Curse you, Red Baron!

The plane's tires skittered along the grass runway, and I could feel every weed, every divot, every clump as it gathered not-near-enough-speed, its propeller straining, the engine whining, the wind in my face... I wondered if I should not have believed the "one or two passengers" ad, but took comfort in the fact that there were indeed two seatbelts, so surely the plane could hold our weight. Right? RIGHT?

We were in a single-prop, red Waco biplane with no windshield, a la Snoopy and the Red Baron. We were even wearing the same leather headgear and goggles. Snoopy had only the scarf to set him apart from us. This was Bill's early birthday present--early because I couldn't stand the idea of being in an open plane and all the wind we would face in December. Brrrrr... So we picked this beautiful November day, when the leaves were at their peak, and the North Carolina landscape was a riot of color and texture, and our shaky little ride above the tree tops gave us a glorious view.

Of the prison in Butner.

Yep, Bill spotted it straight away. Well, first we took a shaky and rattly flight over Falls Lake, and then turned--wheeee--back toward Butner and Bahama. I say "wheeee" because turning in a plane like that means first you're leaning out the side to see the treetops and lake around you, and then you're SIDEWAYS in the air, and the lake and tree tops are now at your elbow. I had thought all week about how I might die on this flight, how it would be worth it to have done something like this, and how, well, if you gotta go... But now I'm looking at a lake at my ear, and I realize my death is imminent. What was I thinking?

Actually, it feels like you could jump out and land harmlessly in the water. Like a James Bond movie. The lake is there and the trees are there, and it feels like you could just hop out. Until you realize that the weird little lump on the sand over there? That black spot with the yellow around it? It's a HUMAN. And if it looked up and waved at you, you wouldn't be able to tell because it's too far away to distinguish something as small as an arm.

Death. Imminent.

Bill on the other hand, was worried about vomiting. As the plane had been taking off, skittering left and right, I had been sure we would not survive the trip. Bill had no such worries. Not one bit. He was simply worried he would throw up all over the beautiful red plane.

I was reassured, though, that the air in our faces and the smoother ride above the tree line wasn't bothering our stomachs. I felt fine. Absolutely. I was contemplating my demise, but I was not at all worried about my stomach. This was not like a roller coaster ride with swooping ups and downs. This was more like a recliner, while large expanses of landscape coast slowly by on an unimaginable scale. Even the turns--you only knew you were turning because you could see it, with the horizon tilting and the ground coming up on your side. The sensation, though, was all smooth and steady. This was cool, we could handle it.

And indeed, that's when Bill pointed out the prison. A huge white swath cut in to the landscape. Interesting architecture, I must admit. Triangles sit on top of squares, and it's an interesting design from this high up. I imagine (you may notice an emerging theme) that we might crash into the prison, and I think about how ironic that would be for Bill.

We continue along over trees and neighborhoods--the new kind with the ticky-tacky houses in their ticky-tacky rows, looking like Monopoly buildings--and over Lake Michie, and along along along. The air is pushing so hard against the plane that you feel like you can't breathe, except that when you inhale, there's plenty of air and you're fine. The hum of the propeller trying so hard has faded into the background of my brain, and I am actually enjoying the view of Central Carolina life from up here. I am looking for the top of Spruce Pine Lodge, where we will have our wedding next year. I'm hoping I'll recognize it, since it will be on the water, and have a large parking area. I never did find it, but no matter.

The trees were particularly beautiful in one stretch. The leaves were a blanket of soft autumn colors, the overcast sky let us look out across everything without squinting, and I thought I might not die. I might actually get used to this. I had a fleeting thought of pursuing a pilot's license. I remembered the house set along the runway and thought how cool it would be to live at a small airport. I wondered if I could make these people my people.

And then Bill puked.

At first he made the puffy-cheeked puking gesture like he was getting sick. And then I realized it wasn't a gesture.

Ever the gentleman who didn't want to mess up the beautiful plane, he tucked his face into his shirt and kept the mess to a minimum. And then he puked again. This time like he meant it.

Ahhh, such a great birthday present, don't you think?

He chose not to cut the ride short, and we finished out the 30 minutes with Mike, our pilot, unaware of Bill's plight. Eventually we turned back toward the highway, the grass runway visible just on the other side of it. In a few minutes, we had dropped out of the sky with remarkable speed, and were bumpbumpbumping along the grass again.

Mike was shocked to hear Bill had gotten sick. In 25 years of doing this, only three other people have had that honor. Something about the air and there being no windows--people don't get sick when there's plenty of air.

Bill, though, was the first to avoid getting it all over the plane. So there's that.

Anyway, we had fresh clothes in the car, and he changed up and all was well. (Until we got in the car on the way home, and a new wave of pleasekeeptheearthstillforamoment sickness hit him. He spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, and it might be the worst birthday present he's ever had.)

