Iced

Inspirational song: Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer (Elmo & Patsy)

Everybody feels like they’ve been run over by a truck the day after Thanksgiving, right? It’s not necessary to line up at 4 am for bargains to be literally run over by humans in order to share in the misery. That, or we are just really efficient, feeling the pain without wasting the time in front of a big discount store. We all limped around the house like retired bull riders, once we were all eventually awake this morning. We grazed on leftovers and soaked in the hot tub, letting the bulk of the day drift by before attempting to go out in it.

We needed to brave a couple of stores, although we chose those without big crowds. The lines weren’t long at the closest hardware store come two o’clock this afternoon. It didn’t take us too long to pick up a new snow shovel and ice chipper. We zipped down to Boulder, on still-gnarly roads, for a quick trip to Pearl Street. My daughter got a touristy gift to take back to her best friend in California, and a tasty local treat to put in her work White Elephant gift exchange. We parked in a particularly sloped, slushy spot on the street rather than heading into a garage, and as full dark settled across the town, the three of us teamed up to push my little Ford out of it, into busy traffic. We found that it was a good thing that snow shovel was still in the car.

I stayed home while the Mr drove our daughter to the airport. I think I’d had quite enough of icy roads by that point. She arrived more than two hours before her flight, knowing how bad security was going to be today. While she sat at the gate, the snow picked up again, and she got to hang out even longer in the terminal. But last I heard she was boarded, and any minute now I’ll get the word that she’s back on the ground in her home state. I’m so glad I got several days with her this week. It was a solid visit, but it was over in a flash.

Reclaiming My Wine

Inspirational song: Baby Mine (Dumbo)

Look. I'm a pragmatic girl. I know people have better things to do on Thanksgiving than to read me. I had better things to do myself. I'm at the end of a glorious holiday just as I want to be: content, more than a little intoxicated, tired, sore, and among excellent company. Finding the energy to write is a challenge, and knowing that my audience is most likely in the same place I am makes it doubly hard to press on. I have big, fun news to announce, but I'm too tired to be eloquent. It will have to wait until I can put more words together properly.

I hope you all had as good a holiday as I did. Every single member of my in-law family was present today. It was an enormous crowd, and cause to take a huge family photo, like they haven't in years. For some reason, they didn't want goofy auntie holding a full wine glass in the picture. Someone whisked it out of my hand. Once the picture was done, I had to chase it down, chanting "reclaiming my wine!" The day was terrific and I loved the chance to catch up with the whole gang.

We closed out the day piled in a giant half-circle, sleeping dogs draped over half of us, playing games. If my good fortune holds, I'll be sacked out like those dogs in less than 30 minutes. It's a great way to end a superior day.

Manifest Destiny

Inspirational song: Pynk (Janelle Monae)

For most of my adult life, I've gotten up early on Thanksgiving morning, to start a turkey by dawn, following my grandmother's example. I didn't know any other way to behave. It was programmed in me at birth. At my own house we rarely worked ahead on any food items except pies, so to have a feast ready to go by early afternoon, hard work started early that morning. Since I moved back in close proximity to family, I haven't needed to make every single dish myself, and it feels almost decadent to make one or two things and call it a day. Tomorrow, I still have to get up early, because what I'm making will take time to cook, but my workload seems deceptively light. Even if I do all of the things I have on my schedule, it's just baking cookies (the dough for which has been chilling in the fridge, and we have already test baked a handful, and approved them), green bean casserole (homemade sauce and fried onions to keep everything wheat-free), and maybe a set of yeasty dinner rolls for friendsgiving in the evening. I'll have such a small workload, I might even be able to catch some of the parade and dog show. I won't know what to do with myself.

Rather than cooking ahead of time, since it is practically pre-ordained that I would never do such a wise thing, my daughters and I got out and drove around town. The roads were horrible. Beyond horrible. But even with the early going-home traffic this afternoon, it wasn't that bad if one stayed on main roads. We saw a lot of folks who underestimated how well their low-slung sedans were going to muscle through knee-high snowplow slush blocking driveways and alleys. I knew better than to attempt any of that.

Instead of our regular Wednesday night game, we took it next door and swapped out a few participants. Some regular members were missing to visit family, and others were here visiting us. We played board games and video games, including a dice game we used to play compulsively back in college called Cosmic Wimpout. We started out with Donner Dinner Party, and all three rounds I was one of the two cannibals who had to try to stay disguised in order wipe out the party before they could be rescued. All three rounds no one was sure enough about my role to vote me out. So technically I won all three rounds. It was literally exhausting to me to carry on the deception, but I kept getting dealt the same role card. It was my destiny to be the evil cannibal. It seems to be a theme this quarter.

