn't exist on Google maps. We drove and drove and drove, up a blessedly plowed improved dirt road all the way up to where it looked like there had been a fire on Storm Mountain, but I find no information online about when that fire might have been. The road to the actual property for sale remains a mystery. We never found it, after miles of scary switchbacks and washboard roads with steep dropoffs.

I was glad to meet the couple who had just been words on a computer screen for a year so far. I couldn't help thinking how much the woman in this couple reminded me of the first woman who I worked with for all of that time. I'm okay with doing another courtship slow dance, for people I like this much. It doesn't bother me at all.

Day One

Inspirational song: Let's Go (The Cars)

As of opening my computer to write, I am exactly 24 hours into the new course of treatment. I took the first pill last night at 9 pm. As soon as I get enough words on this page, I will do it again. It is way too soon to say anything definitive, but so far all signs are pointing towards this being exactly what I needed. I wrote my friend who told me about this medication earlier today, and told him that he did a very good deed by telling me about low-dose naltrexone. I'm sure that it isn't appropriate for every single person who suffers from the same diseases that I do (singly or in combination), but I'm glad my doctor is giving me a chance to test it on myself. She has other patients who have used it, and the compounding pharmacy that I use (which happens to be the one where they know me by sight and know just about my entire history) makes this for other customers, so it was easy for me to find people willing to go along with me and offer me valuable advice along the way.

There is most likely a little psychosomatic effect helping me here. I don't think that is necessarily a bad thing when what I am doing is tricking my brain into producing more of its own feel-good chemicals without adding in artificially synthesized ones. If the power of positive thinking makes that process more effective, then I'll think happy thoughts all damned day.

I worried that I'd have insomnia, as some people reported. Instead, by about 10:30 last night, I was relaxed and sleepy and was ready for lights out. I woke a couple of times (okay, probably seven or eight), but I do that anyway. I didn't feel particularly disturbed by that. When I woke at 7:30, I felt more rested than I usually do. I got up to go to the bathroom, quietly so that I didn't get all the dogs and cats thinking it was breakfast time. I didn't have to limp and hobble as usual, but rather was able to walk flat on my feet. My low back wasn't cramped up upon rising, so I was able to do much more earlier in the day than before. It might not seem amazing to you that I could lean over and set my coffee cup on the side table before I sat down to drink, but to me that was miraculous.

I had a bunch of last minute cleaning to do before the Rotary youth services coordinator came to view my house, and I put in nearly two hours of running around, finding things everywhere I looked that I wanted to clean or merely hide. By the end of it, I was tired and warm, maybe even a tiny bit sore, but I wasn't in pain. The entire day went more smoothly too. My IT band/hip flexors were forgiving. My feet held me up through almost everything I asked of them. I was able to stand up out of chairs without gasping and swallowing screams. All of this from a single milligram of an opioid uptake blocker.

It had a time limit though. Somewhere around seven or eight this evening, all the benefit stopped like a light turning off. I'm hurting again now, but it is almost bedtime. I'm looking forward to trying again, and hoping for another day of minimal pain and maybe a tiny energy boost. I wanted it to be this good, but I was really afraid to hope. It's too early to say this is forever, but it's right now, and that's good enough.

Through a Stranger's Eyes

Inspirational song: Freeze Frame (J. Geils Band)

Every free calorie of energy I had to spare for the last week has gone to house cleaning. I've been digging deeper than usual, for a very good reason. I have a person I have known only in a casual sense for two years coming to my house for the first time in the morning. She's not coming here just to visit. She is coming to take pictures of my house, in order for people to judge me. That sounds harsh, but it is the core of what we are doing. Two weeks ago she made an announcement at Rotary that the final host family for our foreign exchange student has fallen through, and she was looking for volunteers to provide a temporary home for this young lady from April through June. I wanted to raise my hand in that instant, but I waited to consult with the other human who lives in this house before I offered my home to the teenager. I waited four days before I actually sent the email, and I worried that I had waited too long and she would have already selected someone else, but apparently I was the first to make the decision. The youth exchange coordinator will be here tomorrow to look over my digs, to take pictures, and to send them to Rotary International for approval. I assume I also have to submit background check info, and will be filling out forms under the coordinator's direction.

I really want this to work. I felt a kinship with this young lady when she first arrived, and we learned that the top of her wish list was all the sports events she wanted to attend. I had promised her a CU football game, but I wasn't well enough to go to more than the homecoming game. I felt bad, and made sure I took her to basketball instead, and we got lucky that it was the week we beat both nationally ranked Arizona teams. I promised her that if CU keeps winning, I'll take her to another game at the end of the season. I believe that we have such a unique American experience for ourselves, for having lived all around the country and learned so much from everywhere we went, that we have a lot to offer her. We don't have teenagers living in the house, but we have young enough kids living close by to keep her from feeling surrounded by old folks. (Let's be honest, Rotary tends to be heavy on the close-to-retirement-age end of the spectrum.)