But I still recommend it. I loved it. And I didn't die.

www.carolinabarnstormers.com

September 1st

So it is no longer surprising to me that I might spend a day sitting outside the Wake County jail. With a purpose, no less.

It was a sunny, warm Thursday. Perfect, really, as it started out cool and inviting--the kind of late-summer day in North Carolina that hints at the autumnal delights soon to come. But by mid-morning, I was tanning a line into my arms where my sleeves were, sweat was beading on my neck, and I sought the shade of a scraggly tree at the sidewalk’s edge. I sat there for three hours.

When I had first walked up, I saw the adorable girl approach the frat-boy-looking guy at the next bench. He was barefoot and held his belt in his hands. He looked about 20, in baggy shorts and t-shirt, looking every bit like one of the eight gazillion college kids streaming about the Triangle every fall. She too appeared about 20, and was every inch of adorable, thin, blonde. Her natural-fiber wedges showed off her adorable feet, and her cropped pants and tank top had her looking like a youthful beauty who looked perfect at every occasion. She even looked perfect in front the jail at 9 a.m.

“How long were you in?” she asked our beltless friend. I noticed her wallet and papers in a large ziplock bag next to her. How does she get out of JAIL and still look better dressed than I on my best day?

“I wrecked my car last night. They brought me here.”

Silence as the pieces didn’t add up, and Pretty had to think about it. Beltless seemed to realize it wouldn’t fly. “I got a DUI.”

I passed them both, just as she got up to share his bench, and I wondered who you have to be to be that cute and pick up the barefoot wonder, hungover and dazed, the day after his DUI. I sat at the bench further down the sidewalk. I texted a description of the scene to my friend. He wrote back, “Even Hitler had a girlfriend.”

I read my book for a few minutes while the sun grew stronger, and eventually became aware that Beltless was gone, and Pretty was left alone on her bench. She leaned to her left, where she’d been sitting originally, and started chatting with a stringy guy who had his shoes and belt, but no front teeth. They talked for a while, and he moved over next to her, and I became aware they were exchanging stories of headline-grabbing murders that had happened in town. “Did you hear about those teenagers in Apex who all got together and killed that guy?”

I updated my friend on Pretty being abandoned by Beltless and now talking murder with Stringy, and that they seemed to be hitting it off. He responded, “Love in the ruins.”

They chatted a while, and suddenly I became aware of a loud, insistent honking across the street. A driver, alone at the intersection, leaning on his horn, his purpose unclear since he had no one in front of him except the red light. Pretty, interrupted in her analysis of local brutality, looked up. “DADDY!” she screamed as she leapt to her feet, arms over her head like a gymnast nailing the landing. In seconds she had gathered her things and run across the street. Before she would have finished the sentence she had started, she was in the sedan and they were driving off.

Stringy turned to me, “That girl does NOT belong in jail.” He told me the story of her getting out in 15 days--half of her sentence for multiple DUIs. Stringy, on the other hand, had not been in jail, but had been talking to the clerk of court about a mistake on his driving record. He turned out to be the most functional in the cast of the common-man drama I had just witnessed.

I texted my friend how lucky I am to witness this slice of life. He wrote, “Faulkneresque. If your own family won't have ya then who will?”

And then, “What a world, Jen. What a world.”

Bill and Jen's Most Excellent Adventure

I like best the feeling just on the other side of the swell. You've stood up to your neck in water, and the wave is coming--no breakers, as you've jumped past those and fought the current to get to the part of the ocean where the water is bumpy. You're on your tippy toes, and the wave comes, so you push off the sandy ground and let the water pick you up, and if you relax, it drops you--poff!--on the other side of the wave. That's my favorite part.

And that's why I spent hours of our beach trip in just that place in the ocean, where the water came up to my neck when I stood on tippy toes, and the waves were breaking behind me, and I just let the ocean carry me up and then down(poff!), up and then down(poff!). At Emerald Isle (as opposed to Atlantic Beach where we were the first day), I even found a sweet spot where waves came from the left and from the right, making a corner of swell in the water, and it not only dropped me down(poff!), but a little to the left or to the right. Poffwhoop!

But the ocean was only the sugar glaze on the Krispy Kreme donut that was our entire vacation. From just about the minute we left till we pulled back into our driveway, we had an enchanted time.

We took back roads both ways. If you know of the stretch of highway between here and the coast, you know it's deadly boring and really quite ugly. My friend Robin has seen every mile of I-40 from its origins in Barstow, California, to Wilmington, NC, and she said unequivocally, the ugliest, boringest stretch is that between Raleigh and the coast.

So we forewent the direct route and chose instead Highway 55. The same road that has our Food Lion on it. We went out of our neighborhood and turned right. All the way to the beach!