Thanksgiving Nachos

Inspirational song: My Hometown (Charlie Robison)

And now all is right in the world, for one cold night. It snowed to beat the band last night, as they predicted it would. We topped out just over a foot. I believe the measurement on our big cube of a compost holder was 13.5 inches. As a bonus, it's heavy wet snow. It meant that it was a drag for the Mr to shovel multiple times, but it also means that the ground will get a thorough soaking as it melts over the next week or two. I'm always down for free water from the sky in my yard. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep overnight, waking dozens of times to check out the window (and toss and turn and never find the proper sleep temperature for my body). When I gave up on sleep and made a fresh pot of coffee around 8 this morning, the snowfall was mostly over. A few flakes blew around this evening, but really, it's done until Friday.

The airport in Denver was shut down overnight, but it opened back up mid-day. My daughter's rescheduled flight in was delayed an additional hour, but eventually she landed and took the bus up the highway to Boulder. We picked her up on the south end of town, and drove through a few neighborhoods, looking at the lights. The star on the Flatirons is a family favorite (I've told that story before, I think), and we went around the Hill, Pearl Street, and around to where we could see the Bandshell. I got a few pictures, but I was more interested in talking than photography.

We had a nice, quiet evening at home. We pooled efforts on dinner, which turned out very well despite a spicing accident. (In a dimly lit cabinet, ground cloves look like the same color as chili powder. Luckily, they don't spoil a taco seasoning when there's enough other stuff to cover it.) We made hot toddys and watched The Mandalorian. Relaxing was the top item on the menu.

Monkey's Paw

Inspirational song: Snow (Rosemary Clooney)

Be careful what you wish for. Yeah, yeah. I've claimed to have learned this lesson several times over. I never really have. How many times since we moved back to Colorado have I whined out loud about wanting a huge snowstorm? There is one outside my window right now. It's beautiful and cold and dangerous, and I love it. But it's also making me just a wee bit miffed. (No, for real, I'm actually annoyed.) Number one child is supposed to be on a flight right now. She should have been airborne, on her way here. She bought a ticket on the red-eye, and would have landed four hours from now. The plan was to take a bus to Boulder, so that everyone involved (her and us) could sleep a little longer, and then her dad was going to pick her up and take her to a gluten-containing breakfast while I slept in a little more.

As the time for the storm approached, there were wild guesses of how severe it was going to be. I had a hard time believing that we here in the shadow of Long's Peak would get all that much accumulation. We usually get the least amount of snow in the whole region. But this storm kind of blew in from the southwest, avoiding that particular mountain, and allowing us to join in the fun. In fact, at the 5 o'clock local news forecast, they thought we would get something like a foot and a half up here. By the 10 o'clock, that had come down some, and the last time I looked it was down even more. But it is still snowing to beat the band out there.

Kid managed to get rescheduled on a later flight. She'll be here about half a day later, but still here. I can't be too mad. We were going to go to Rotary together, but even that was canceled for the storm. The time crunch doesn't exist anymore. She ought to be here for the holiday, and that's the point.

I went outside around 11 this evening, to get some baseline photos of snow depth. I'll have something to compare to tomorrow morning, to see whether it really comes down as predicted. I think they said the heaviest will be from around 3 to 5 am. If I have to pay with a half day less with my family, then I'd like it to be that heavy snow I always ask for.

Bell Epoch

Inspirational song: Do You Want to Build a Snowman (Frozen)

While it’s not fair to say this day was a total waste, I don’t want to make it seem better than it was. Either something I ate in the last few days was plotting to take me out, or a stomach bug decided that my time had come. No one needs to hear the specifics, but suffice it to say my money is on the stomach bug. Thankfully it appears to be of the 24-hour variety, and I expect tomorrow to be much more valuable.

We will have to be up and at ‘em early tomorrow, to get everything done before our daughter arrives for the holiday. I’ll need to do my grocery shopping early too. A monster storm is due by nightfall, just in time for us to worry about the airport running on schedule. So naturally, knowing I need to get up early, I’ve stayed up late, delaying my responsibilities. I’ve been gorging myself at a Kristen Bell smorgasbord. I watched about half of Frozen on the new Disney app before we settled in to marathon more Good Place. We are now about waist deep in season 2. A great distraction from my stomach bug, but not helpful for long term self care. More rest is on tap to heal the rest of the way.

Holiday Crush

Inspirational song: Shout (Wash Park)

Through most of the time that the tickets were on sale, I didn’t expect that we were going to go to the annual rotary holiday ball. We still didn’t have a renter (or even an idea when our condo would be fixed up to rent) when they went up, and although we said we’d get tix once that was done, we just didn’t do it. We kept having surprise bills come in (hello, Murray), and my energy levels fluctuated wildly. This last week, a very kind friend came up to me at the meeting, and said she had two extra tickets from the whole table the hospital foundation bought, and I should seriously say yes already and take them. I agreed. I more informed the Mr we were going than asked, but he didn’t fight me too hard on it. I promised him we didn’t have to dress too fancy, and that sealed the deal.