I just have to win approval. To that end, I emptied out my dressing room/sewing & crafts room where I'll be housing her. I sorted most stuff, but eventually when I had to face the mountain of junk on my long dresser, I hit the "hide it in a bag" stage. I have one large reusable grocery bag full of papers, perfume bottles, photographs, and random tchatchkis hidden in my bedroom, next to two bags of fabric and unfinished sewing projects that also don't need to be visible for inspection. I took photos from different angles, and I will study them. I find it's easier to see the room like a stranger would, when I am obsessively looking at the background of photos. When you live in a place it's too easy to overlook clutter. You just stop seeing it. Tomorrow morning I need to remove the cat toys from the living room and wipe down the kitchen counters before the lady arrives. I haven't taken pictures out there, but I am going to be a little more forgiving of clutter. They need to see the bedroom I'm putting up on offer, plus the kitchen, bathroom, and living spaces. They don't need perfect, they just need tidy, safe, and meeting basic standards, I assume. If approved, I'll have two months to do a more thorough sort and organization of everything left. I wanted to do that Swedish death cleaning thing. This will make it a whole lot easier, if I'm trying to make space for a 16 year old, and any of her friends who want to visit. I hope I pass inspection. This could be a very special spring if it works out.

Compounding

Inspirational song: Anticipation (Carly Simon)

All of my eggs are in one basket. I can admit that to myself. I have so much invested in this new course of action for disease management that I am setting myself up for bitter disappointment if it doesn't work as advertised.

I've been counting the seconds until the pharmacist who does the compounding at my local shop is on site. She's supposed to be there tomorrow, and I will be pacing around with my phone in hand waiting for the call that it's all ready for me. The last two months have been hell for me, and I need the hope that a completely new approach offers. When the therapeutic Botox wore off after Thanksgiving, and I went six weeks with the same migraine behind my right eye nonstop, day and night, no matter what, I started getting desperate. I stopped taking Tramadol, thinking that maybe what I had was a rebound headache. So no matter how much everything else hurt in addition to the blistering headache, I had to just tough it out and take nothing to ease it. The pain has been indescribable for weeks, and when someone who writes as much as I do every single day uses a word like "indescribable," you'd better believe that it is. Once I decided to ask my rheumatologist to put me on a low dose of the same drug they give heroin addicts (NOT because I have any addiction, but because it has an off-label use that is beneficial for me), I was both glad that I'd already weened myself off of painkillers, and entering a special level of hell while I waited for approval and receipt of the meds. I feel awful all of the time. My blood is filled with needles, I swear. My muscles no longer exist. My joints are tender. It was an easy call this time around for the rheumatologist finally to give me an official diagnosis of fibromyalgia in addition to lupus, when I sailed through the poke test to see how many tender spots I had. (I don't usually wince and say ow when she touches me. This time I couldn't stop.)

In my fantasies, this stuff will start to work instantaneously. Night number one, I take the compounded capsule at bedtime. I have a little insomnia, maybe some nightmares, as reported by other people who take this stuff. Then magically, overnight, while the opioid uptake receptors in my brain are blocked and my brain is frantically sending out the signal for my body to boost endorphin production, I will feel less pain upon rising. I will find it easier to pull myself out of bed. My feet won't be cramped into a curl, so that I hobble on my way to the bathroom. I won't have to prop one shoulder against the wall so I can lean over and wash my hands without my low back giving out. It won't hurt to carry a cup of coffee to my favorite chair. My brain will clear faster, and I'll be able to concentrate on reading. I'll even find the will to work. Soaking in the hot tub will soothe my muscles, rather than just leave me tired and needing a nap.

Or maybe it won't be like my fantasy. Maybe it will take months, ramping up the dose every few weeks, until I've gone from the 1 mg starter to the full 4.5 mg that is the max recommended. Maybe it won't alleviate pain at all. Until I've tried it, I refuse to believe it won't work. I choose to believe the truth will lie somewhere between those two alternatives. I choose to aspire for the fantasy best-case scenario. I can't wait to get started to find out.

Delayed Gratification

Inspirational song: Games People Play (Alan Parsons)

Twenty-seven months ago, I made the second of two purchases with the same purpose. I agonized over the decision for which mah jongg set to buy off of Amazon, settling on one a couple steps up from the most basic, for about a hundred bucks. Months earlier I had ordered several copies of rule books and teaching guides from the Wright-Patterson Officers Spouses Club, the keeper of the official rules that air force groups follow. I was just sure that once I was settled at my Park West, I'd have people come over and play mah jongg often and it would be awesome. But then things went sideways. I started real estate school and my home life got very uncomfortable. Then as I started work, I discovered just how sick I was. My grand plans of hosting my own mah jongg club evaporated. I didn't even take the plastic off of the tile sets for years. The whole kit stayed in my spare room in the basement with all of the other games we bought over the years that no one plays anymore. At first I was incredibly disappointed in the missed opportunity, and then I eventually forgot about it.

A couple of weeks ago, our regular D&D got canceled, but we still had several of the group come over to the house and play a card game. At that time, I remembered that the mah jongg set existed, and I suggested to the group that it would be a good thing to try. There was minimal interest, but I didn't give up. On Thursday, several of us talked about playing games again this weekend, while it was supposed to be snowy and icky, and I had more success, when one of the people I asked actually had experience playing the game with his grandmother. I had an in! We made plans on the spot.