We passed Billy Bob's (which, we later found out, was a bar, pool hall, hot dog and burger grill, and general store). We passed the billboard for the agent "in tune with your real estate needs" and the picture of him playing saxaphone. We passed the cheesy church signs, the clapboard converted-barn structure with dark stains and a dirt parking lot that advertised itself as a bar, "bikers welcome," in the middle of a field miles from the nearest store, gas station, traffic light or other signs of life. But they advertised Karaoke on Thursday nights, and Bill visibly shuddered at the thought of the "music" emanating from the cracks in those wood boards at midnight.

In some towns, we could see homes torn apart by recent tornadoes--roofs blown off, frames mangled--right next door to untouched homes, still perfect, yards away from badly damaged ones. It was sobering to see them so close to our home.

We passed fields of tobacco and beans and corn. Huge manor-style homes beautifully landscaped separated only with a single row of trees from the trailers and shack-style homes of the Latinos migrating up the region to pick the tobacco as it grows. A "curb-appeal" house got us laughing out loud when we saw that the front of it had been refurbished, freshly painted, bright white with a red door--looked beautiful. But the other visible sides were run down, paint peeling, boards separating, mold growing. Behind the house was what appeared to be a church, in a state of disrepair that matched the sides. The odd juxtaposition caught us both at the same moment as we rounded the curve, and we bust out laughing together.

We also saw chimneys standing without houses, foundations still visible in crop fields, passed tiny white churches with beautiful windows, and old cemeteries gated off in the corners of crop fields.

North Carolina is such a pretty state, and 55 curves, slopes, sweeps through amazing greenery, history, strength, and beauty.

As we approached Carteret, the air grew heavy with the smoke of nearby forest fires, our throats itched, and the smell of ash and burned wood filled the air. Large metal power-line poles (heavy-duty and hurricane "proof") loomed out of the smokey dusk ahead of us, looking every bit like the scenery from a science-fiction movie.

We arrived late Wednesday at the home of Bill and Frances, friends who have generously offered us use of their home. They were still in Hillsborough until tomorrow, and had been for nearly two weeks, so we opened up the house, made sure the power had not been disrupted to the freezer, the digital tv, the internet. We checked on Frances's mom and sister who live nearby, walked down to the dock, threw the net for shrimp, and watched tv. What a glorious day and a relaxing evening!

The next morning we went to the local coffee shop where we'd been before, and over mochas, planned our jaunt to the beach (Bill and Frances live on the sound), and at a local cafe, Bill ate the best corned beef hash ever while I enjoyed my usual eggs, bacon, toast.

We found parking at Atlantic Beach, where the water was perfect--cool when you first get in, but easy to get used to, and the waves broke over our knees and against our tummies, making it easy to push past them to the lull of the swells. We found a sand bar where the water was up to our necks and rode the waves up and down. I was rubbing my face at one point, eyes closed into my fists, when I felt the water pull away from my body until even my waist was in the sun, and I realized with a sinking feeling the size of the wave that must be approaching, sucking the water away. BOOM!! I felt the water crash over me and tug me toward shore, which I let it do, until I could get my feet back under me and stand up, giggling at the picture I must have made, calm and unsuspecting as the wave rose well above my head. I'm basically afraid of water, but I like it anyway. Especially on a day like that when it's perfect.

The next day was Emerald Isle, but also some sight seeing. Bill and Frances had arrived by then, and they told us of a drive through the Croatan National Forest. Oh my!! Pine trees, tall, straight and growing in fields like surreally-sized grass, the forest stretches for 160,000 acres across coastal, sandy planes. We rode for miles, noticing where fires had scorched the brush, where hardwoods were taking hold, and different places where the pine trees were winning, and where the colors danced in the sunlight dappling through the tall stretches of needly green.

We also stopped at Christina's Collectibles, a delightful, pagan-owned store where Christina sells primarily wine, but also has a number of odds and ends, all of which gave us great decorating ideas for the house and envy for crystal and glass chandeliers outside of our price range. We made a mental note to return after we win the lottery, and Bill got completely distracted by Chablis, the lovey cat named for the color of both her fur and her eyes. Who can resist a monochromatic shop cat who loves attention?

Saturday we again took a leisurely route, and this time we headed up to Oriental, NC, where 55 ends. We checked the map in the process, and discovered that 55 peters out in Durham and doesn't pick up again west of here, so we drove almost the entire length of 55, and given the number of times we've driven to the end of 55 here, we figure that counts.

Oriental is an amazing little sailing town cut-and-pasted out of Maine. We agreed to come back one day and spend the weekend in their Captains' Quarters B&B. (Right before we bought another lottery ticket.)