The same eleven-member cover band as last year performed. I enjoyed them every bit as much this year as before. My ears are still ringing (more than usual). I didn’t get all the way onto the dance floor, just to avoid a sudden change in position if my balance or energy were to cut out on me in the heat of the crush. I did, however, stand next to our little table, grooving away through both sets. I can pretend I danced, even if my feet barely left the floor, and I rested my hand on the back of a barstool for most of it. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. This was dancing.

We may have gone casual this year, but looking around the room at how a bunch of the ladies were dressed, I’m going to make myself a promise for the future. Next time, I’m going to wear sequins and/or beads. The lighting was just right, and I wanted to be sparkly just like those other women. Next time.

The Show

Inspirational song: I’d Love to Change the World (Ten Years After)

Summertime in Clovis was interesting. The Junebug population would bloom, and they inevitably ended up on our front porch, attracted to the lights from both the porch and from the inside of the house. Oddly, they never seemed to accumulate, even during those weeks when they were the most plentiful. We quickly learned why.

It was ten years ago, with an entirely different crew of cats, only one of whom is still alive, living quietly but triumphantly now in California. We lived in a peaceful, aging golf course community in that small New Mexico town, and we were comfortable leaving the front door wide open all evening, and the full glass storm door let the foyer light spill out onto the porch. We noticed that the cats spent hours at a stretch perfectly still, staring out the storm door into the dark. Smacky, the one surviving cat from that group, was particularly fascinated by whatever was out there. We started dimming lights in the foyer, switching to the outside porch light more frequently. It was then we realized there were always toads—lots of toads. All sizes. They camped on our porch and front walk, waiting for the Junebugs. Some of those creepy suckers were as big as dinner plates. The cats didn’t seem intimidated though. They loved the Toad Show. We left the door open as long as possible so they could watch.

A decade later, with a whole different family of cats, and we don’t have a toad show anymore. At first we only had the Bird Show (or in internet parlance, “Birb Show”). That was fun, and we liked feeding them, especially in the winter. It wasn’t long before the squirrels figured out 1) that the food was unlimited in this yard and 2) where the food refills came from. I can’t tell you how many mornings now that I walk past with my coffee cup, and see a little face peeking in my sliding glass door. The smarty-pants always stands on her hind legs, clasping her paws together, looking into my dining room wondering whether there will be refills at the breakfast bar. She doesn’t give a flying walnut that there are faces staring back at her with blood in their eyes. If Elsa would stop getting muddy footprints on the glass door (she gets overly excited about breakfast too), I could get a clear picture of the Squirrel Show. I did capture a couple blurry shots of her facing off with Harvey and Athena. Well, they were watching. Squirrel didn’t care.

Denied

Inspirational song: Christmas Scat (Muppet Christmas Carol)

A storm is approaching. It’s too early to know how bad it’s going to be yet. It appears I will be wading through insurance denial hell. I’m anticipating being very angry and very upset, by varying degrees. I’m starting with angry, because this is something that is long since completed, and as with everything, when I agreed to it, it was with an “if insurance approves” caveat. It was finished in May, and I only just now found out there was a problem. Two denials, and no one said an effing word. When I know more, I’ll explain more fully. I don’t yet know whether I will be charged the full amount.

It came when I was at a weak moment, so I am going to wait until I’m more rested to figure it out. My rheumatologist took blood from me today, more than usual because of my report of a very bad quarter. Any quantity more than one small vial of blood, and my whole day is wrecked. I had to do a loop and a half around Costco on the way home, and then carry in what I bought. By the third trip in from the car (I didn’t buy that much, I just didn’t get a box and I can’t lift much anymore), I was ready for a serious rest. A couple of hours later, I was woken with a thick letter from Health Net ruining the rest of my day.

I’m pretty sure I had something much nicer to write about when I started kicking around ideas this morning. All of that went out the window. Fingers crossed for a decent resolution, so I can reset and write about positive things soon.

Glass Raising

Inspirational song: Party Rock Anthem (LMFAO)

Pacing is good, but it isn’t enough every time. The schedule didn’t seem so full, from a distance. I thought all I needed to do was tidy the house before the smaller game group, and then hang out in my basement in pajamas for a few hours. Not how it all fell out today.

I did enough cleaning to feel good about myself. I managed that, at least. Bedroom is in great shape, kitchen partway there, living room started. I rested along the way, and was only about an hour past time to eat before I got around to it. (I started getting shaky and clumsy and covered the stovetop in a formerly perfectly cooked egg.) Then all the plans changed. I was reminded that there was a social downtown, and I was expected to attend. I had planned on not making dinner for the crew tonight, and right after I waved off, my foster daughter picked up the standard and kept charging forward. She provided a hearty dinner. I just had to wait for it. So when I went to the social, and had a single margarita, my belly was completely empty. It took a little longer than normal to be able to drive home. It meant having a better time chatting with the rotarians, but it made me pressed for time on the back end.