Tonight we went next door, my foster daughter, her husband, and I, and we played on the new game table that Mr S-P built as a Christmas present for our neighbor. I didn't know how quickly the group would pick up the rules, but they took to it like they were born to it. It helped when my neighbor won, and then won again, and then again... Overall, he won at least five rounds, and my (is this the right term?) foster son-in-law won two or three. I don't know how many rounds we played, but we were there nearly four hours, from set up and basic instruction to when we finally packed it up, swearing we'd do this again.

I am so happy. I have been wanting to do this for almost three years, since I stopped getting to play at my dear friend's house in Charleston. My mah jongg group accounted for some of the best friends I made during the entire 20 years I was an air force wife, and I still love and miss them to this day. The only other group that came close to that was the bunco club, and if I can get at least 12 people to come over to my house, we can play that too. Now that we have broken the seal on this game, I want to keep trying to draw people in, and make this a regular thing. I'd even spring for a second set, if I could convince a minimum of seven or eight people to show up on a rotating basis. I know of at least three to ask, plus another two who might be able to work it into their schedules. The longer I mull it over, the longer the potential list becomes. All this from one game night. It took years, but now that I have cast the lure, I am going to reel in some big fish.

Read Into It

Inspirational song: Rock and Roll High School (The Ramones)

I have been putting off my homework for several days. I have new folks that I haven't yet met in person in town starting today, and they sent me a list of 42 parcels of land they have been watching. I had so many other things going on this week that I let myself procrastinate. I started going through the list a couple of hours ago, handwriting his spreadsheet into my books, with enough space to make notes. I was making great progress looking things over while I watched a live feed of the Senate (with commentary over the top). I saw them fail to get 60 votes to move forward with the House-passed continuing resolution that would have just delayed all the stuff they should have negotiated months ago. I wasn't really surprised to see it all. Not kidding, within 2 minutes of the clock running out on the government shut-down deadline, my homework jacked up. I hit a row of properties in Cripple Creek, southwest of Colorado Springs, which doesn't show up in the multiple listing services I subscribe to. And then I tried to find addresses in Estes Park, that should indeed have been available on the site I was using, and it started giving me error messages like the MLS shut down with the government. I know it shouldn't have. This is a commercial site I use (that I pay for). I have decided to take it as a sign that I will not be pulling an all-nighter. I'm going to take care of myself and go to sleep early.

Rather than researching these building sites, I spent way too much of my time googling the new medication that I am waiting to receive next week, once the expert is at my local compounding pharmacy again. I wanted to read what other people had written about their own experiences, on their own blogs or comment threads on disease support group pages. I found what I needed, that while not every single person was miraculously cured of all symptoms, more people seemed to notice improvements than had no change. I found almost no reports of negative side effects, other than a few headaches and insomnia, and those seemed to moderate with change in dosage or time taken. I'm so ready to take a chance on this new course of action. Once I have it in hand, I'll start reporting whether I have good, bad, or indifferent results.

Okay, I admit it. I wasn't all studious today. I did spend a little time goofing off. In 24 hours' time, I was freakishly lucky with my time-waster games. On one I ended up gaining over 30 percent of my points total, although I kept playing and gave a little of it back. Whenever I feel guilty about my recess time, which is a bigger proportion of my day than I like to admit to, I remind myself that my primary care doc specifically ordered me to do relaxing, mind-easing games every single day. I might find out next week whether the tiny little bursts of dopamine I get from winning these games increases when I start taking a compounded drug that is supposed to boost the natural endorphins my body produces. Would it be obnoxious to think of these games as actual therapy? (Probably)

Things I Remember

Inspirational song: Goldfinger (Shirley Bassey)

The past came to visit again today. As I sat in the waiting room of my rheumatology clinic, eavesdropping on the pharmaceutical rep check in at the window, asking for my doctor and one other, and making jokes that he'd chat with them for 45 minutes because they weren't busy or anything, I shrank down into myself in pain and wished for time to speed up. Instead, it went zipping backwards in a heartbeat. Or rather, a downbeat. I don't know who controls the music station that they played in the waiting room, but it seemed to be aimed at the proper demographic, for once. Those of us who need rheumatologists tend to be of a certain age, and the music station was standards and oldies. After Elvis and something else from the 60s, they played Goldfinger. For a few brief minutes, I was 13 years old, the summer before my freshman year of high school, standing shoulder to shoulder with every musician in the marching band in one giant line, getting ready to step off of the sideline in my first show rehearsal. For once the memory didn't center on how great the arrangements of Bond songs were. It was a wistful remembrance of my young body that didn't hurt just sitting in a chair. Those were the days.