The game was next door, which we hadn’t done in a while. But it was snowy, and T said it sure would be nice if he didn’t have to leave his dogs locked up in the bedroom for hours while we played. On warm nights, they can stay out in the yard late. On a night like this, they needed the freedom to wrestle all over the house, and show off for company how well they can rip the stuffing out of their newest toys. I like being over there, but it’s a less controlled environment for me to be in while I eat. It’s always a crap shoot. (Sorry about the double entendre.) Between the booze, the food, the environment, and the end of a long day, I wore the heck out. I was so glad when we reached a stopping point at quarter of ten. My body and mind were tired, but my tummy had an hour of yelling at me to do (so far). (Might have been the combination of tequila and mead.) I see the rheumatologist tomorrow, so maybe it’s a good thing I feel awful tonight, so I am reminded of the things I need to cover with her.

Now, I have to convince myself to get back out of bed to figure out where I left my phone. I have a couple of pictures to upload, including the evidence that I ran a test color through my hair. It’s just a colored hairspray, but it was bright pink, and it was so right it made the super short hair look like I had cut it that way on purpose. I might actually get a permanent hair color this week, and do it for real. As it was, I already washed it back out. We shall see whether I get inspired to go back to the beauty supply shop.

My Noggin

Inspirational song: Making Our Dreams Come True (Cyndi Grecco)

It was the late 1970s or early 1980s. I really can’t pin down a year. I was becoming aware of how important it was to pay attention to the TV commercials starting in mid-November, waiting for the first appearance of the BC Clark ad. That ad, with that world-class jingle, heralds the start of the Christmas season in Oklahoma. To this day, if anyone tells you they lived in Oklahoma and they can’t drop everything and sing the song on the spot, they are lying to you about their past. Don’t trust them.

There was a new ad for a certain brand of soda that year. It showed cheerful family gatherings, in rooms full of Christmas decorations, with tons of food and drink on display. In my memory, the color palette was a mix of warm golds, greens, and browns that I will forever associate with late 70s/early 80s holidays. I don’t think there was an explicit suggestion to combine that brand of soda—Sprite—with the other holiday beverage—eggnog, but in my adolescent head, that ad planted the idea to try it. Now, before you immediately turn away, trying not to gag, hear me out. At that time in history, or more specifically in pop culture, it wasn’t unheard of to mix dairy beverages and soda. Did we not watch Shirley of Laverne and Shirley mix milk and Pepsi frequently on prime time TV? And who among us (other than the severely lactose intolerant) hasn’t had a root beer float? These things work, people!

So I’m approaching forty years of mixing eggnog and Sprite during the holidays. That weird concoction that I created after misinterpreting a schmaltzy Sprite ad turned out to be so good it became the first Christmas tradition I invented for myself. I convinced my husband and kids to try it, and while they aren’t as into it as I am, they didn’t hate it. At least they didn’t admit it to my face if they did, and they sure don’t groan and make faces when I consume it in front of them. My younger daughter even reminded me to pick up Sprite last week when we got eggnog for the last game night. I didn’t get it until tonight when she and I went shopping together.

I don’t usually add booze to my eggnog. I just don’t like it that way. I either thin it 50/50 with regular milk and top it with squirty whipped cream and nutmeg, or I do this Sprite thing. Tonight, after walking too much with the kiddo and inflaming all my soft tissues, I took it with something to make the pain go away so I can sleep. The tramadol might stop my legs from burning and stinging (hopefully soon), but the first dose of nostalgia packs a stronger punch. I’m feeling awfully good tonight in the ways that count.

Mediocrity

Inspirational song: Well-Respected Man (The Kinks)

Midnight is fast approaching, and I really want to go to sleep. I’m back in my familiar spot, wasting hour after hour that I could be sleeping, wondering what the hell I could possibly come up with to sound interesting. I’ve been super boring for ages, and in the last several days, I stepped up my purely average game. I’m usually sitting quietly, crocheting. Or I’m washing dishes. Or I’m cheering at football on television. Or I’m glued to live congressional hearings. I’m not doing anything exciting to inspire breathless essays. I can’t even keep the neighbor dogs entertained. While T and I hooted and hollered at Monday night football, a rotating trio of dogs tried to claim my lap. They eventually gave up on me, and sacked out near me. A last-seconds-of-the-game interception in the end zone to hold on to a win wasn’t enough of a loud moment to stir Jasper. When you can bore a standard poodle this thoroughly, you can never claim to be an interesting human. Them’s the rules.

Making

Inspirational song: Angry Eyes (Loggins and Messina)

How did we manage in the days before Pinterest? Even good old Google has nothing on Pinterest for ease of organization and comparison for crafts and cooking. I've stepped up my creativity by several orders of magnitude since joining that site.

I've managed to create my own gluten-free version of cream of whatever soup (I'd refer to it generically as cream of mushroom, but I don't eat fungus voluntarily), based on recipes I've known by heart since I was a kid. Most of the time, it's pretty good. As Thanksgiving approaches, my mind turns longingly to green bean casserole, and I've been considering making it to bring to the big family dinner in Boulder. The one thing holding me back was the traditional onion topping for it. I've tried a couple different methods to put onions on top without buying the wheat-covered ones. I failed multiple times. They usually came out greasy, limp, and burned. Today I had a practice run based on Pinterest research. I soaked thinly sliced onions in buttermilk (just milk and vinegar, actually), dredged them in GF flour, corn meal, and seasoned salt, and fried them in coconut oil. Instant success! The test casserole was nothing special, just a can of GF cream of chicken soup over canned beans. The onions were the variable. After years of struggling to properly replicate one of the best parts of Thanksgiving dinner, I finally have the easy method of doing it right. I just had to watch one little video.

I'm still having fun crocheting my way through Pinterest too. Not all of the patterns are free, but there are plenty to choose from that are. For the first time, I'm trying to create a stuffed toy. (I'm not worried about talking publicly about this one--I am absolutely certain the person I plan to give it to does not currently read this blog.) I only learned how to make dimensional shapes with a magic circle last week when I made those slippers. For a second attempt at that method, I'm pleased so far. But this toy is supposed to have a face on it. I tried stitching one with embroidery floss. I'm not sure I like it so much. I didn't like the one in the picture on the pattern, and I didn't have "safety eyes," whatever those are. I tried to satin stitch what I thought were the right shaped eyes for the animal this will be. I think instead I just made it look scary. I'll go ahead and finish it, but if it comes out creepy, I might not give it away.

Rehome

Inspirational song: What Is Love (Haddaway)

The wild animal rescue place put out an online request. They needed people who had yards with trees to take baby squirrels who were done with rehabilitation and needed to be released into the wild. Now, I try not to talk it up much, because it makes us sound like the crazy people on the block, but Smith Park West is squirrel-friendly. It started when we decided we were okay with them stuffing their faces at the bird feeders. They were as worthy of sustenance as birds, we reasoned. Then we started leaving out the sunflower seeds or roasted nuts that had sat in the pantry too long and gotten stale. Now we have fat resident squirrels who peer in the windows, not afraid of the cats at all. At this point, all I ask is that they don’t ever come in the house, or get so close to scratch or bite any of us.

Mid-day Mr S-P drove off to the rescue place. He returned with a pine box with holes on either side covered over with wire mesh. He set a bracing board high up in the chokecherry tree, wedged in the branches, and then hung the box on that with a couple sturdy screws. He pulled off the mesh, and we waited. A few hours later, I was out in the hot tub, trying to ease some aches and pains, watching three juvenile squirrels decide they might like this tree business after all, even if there is a barky thing in a cart that jingles below them. They discovered the dry raspberry canes against the fence and the half-eaten jack-o-lantern on the saw table. They hadn’t made it as far as the bird feeders by the time bad weather blew in and I gave up on the stakeout. I took a video of them when the were first getting brave and venturing beyond the confines of their box. By the time I had decided to call them Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, it was too dark to film.

I have some off-topic advice. Get all of your vaccinations. Friday afternoon, I showed up at my pharmacy with absolutely zero information about the shingles vaccine, other than it was covered by insurance and recommended by my rheumatologist. The pharmacist would never lie to me (even if her license didn’t depend on it), and she warned me it would make me feel crappy. Truth. Between blood draw, flu shot, and shingles vaccine, my right arm feels like I put it through a wood chipper. My whole body has been run over by a tractor, I swear. But I’ve been told this only lasts a couple of days. It will be worth it never to get shingles. A close family member (who hasn’t given me permission to say which one) went through it a few months ago, and was miserable. My grandmother went through it years ago, and it was one of the few ailments she ever complained about to me. When I was in fourth grade, it took a solid three weeks to get over the chickenpox. Not about to find out how long it would take if that virus came back for round two.