When I left that clinic, another window into the past opened up, just for a quick second. I passed a woman sitting one chair over from where I had been, who had her head down, filling out paperwork. Her once-blonde hair, that was turning silver, was twisted high on her head in a bun, and the shape of her skull, the glimpse of her face, my guess at her age and weight, all gelled together in an instant to convince me that was my great-grandmother sitting in that chair. I was walking as quickly as I could (so not really fast), and was already two steps past her by the time I understood what my brain was telling me, and I wanted to turn around and study her to see whether the impression had any relation to her actual appearance. But I didn't want to intrude on her private medical business, nor appear rude by staring at her, and most of all, I didn't want to find out whether she really looked like Granny or not. In my heart, I passed her and that was good enough for me.

My appointment went well. I unloaded all of my complaints on my doctor, and she treated me like everything was valid, even if not all of it was actionable evidence. She made me feel better, just for listening to me. Today was a milestone, in that after more than a year and a half, she is ready to make the official diagnosis of fibromyalgia (in addition to the lupus, not instead of). So now we proceed with a more complex treatment plan. We are trying a new thing that a friend of mine suggested (a friend who isn't prone to recommending snake oil, whose idea passed the initial sniff test). I have to pay out of pocket for a compounded specialty product that is supposed to block opioid receptors in the brain, that in super low doses is supposed to force my body to produce more of its own endorphins to compensate. As long as I take this, I can't take standard pain pills. My doc has very few patients who have taken this route, so I am going to be one of the guinea pigs. But I volunteered for this, and I'm willing to report back to her and to my friend, so that other people can decide whether it's worth the risks for their own situations. I start it next week, and I hope to have some preliminary data to offer within a few weeks.

Like It or Not

Inspirational song: Eastbound and Down (Jerry Reed)

There is only so many ways to say the exact same thing, and today is version number 200 (at least) of the same problem: I'm sore and tired and don't feel like writing. I pushed through the pain to get through the day, but slowly and gracelessly, and I hated it. There wasn't a choice, so I did what I had to do. I had one of my last physical therapy sessions early this morning. I've spread out the appointments to once weekly, so they last longer. I wasn't sure I was getting much out of the iontophoresis at first, but now I think I see mild improvement in the shoulder. It takes longer before the muscle starts screaming. I am willing to accept that as progress.

It was worth the extra effort to bake as soon as I got home. It was suggested to me that the dough recipe I created on Sunday for cinnamon rolls would make an interesting base for a cheese danish. So I tried it again, exactly as written out, but instead of filling it with a ring of brown sugar and cinnamon, I lined a square dish with parchment and smooshed it out in an uneven layer. Then I crumbled the Wensleydale cheese with cranberries that has been sitting too long in our fridge and pushed a few clumps of it down into the dough. I had leftover homemade cranberry jam, and I used up the rest of that on top as well, with an extra sprinkle of coarse sugar on top. It took a long time to bake. I think it stayed in between 35-40 minutes to make sure it was done all the way through. The cheese was a little tangy for this concoction, but overall, I would do this again in a heartbeat. Maybe next time I'll use cream cheese and some of the raspberries I harvested that first summer I lived in this house, before we moved the canes and reduced the yield. (There's still a bag of them in the freezer.) If you didn't try Sunday's recipe, and you have either a need or a curiosity about gluten-free/grain-free cooking, give it a shot. I do live a mile above sea level, so if there is an altitude adjustment, you may have to work that math out on your own.

I got to go out on a date with my handsome neighbor Barley tonight. We went to a brewery a few towns south of here, and Barley came along. He was so sweet, making sure every one of us in that private room in the back of the brewery had plenty of puppy love. But when it was time for him to go find a patch of grass outside, he pouted and stared holes in the backs of our heads. Poor guy had to really work to get anyone of us to understand what his desperate need was. Nonetheless, he was a perfect gentleman all night.

Push

Inspirational song: Rescue Me (The Alarm)

The batteries on all of my devices are depleted. My phone is at 24%, my iPad at 28%, and when I turned on the laptop, the little orange button on the side warned me to plug in. It's apropos, because my internal batteries are dead out too. It was all I could do to pick up the laptop off the side table, and then it took me a full two minutes to convince myself to open it. I couldn't muster the strength to push the lid up.

I slept little again last night, mostly because I had to get up before daylight to go to the rotary board meeting. I should have napped before the main meeting, and I had two cups of coffee instead. I crashed hard this afternoon, and have spent the rest of the day wondering whether this is a hint of a bug trying to catch me, or is this just business as usual. I have my periodic checkup with the rheumatologist this week. It's time to ask her a whole host of questions about potential new avenues to pursue. I feel like I've used up the efficacy potential of the current treatments, and I need to consider novel approaches.

I have a million irons in the fire, as always. There's very little I can talk about right now. I have one really huge, wonderful thing I'm trying to qualify for. If I'm approved, I'll write about it at length, between now and June, often and in detail, I'm sure. Until I know, think happy thoughts for this vague and undefined plan I have. I want it to work.