Early Preparation

Inspirational song: There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays (Perry Como)

While it was mostly possible to ignore certain aisles at the stores I frequent, walking right past candy and ribbons and bows and twinkling lights without stopping (okay, no, I stopped a little bit at the twinkling lights), the sign I saw this afternoon when I went to buy salad veggies stopped me in my tracks. My local grocery store has thrown down the gauntlet, and I am steeling myself to pick it up. They had a "Christmas trees -- coming soon!" sign out front. Now, I won't be buying a tree, not since we've started culling little spindly trees from our mountain property for the cost of a trip to the claim, but I think I'm ready to start thinking about decorating in general. I found myself in this mood last year around this time, but the illness was building to crisis levels, and my energy ran out before I got too far down that road. I am not ready to dig in the garage for the decorations yet, but I'm ready to make a plan. I want to have it in place so that when I hit that moment during Thanksgiving weekend and feel the urge, I don't have to resist it. I will not be shamed or bullied into losing the holiday spirit.

I've already started completing craft projects that I can't photograph and put online. I've shared some of the works in progress with the family members they're intended for, but I have my secrets too. And that's the problem. I am the worst secret keeper in the world. I just finished something tonight, while the Mr and I were getting him caught up to the episode where I stopped watching the Good Place, so we can go forward together. The thing I made was Really Freaking Cute. And I want it to be a surprise, so I can't show it off. Secrets are hard.

Some random person on Twitter, one I do not follow, but someone I do retweeted, tried to pose a viral question. It went something like "the decade ends in a month, and I failed to do (x)." I was totally taken aback. It really hadn't occurred to me that the decade was ending so soon. I just wasn't looking at it in those terms. How far I have come. When I was a little kid, and the 1970s were ending, I was utterly terrified of the 1980s. I don't know what I imagined was going to change, but it honestly scared me. We were hurtling to the future, and it was too much for me back then. Later on, I laughed a lot at Y2K preppers, but I did allow a tiny spot in the back of my mind to wonder whether our electronics would reset properly. Now here we are six weeks from the 20s, and it was so unimportant to me that I didn't even notice it was close. I'm going to take that as proof of personal growth.

Routine

Inspirational song: Getting Better (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band)

Overall, recovery has been swift and encouraging. I’m feeling so good so often that I wonder whether all the bad times were just an unpleasant dream I had over the summer. Objectively, I had a way easier time than lots of people I know, even when one takes into consideration two rounds of severe neutropenia at the end of chemo. As fall fades into winter, my periods of energy are stronger, longer, and more frequent. Plus, I’m discovering that the mottled gray-blonde fuzz sprouting on my head is a color I can live with, and I didn’t even have to suffer through an embarrassing grow-out phase while the dye line reached a length where I could cut it off.

This is not to say I don’t have setbacks. While energy is good, it’s good. But when it runs out, I drop like a marionette whose strings were cut. Pain is a constant companion while I wait for the lupus drugs to catch back up after taking a summer off of them. (Plaquenil takes an average of six months to reach proper concentration in the blood stream, so to speak, for full effect, and I’m about two months into a routine again.) To be perfectly frank, even when I’m smiling and chatting animatedly with my friends, I’m just pretending that inflammation isn’t burning me up inside. It’s a blast from the past to most of my adult life, before diagnosis, when nobody knew what was making me so irritable and easily tired. I had coping skills that thankfully didn’t involve recreational pharmaceuticals, and I’m dusting them off now.

I let myself fly too high this week, going out and actually doing things several days in a row. This morning felt like a nasty hangover, and I had to sleep on and off for hours, even after I’d technically gotten up and had coffee. I made myself stay home, even after learning that my insurance will indeed cover the shingles vaccine 100%, and the pharmacy is putting my name on a couple of vials of it. (Gotta get that done tomorrow—I had chicken pox bad as a kid, and I’ve had multiple family members tell me how awful it is to get shingles later in life.) Pacing has never been my strong suit, so the safe bet is that I’ll spend too much time taking it easy, get bored, try to tackle too much all at once, and flare out again. This cycle repeats endlessly.

Cut Above

Inspirational song: Mrs Robinson (Simon and Garfunkel)

Over twenty years as an Air Force spouse, offering up my home and talents to an ever-evolving cadre of fellow travelers, I have collected an enormous variety of entertaining paraphernalia. I have more than a dozen platters, scores of fancy bowls in every shape and size, cheese boards and knives, wine glasses, beer glasses, whisky glasses, and more specialty utensils than I could ever count. Most of them have a story for me. I don’t want to ditch them, not by any means. But they take up storage space, and I start to question my economic choices when they sit around in the cabinets doing nothing. It takes a lot of metaphorical spoons to make a big dinner for our group every Wednesday night, and while I’m really good at budgeting, it does add up to real money once in a while. Some nights I encourage pot luck, sometimes I let one of the kids run the show. Then nights like this come along where I choose a low-energy, high-cost menu that sends me digging out all those fancy platters and cute side bowls and cheese knives and honey dippers.... “Cooking” was easy. I had to chop and pour and carry plates downstairs over five or six trips, and that was it. Other than the stairs, this was one of the easiest meals, while also being among the fanciest with the best variety for every taste. Charcuterie night for the win.