I Did Ask for This

Inspirational song: Stone Cold (Rainbow)

Have I been complaining loudly and annoyingly about how unseasonably warm and dry Colorado has been so far this winter? Yes. Yes, I have. I absolutely love giant snowstorms that shut down a city, and super cold temperatures that drive everyone inside for hot chocolate and home-based entertainments like catching up on TV shows or playing board games. Granted, I approach this preference from the point of view of someone who doesn't shovel her own sidewalk or have to walk around and deliver mail or work next to a frequently-opening door, so I acknowledge my unequal advantage. But dammit, I love snow. When I went to bed last night, I forgot all about the weather forecast I had read during the day, so I was pleasantly surprised first thing this morning when there was a thin blanket of snow on my tiny Park West. As I took my time waking properly over two cups of coffee, I watched it come down in heavy bands through most of the early part of the day. It is so lovely, even in my back yard, where it completely hides how muddy my yard is and how much poo three dogs create (again, I acknowledge and appreciate that it is almost never my turn to clean that up either). We have a long way to go to accumulate enough snowpack to water the state come warm weather, but this was a welcome reminder that snow is still possible.

The main point that I stress about my love of cold weather and snow is that I rarely go out in it for longer than it takes to cross a parking lot between a car and a movie theater or grocery store. So what exactly was I thinking today? When Mr S-P said he was going to head out for a walk, I thought about how much weight I keep gaining (not just because of the holidays, but they didn't help any), and I asked him to wait for me to dress in warm exercise clothing so I could come too. He promised he was only going to go about 2.5 - 3 miles, and I thought I could make it that far well enough. I made it maybe two blocks, down to the stoplight and around the corner, before I realized I had made a horrible mistake. My face was frozen already. I probably should have grabbed a scarf in addition to my long sweatshirt, heavy duty plush hat, and big purple Barney the Dinosaur gloves. Another block and I was asking, "How far are we planning on going?" He named a street two stoplights up, and I thought, okay, I can survive that. As we climbed a steep section to the first stoplight, I found myself arguing in my inner monologue, preventing myself from turning around and heading back alone, wanting to insist that for my first outdoor walk in a while I had already beaten expectations. But I stuck it out. I paused a couple of times when my head spun a little (from the cold, or the recent Botox for migraine, or from forgetting my morning pills, I couldn't say). But I kept going. When we hit that named landmark, rather than reversing course as I thought we were doing, we turned into the neighborhood beside that light. I recognized the route after that, and again questioned my life choices, but I kept walking.

It was somewhere around the end of mile number two when my body started burning enough calories that my face was no longer feeling the cold. I started being able to notice my surroundings instead of focusing on how much I was freezing. I watched Mr S-P's feet, as his heels scuffed the top of the snow lightly before each step on the path near the irrigation ditch that hadn't been shoveled clean. I wondered whether I was doing the same, because I felt like I was picking my feet up and stomping down -- I'm very awkward and clumsy when I walk on ice and snow. I imagine I look funny when I do it, even if I don't really. During one of my "hey, hold on a minute" breaks, we stopped to chatter at a blue jay near us. I tried to get my phone out to take his picture, and got one so-so shot of him, while predicting he would move before I could really capture him. Sure enough, as soon as I zoomed in, he turned his butt to me and hopped away. Thanks, bird.

Once again, this time when we reached our cross-street, Mr S-P didn't turn and head home like I expected. He kept walking, and when asked, he explained that he needed french fries. Now, I'm not a girl who ever (EVER) refuses french fries. But I was so tired by that point. Those last five blocks to the fast-food restaurant made for a miserable slog. I had started feeling the cold again, and I was sore and tired. It took me forever to cover the last two blocks, in slow, plodding, unhappy steps. I'm surprised I didn't start whining like a four year old kid. We sat there for half an hour, long enough to thaw out a little. Just long enough that the final four blocks home were a fresh level of hell. So yeah. I wanted cold. I wanted snow. I asked for this. I just wanted to look at it from my cozy living room, with a cup of hot coffee in my hand. Was that so much to ask?

After a Long Hiatus, It's an ATK Post

Inspirational song: Cinnamon Girl (Neil Young)

Somewhere around here is the notebook I have been writing down my food experiments in. I even found it two weeks ago, to make something according to one of my own recipes (I've already forgotten what it was). I have no clue where the notebook is now, and I really should memorialize what I did today. It was a recipe I will want to revisit, especially once I perfect my "rolling" technique.

I was craving blueberry pancakes when I unloaded all of my flours, some eggs and butter, and berries onto the counter. But when I brought up Pinterest to use as a springboard, its programming had already learned what I usually search for, and presented me with a change in plans. Right there on the front page: gluten-free cinnamon rolls. I skipped the ones that called for yeast. I didn't want this to take all day. I found an easy recipe that called for a blend of flours that I don't own and didn't want to use, but the mechanics of the process seemed sound. I read the ratios and took it from there. So I don't forget, I'll put my specifics here. They came out so well, I must not lose this info.