The meal was planned for weeks, but it felt like a spontaneous celebration. I got great news this morning. I was graduated past yet another milestone in my breast cancer journey. For the second time this week, I was in the cancer center for follow ups. My surgeon has just ported her practice over to the cancer center, so not only was it a little weird to see her for the first time since May, but also to see her in the exam room covered in the artwork of the oncologist’s young children. She looked over my chart to see what had happened since she worked her magic on me, asked why it took so long for radiation (they said chemo first, duh), and then she checked to see how my half-breast had healed. She was sympathetic when I said I was uncomfortable with how the scar had formed corners on my breast, and she agreed that when the plastic surgeon gets ahold of me, he will be able to put a prettier shape on things, and to create a faux nipple to replace the one that was removed. They will then reduce the right side to match. The surgeon and the nurse-advocate I spoke with repeated what I’ve heard from multiple people: I will never regret having a reduction. I can’t wait (although I will need to wait at least until March). I’m looking forward to better posture, a chance at less back pain, and to feel comfortable and confident going braless for the first time since college. There wasn’t much of a chance that the surgeon was going to tell me I wasn’t a candidate for reconstruction, but it was still a non-zero chance. I am so relieved and happy to have this one last puzzle piece in place. The journey was hard, but it was not nearly as rough as it could have been, and I am on the very last lap, I think. What a good day to hear such news.

Roaming

Inspirational song: The Wanderer (Dion)

At this time of year, afternoon sunlight is just brutal for me. The angle just pierces through my brain, if I am anywhere the light can touch me. It has directed my life choices since I was a small child. It was for this reason I was hiding away in my bedroom on the east side of my house this afternoon, waiting for the sun to approach the horizon, so I could emerge and feed my animals dinner. My phone buzzed. From the college, I get a text from the Mr, forwarding a message from the city animal control officer. She had Elsa, and was parked in front of my house to drop her off. Her papa failed to close the gate, and she saw it standing open and went for a walk. She made it three blocks away, to a super busy intersection before someone snagged her. If I understand correctly, someone other than the person who caught her was the one who called animal control. It was obvious she wasn’t a stray. Very few homeless dogs wander the neighborhood in pink fleece-lined coats. I am glad our animal control lady was a good critical thinker, who called us rather than taking her to the shelter. Elsa is an old lady who needs medication at every meal. I would have been hysterical if I had gone outside after sunset, to find Elsa missing and the gate open. I would have had to wait until the next day to see whether she was at the pound. What went through her mind, to leave the yard at dinner time? It was entirely out of character.

With all the commotion, I failed to take a new picture of her. I thought, I'll just pull one from my archives. Only now do I realize she is probably the least photographed of my animals. The two cute ones I found were from 2018. What kind of monster am I? I think I need to step up and be a proper mama. I'll work on expanding Elsa's portfolio starting this week. I'll regret it if I don't.

Uniform of the Day

Inspirational song: Thank You (Led Zeppelin)

Parking was a trick at the restaurant. It was partly our own fault for trying to go to lunch right at noon. But there was most likely not going to be a slow time to eat today, no matter when we tried to go out. Sometime in the last decade or so, it has become a common thing to serve veterans free meals on Veteran's Day. That's the reason the four of us were out today, in search of big chicken fried steaks and bottomless baskets of yeast rolls for our military men. T picked us up wearing his navy pea coat and a cap from the submarine he served on. To match him, the Mr grabbed a NATO cap from one of his deployments. They fit right in with the crowd waiting for a table just like us. There were a bunch of gentlemen out with Vietnam veteran caps, and at least one in our line of sight in a World War II hat. If there were women who were veterans at the restaurant at the same time as us, they all must have decided that ball caps were not the fashion choice for the day. They were there incognito.

There was a little bonding going on in the waiting area, and on the way in and out of the restaurant. It was pretty cool watching the guys have a chance to reminisce a little with strangers who have a common history, and take time to tease veterans from competing branches of the military. I see that particular behavior never goes out of style. They did pause to contemplate whether it was appropriate to wish someone a "happy" Veteran's Day. While it's out of place to attach that to Memorial Day, maybe it's not so bad to say that on a day dedicated to recognizing and thanking people who were willing to take the risks and sacrifices these men and woman did for us. It's faster and easier than spelling it out more clearly as "we see you and offer respect and gratitude on Veteran's Day." Quicker to say in passing: Happy Veteran's Day.

Sisters and Brothers

Inspirational song: We Are Family (Sister Sledge)

Our neighbor T's sister is in town this weekend. We've gotten to know her pretty well over the last few years of living next door. She's come to visit at least half a dozen times, maybe more. Going over to hang out for a day of football, food, and video games with her around is relaxing and happy. No "will we get along" stress. We know we like each other. Today was no different.