Dry Ingredients:

1 cup cassava flour (not tapioca starch)
1/2 cup almond flour
1/4 cup arrowroot
1/4 cup coconut flour
(it was actually slightly more cassava, slightly less arrowroot and coconut, but I'm rounding up.)
1 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon xanthan gum
1/2 teaspoon pink salt
1/4 cup granulated sugar

Wet Ingredients:

3 (generous) tablespoons butter, room temperature
1 egg, room temperature
1/2 cup milk
juice and zest from 1 small lemon

Filling:

2 tablespoons butter, mostly melted in the microwave
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 - 1 1/2 tablespoon cinnamon (I kept adding because I wanted more)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup chopped pecans

Icing:

3/4 cup powdered sugar
1 tablespoon milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

I thoroughly blended the dry ingredients in one bowl. In another I stirred together the butter and egg until they were mostly blended. I added the milk and kept stirring. I poured this into the dry mix, and stirred with a fork, but it was quite dry. I zested the lemon over the top and added the juice. I gave up on the fork and started blending with my hands, and this worked much better. I eventually got a smooth but solid dough, that wasn't too sticky. I pressed it out on parchment paper on top of a cookie sheet, and tried using a rolling pin, but it started to stick, so I stopped when it was about 8 x 10 inches. I should have rolled it thinner, and will next time. I mixed up the filling (except nuts) and spread it all over the rolled out dough. I sprinkled the pecans evenly over the sugar filling. I used the parchment to force the dough into a fat roll, and did the best I could to shape it into an even cylinder. I used dental floss to cut the individual rolls, and set them on fresh parchment, about an inch and a half apart. (I had no idea whether they would hold their shape, grow, melt, or what.) I had them on an insulated cookie sheet, baking for 25 minutes when I checked them the first time. They weren't browning, so I let them cook another 7 minutes or so. Cassava flour doesn't really brown, so I eventually just had to hope they were done by that point. I let them cool a few minutes while I mixed the icing (and to be honest, I did not measure it. Use your own judgement on consistency), and then drizzled it on top lightly.

These were fantastic. My technique definitely needs work. They were pretty fat rolls, so they were sort of cakey. I didn't mind it so much. Leaving them in so long made the filling caramelize a bit, which was nice. I had fresh ones at breakfast, and one as dessert after a late dinner, and they didn't dry out like wheat flour rolls do. I will definitely make these again.

It Leads

Inspirational song: Let It Bleed (The Rolling Stones)

This space can be whatever I want it to be, and tonight, I want it to be a movie review. From the first preview I saw of The Post, I knew I wanted to see it. The closer it came to premiering, the more desperate I became. For the last two weeks, I've been frantic. I'm really not even sure why it was so important for me to see it, but I suspect I can ferret out the source my interest. I haven't ever been a scholar of the Vietnam war, and I didn't have any deep understanding of what the Pentagon Papers were until a few years ago. I can't even say I was an avid reader of the Washington Post until last year. But with the current geopolitical climate keeping me transfixed, with my unwavering attention to every shred of legitimate reporting I can grasp, I am finding a burgeoning fascination with the wild days of the early 1970s, with what feels to me like the heyday of investigative journalism.

I didn't know what to expect of the characters in the movie. Kay Graham was much more timid than I thought she would be. I assumed that as a woman who had been the publisher of a major newspaper for nearly a decade by the time the movie is set, that she would have been quite confident in her authority, but she was not. There were a lot of moments when she quavered, appeared to have lost her voice, and caved to the overbearing men surrounding her. It made for tense moments for me watching, when I kept hoping that she would reveal a spine of steel, and time after time she showed a willingness to demur. It wasn't until the end that she finally surprised everyone assembled, herself included, when she made a monumental decision and stuck with it, regardless of the potential consequences. At the end, when they are leaving the Supreme Court, I noticed the filmmakers walked Meryl Streep (as Kay) down through a crowd on the courthouse stairs, and nearly everyone she walked past was a woman watching her with keen interest and approval. How few strong female role models there had been up until that point in 1971-2, that someone like Kay who had been insecure most of her life had to be her own role model for what a woman CEO and publisher acted like.

I found the story as told quite compelling. Even though I have learned more about the release of the Pentagon Papers in the last year, I still didn't have the full idea of what went into acquiring and printing them. I had to take myself out of the modern world, with surveillance cameras and cell phones and other digital communication, to see how this all could come together. Even knowing it succeeded, I was tied in knots waiting for the protagonists to be searched, scanned, or caught on video. By the end of the movie I was openly chuckling as it transitioned from the Pentagon Papers into the foreshadowing of the Watergate Scandal.

And I don't know what it is about period dramas, but I find myself distracted through nearly all of them that are set during the last century, especially those that take place during my childhood or right before it. I watched for set decorations and props that were things I would have used or touched. I pay attention to chairs, desks, phones, boxes, toys, typewriters, cars... anything that seems familiar to me from long ago. The most exquisitely distracting part is the costuming. There I was, transfixed to Meryl Streep in shirtdresses and big hair that made her look like Margaret Thatcher, or in an embroidered caftan that made her look twice her size but undeniably old-monied. After ten years of total burnout from clothing design, and another ten to slowly convince myself I should keep trying my hand at it, I find myself missing making clothes more than ever. I'm desperately out of practice, as my nearly-finished cosplay that I wore Thursday proved to me, but movies like today make me want to get good again. All it took was Meryl Streep looking frumpy and conservative in early 70s chic.