We had planned on making an elaborate dinner. The guest list was supposed to be a little bigger, but people dropped off as circumstances changed. By the time we settled on the couch for the early football game, it was down to me and T's sister paging through a French cookbook that she had recently bought, making plans for dinner for four. She said they had kind of wanted to make coq au vin, and when my eyes lit up and I said I'd been meaning to try that for weeks, we re-established it as our entree. And then the magic happened: she took over and did all the prep work. The only thing I contributed was coming back to my own kitchen for gluten-free flour and thyme. It's so rare that other people cook for me, and it was glorious. We even took a mid-afternoon break while the chicken marinated, where all four of us took naps and worked to forget the sad ending to that football game. Before we went back next door, Mr S-P took the reins for our meal offering, making mashed potatoes so I didn't have to. Food was fantastic and not having to cook or clean for it was miraculous.

We closed out the evening playing all kinds of video games. Of course we teased T during each game. We always do. At some point, listening to this, his sister said, "Thank goodness he has 'family' here." I agreed whole-heartedly, and said yes, he's everybody's little brother now. She can claim he was her little brother first, but she's fine with sharing him with all of us.

Good

Inspirational song: Almost Paradise (Mike Reno)

It took until nearly one in the morning, but now I regret my choices. At least a little. Just a little. Okay, not really at all, but at this moment, it hurts even if I have no regrets. I shouldn't be awake this late. I should have stopped what I was doing hours ago, but I just couldn't.

For most of the day, I did the things I had promised. I listened to the game on KOA online, and did dishes and laundry to stop from overstressing until my team won a very close game. (Buffs actually won! There are so few times I can say that about football. Maybe I should plan on watching the basketball team instead for a better storyline.) When I sat and took breaks, I finished the brightly colored blanket I was making for my daughter. This crochet project was smaller than most of the ones I attempt, a narrower lap blanket, and it reached a desirable length much sooner than I'm used to. Out of the blue, my mom sent me a crochet pattern book yesterday (which just happened to contain a pattern for something she would love for Christmas). It came at just the right time. I have been working for the last three or four hours trying to figure out how to make a magic ring work with a chenille velvet yarn. (Hint: it's not as easy as one would think.) I had a giant sock toe made, and decided it was far too big for me. So I unraveled it, accidentally putting a knot in the end, and then struggling for an hour to restart a magic ring. I eventually gave up on it and faked it. I only just reached the same row right before I realized how late it was and started to write.

I resisted Netflix for decades. I was determined not to like it, for reasons that are really dumb. (It's a 20 year grudge against pop up ads. No, really.) When Stranger Things came out, I relaxed my lifetime ban of Netflix, and borrowed someone's login (like you do). Until now, I had managed not to binge too badly on anything. We watched a few episodes of Stranger Things at one go, but never more than about three at a time, and no other shows really caught us like that one. My record of never marathoning a series is now ruined. I just watched the entire first season of The Good Place. I let that one go past me years ago, only hearing later that it was something I'd probably like. I smiled and nodded long enough. Tonight I started watching, and I loved it. For the first time, I had to click through the "are you still watching this" messages. I feel like I've passed some sort of milestone, but I really don't know what it is. Maybe I'll figure that out tomorrow, if I move on to season two.

Fair Weather Friend

Inspirational song: I’m Going Home (Rocky Horror Picture Show)

They announced the date for homecoming weekend months ago, and I thought, “Second weekend in November? What were they thinking? It will be freezing! And probably snowing!” Well, I was wrong. Looks like it will be extraordinarily good weather—sunny, clear, and warm. It will also be two alumni short. Neither I nor my daughter are attending this year.

Starting with my fortieth birthday, I have gotten as a gift or given myself tickets to at least one CU football game every single year. It was a tradition I cherished even during all those years that the team has struggled. This year isn’t an exception on that score (pun intended). The team started out strong, but once they stumbled, they never fully regained their footing. That’s not the reason I’m skipping a live football game this year. It’s not directly a result of my health, either. I’m probably strong enough to go to a game, leaving aside the extra effort involved in trying to play piccolo in the stands, marching in the parade, or that one year I made it to march on the field. Sitting in the sun for hours is a whole other issue, though. I think all of my prescriptions are having a cumulative effect on photosensitivity. Once the sun comes out, I can barely stand by a window.

So when the homecoming game is on, I’ll be in my shady house, listening to the Voice of the Buffs on the radio. (DirecTV still doesn’t carry PAC-12 network. After all these years, I doubt they ever will.) I’ll carry on in my grandmother’s footsteps, and when the stress of my team’s poor performance gets to me, I’ll clean my kitchen while the radio plays in the other room. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to hear the band in the background, as I usually can. It would have been cool to be a part of it, but this is not my year.