Whimsy

Inspirational song: Everything Is Awesome (The Lego Movie)

It is apparently the day to get super cool reports from doctors. At least the one from my dermatologist who did the Mohs removal of skin cancer from my nose was legitimately glowing and positive. He studied the scar up close, and poked at the skin he had moved over half an inch or so to cover the hole left by the carcinoma, and proclaimed it healing wonderfully. I have permission to stop using globs of Vaseline to protect it from dry winter air, and now I get to switch to whatever scar creme he gave me a sample of. (No, I have no idea what the name is. When I use the attached coupon to buy a bottle of it at Walgreen's, I'll know the name, and if it is any good, then I can make a recommendation to anyone who wants it.) The doc and I said our goodbyes, and I told him I hope I never have to see him again, in the nicest possible way.

We took the long way home from Boulder after my appointment. We took a quick detour to assess the progress on the major street and bike path construction by our condo (still not done, but getting much closer), and then we drove up through the open space north of town. Much of that area is part of the original green belt land that surrounds Boulder, and there is something very comforting to find it still undeveloped and natural (the whole point of the green belt), while the rest of the town keeps changing and becoming unaffordable for the people who work there but can't live there. I kept trying to take pictures of the long view east from the highway between Boulder and Lyons, but I really couldn't do justice to what I was seeing. There was a promise of a storm that was never delivered, and it was gorgeous from a distance.

Three years ago, when we came back from Charleston to close on the purchase of the mining claim, we did a lot of driving around Boulder county, wondering where we would end up once we could buy and move home. I kept fantasizing about the acreage properties just beyond the eastern edge of town, while Mr S-P reminded me that it takes a whole lot of money to go bankrupt farming in Boulder. Somewhere out there, we passed a sign that identified someone's land as "Whimsy Farm." At the time, I giggled uncontrollably and wondered exactly what sort of whimsical crops are grown at such a place. I suggested their efforts were dedicated to growing periwinkle and persimmons. On those same drives, we kept seeing pastures with two or three little shaggy ponies living lives of leisure. To this day, I don't know why there are so many different people who keep such small ponies, scattered all over Boulder county, but whenever I see them, I still have the same reaction I did three years ago. I desperately want to go cuddle with them. They're so cute. If I didn't think I'd get caught, I'd put one in my own back yard. I promised myself if I ever made my fortune, and could buy my own expansive property in Boulder county, I was going to adopt two shaggy ponies, and name them Periwinkle and Persimmon.

On the winding drive home through the rural parts of the county north of Boulder, we got a little bit lost. We had to do a turnaround right next to a pasture with a collection of the most adorable ponies ever. There were three little ones of the perfect snuggling size (I stayed in the car, I promise...) and a few larger ones. I've seen horses of many different coat patterns, but not once in my life have I seen one that made me think of a skeleton suit. It was so cool, I almost didn't notice the smaller ponies at first. I think I have a new goal. Now I just need to make my fortune in time to buy land and convince this horse's family that she needs to be living with me instead of them. I'd still have Persimmon and Periwinkle, but I'd need to come up with another fanciful name. It would be a great way to go bankrupt, snuggling with ponies on a farm in Boulder that grows nothing but whimsy.

Potpourri

Inspirational song: Night Fever (Bee Gees)

Somewhere around season 4 or 5 of The Walking Dead, they started making a point of rhapsodizing about sorghum as a superior food source. There was at least one full episode dedicated to an attempt to scavenge a cache of seeds or milled sorghum, that failed at a time when the protagonist group was on the verge of starving. And then multiple times over more recent seasons, they referred to it again, in very clear language. I started wondering whether one of the sponsors of the show was a sorghum lobby in Georgia, where the series is filmed. I probably would never have noticed it, had I not gone through my dietary odyssey over all these years, trying and failing to go gluten free for fifteen years before I did it for good. I tried so many alternative grains, and I tried so many processed foods that claimed to be safe. I tried to drink gluten free sorghum beers, and they still upset my stomach. I tried some of the GF all-purpose flours that included it, with disastrous results. I couldn't tell whether the culprit was sorghum or something else that caused me grief, but after years of avoiding it, I thought today would be an okay day to test the theory. I made a fridge-cleaning approximation of biscuits and gravy for breakfast (it was vaguely close, but only vaguely). I used an all-purpose flour that included sorghum, and waited to see what would happen. My stomach is bloated tonight, as I expected. Kinda hurts a little too, again, to no surprise. We had our weekly game night, and I wore my nearly-completed cosplay outfit, sitting uncomfortably on the couch at my neighbor's, wondering how soon it would be before I could be alone and unbutton my jeans for comfort. I spent hours trying to talk myself into sitting back up long enough to blog. I even told myself I'd just write a few "I feel like crap I'm quitting" kinds of sentences. I still put it off.

And then I found the best thing on the internet. Scrolling through Twitter, someone mentioned the hashtag BlackHogwarts. They had retweeted J.K. Rowling's acknowledgement that she had seen it and was enjoying it. So I followed the link to it, and found the first pure joy of 2018. I spent half an hour giggling and guffawing out loud. A few times I laughed hard enough that I could barely breathe. And blissfully, I laughed so hard that my stomach stopped hurting. It was marvelous, for me personally, and for humor at large. On a day when people around the world are spun up with outrage over naked racism coming from Washington, when TV anchors are finding it imperative to swear to be able to accurately report the news, and people holding their breath to see how the long or strongly reverberations of today's scandal will play through the rest of the world, it was so nice to be able to tune out everything else, and belly laugh my way back to feeling good. I was reminded that people are clever, often exquisitely so. I don't get to feel like I love people in general often enough. This made me love just about everyone.

Time Enough to Think

Inspirational song: Think (Aretha Franklin)

You know all those times when you wonder whether your phone is listening to you talk, or one website is eerily aware of what you look at on other sites? It's not in your head. It's all watching you. I think I am currently being punished. I shared an Oatmeal comic on Twitter a few days ago, all about how Facebook demands money to boost posts, so that a small fraction of your friends or followers will see your content. I commented on it how I was not going to pay Facebook to share my free blogs that are my public diary. I linked my Twitter and Facebook long ago, so it posted on both platforms, on both my personal and SFSP pages. Ever since, Facebook has been sulking. Instead of showing my posts to over a hundred people per post, I've been getting fewer than 40 views per day. Way to be mature, creepy AI algorithm. Grow up and accept that not everyone wants to pay you to show their free content.

Twelve weeks ago, I went through a torturous round of Botox shots, to wipe out the months-long migraine aura that had made me feel like I was being electrocuted round the clock. Within a few days, I had given up the daily mega-doses of gabapentin (for nerve pain), and a few days after that I started noticing a lot of other improvements. It all went well until the first prednisone they gave me for my shoulder, six weeks ago. A migraine started behind my right eye, and never went away again. I've had a headache since roughly Thanksgiving. (Yeah, concentration has been impossible for all that time.) Today I got my second treatment of Botox. The needles all around my eyebrows and hairline were harder to handle on the second go-round, but once that was over, I felt fine. By the time we were having lunch two hours later, I could already tell that my headache was fading. I should know in the next few hours whether my temperature swings will moderate again. (For the last week, the frequency and amplitude of my hot flashes and sudden chills has been so violently increased that I haven't slept well yet this calendar year. I need a good night's sleep like nobody's business.) The expectation is that the next eleven weeks are going to be dreamy for me, then a rough week while I wait for my next approved treatment.

While I was at the neurologist's office in Boulder, Mr S-P went for a hike up one of the mountain trails that went up just a few blocks from the clinic. I didn't understand how far he planned to go, and he didn't understand how quick my appointment would be. We agreed to meet in the middle at North Boulder Park. I'm not sure, but I think today might have been the first time I have actually walked through it since we had our wedding rehearsal picnic at the pavilion there, during the first Bush administration. I texted him that I was at the car, and he texted me pictures of his hike. I have to think that some messages got lost in translation, because I sat in the car waiting for him to return for an hour. I had plenty to read, and the longer I sat there, the more my headache faded. What could have been a cranky, resentful moment was instead an extension of a calm, relaxing, contemplative morning. Who would have thought?

Good to Know

Inspirational song: Your Mother Should Know (The Beatles)

Halfway through the rotary meeting, just as the speaker's assistant was moving around the room handing out papers ahead of her speech, I knew exactly what it was I was going to write about. I remember clearly having the thought, and I remember the long, curly, brown hair on the assistant I was watching when it occurred to me. In that instant, my writing was completely sketched out. Then I started paying attention to the program, and the thought went away. All I know now is that I had it and lost it.

I could blame all of the waves of groundshaking news that has come down the wire since that moment, but I doubt it was so monumental. I just dumped that data from my brain-temp-files, and focused on the soft-spoken nutritionist speaking on a subject about which I already feel I'm well-versed. She started slowly, haltingly, about the benefits of a plant-centric diet. She ventured a bit into the topics of brain cell regeneration and telomere length, which was novel enough to draw me in a little more. She finished strong about the key nutrients that would have the biggest effect on an average person's health (things I'm already supplementing, namely vitamins D and B-12 and magnesium in any method possible.) By the end I wanted to ask her about my specific hurdles with synthesizing and absorbing all of these things she was describing (I used to subscribe to her method of getting vitamin D, by sun exposure, but taking hydroxychloroquine makes that too uncomfortable now). I let the moment go, not making the room sit through my outlier questions, and not wanting to stick around after the meeting ended. I'll stick with the doctors who know me and know my medical history.

There was a small magical moment this evening, while we all chilled out on the bed, watching TV. I had my usual contrasting cats on either side of me (Athena pressed against my left leg, Rabbit smushed on my right), when the kitten came up to find a snuggle pile. Neither of these adult cats has accepted him fully yet. They each growl and swat at him more often than not. But Rabbit was sound asleep when the little beige boy curled up behind her. She tolerated his presence at first just because she was sleepy and he was warm. But when Harvey got wiggly, as babies always do, after one half-hearted growl, Rabbit stayed put when he rolled and stretched and licked her ears. At first it seemed like peace was possible because what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Yet there was a sure sign of hope for the future. I still believe that Rabbit could be the mommy Harvey needs.