Just before Oriental, though, we were driving on 306 north and the traffic slowed to a stop. Hmmmm... wonder why. Oh! A ferry!!! Bill's first ferry!! How fun! We drove on board, under the watchful eyes of the black-faced gulls, each perched on their own pole in the water until we left dock, when they hitched a ride on the back and side railings. I had forgotten how mesmerizing the water is that splashes up on the front of a boat as it cuts through the current. As a kid I could stare for hours at the rhythmic tossing and foaming against the front edges of the boats my dad took us out on. I did that again that day, sitting on the window of my car with my feet propped against the side of the boat. Bill went off to take photos and I saw him chatting up the little old ladies nearby. He definitely has a way with little old ladies...

It was on the way back that we stopped at Billy Bob's, just outside of Seven Springs. It is a bit of a ramshackle place, with a dirt parking lot, an obviously aging building that's falling apart, and some nice-looking people outside who make you wonder how it is they have nowhere else they need to be. It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday, and inside two men sat at the bar getting drunk. A younger guy obviously had a head-start and was bouncing around manically, talking to anyone who would listen, about his acts of strength and prowess. Bill noted the pool tables in the back, and I sat at the formica table with molded plastic benches while Bill used the rest room. Once we were both at the plastic table, the older gentlemen at the bar stared curiously (and not really nicely) at us, so once Bill's hotdogs were done to his liking (chili, cheese, onions, peppers, ketchup and anything else you can fit on the bun), we stepped outside to eat. The nice gentleman on the porch who had been having a neighborly conversation with the other nice gentleman on the porch teased us about not being allowed to eat inside, and I agreed, "They don't serve our kind here." We walked to a shady spot near our cars, on the edge of a beautiful green pasture with horses and a classic white house with black shutters. The nice gentleman on the porch followed us and struck up a delightfully friendly conversation. Turns out he's Bob of Billy Bob, and Billy, his brother, had started the business with him, but after about six months, the call of the road and his former life as a truck driver, bit him badly, and he left Bob holding the fort with his wife ("but not really 'cuz we never really got married") of eight years. We talked and joked quite a bit, about the horses, about small-town living, about owning a business. It was delightful, and we left feeling uplifted and happy about our state and the country side. In the car we joked about the clientele, the nature of the old fashioned general store, the genuineness of it all. "The bathroom doesn't even have a sink," Bill said, which kind of killed the mood.

Anyway, we wended our way home to find a hungry dawg (he doesn't eat when we leave), and nonchalant cats (Oh. You're back.) It was perfect since the holiday weekend meant we still had two full days to recover from the trip, and in my mind, it was the perfect vacation.

Poff!

Pow. Wow.

I'm partial to the under-seven crowd. I admit it. They were as decked out as their adult counterparts in skins and feathers, brightly colored streamers, and in response to the rhythmic drumming, they bounced. Bounce bounce bounce. Feathers springing, streamers flying, feet sproinging. Bounce bounce bounce.

Hardly as intimidating as the brown-skinned, war-painted fellows who preceded them, but every bit as intent, enthusiastic, and fiercely grimacing. Bounce bounce bounce. Tiny bouncers. Nieces and nephews of all of us. Warriors in the making. Under three feet tall. Strong. Steady. Determined. Bounce bounce bounce.

Seriously, what's not to love?

They were the last to enter the sacred circle in the opening ceremony. Before them came hundreds of warriors. First the Chief of the Lumbee Tribe and another dignitary carrying traditional staffs, then the Native American Veterans, carrying various flags, including the U.S. flag and a POW-MIA flag. Followed by Native American royalty in beautiful dress regalia and impressive headdresses, and then the warriors and dancers from scores of tribes. Over 400 participants filled the circle, surrounded by the heart-thumping drums and distinctive chanting of nearly a dozen singing circles, making this the largest Powwow in the eastern U.S.

I couldn't decide what I liked better--the fancy dancers with the streamers and bouncy feathers, the highly decorated big-bad-warriors with the bone breastplates, huge feather headdresses, face paint and holycrapyou'reterrifying demeanors, or the beautiful (BEEYOOTEEFUL) young warriors with their bare skin, light-tan leathers, tattoos and face paint.

Oh yeah, there were women too--beautiful dresses of many types--the jingles, the suede, the cotton, the shiny, and the staid. All with lovely headdresses, beadwork or animal skins and feathers.

The big-bad-warriors stood seven feet tall (at least) with their headdresses and many had painted their faces beyond recognition, adding to their mystique and the sense that they were killing machines. Well, until one of them smiled broadly and cooed at a tiny baby whose mother had asked for a photo.

The young men (did I mention how beautiful they were??) stopped to pose for our camera, face paint and posture not hiding their polite deference one bit.

I also watched the crowd--locals of Lumberton as well as travelers--piled into the bleachers. I wished to join the participants in spite of the relentless sun and (actually relatively mild for NC) heat. Behind me, a young man--about 13, I'm guessing--with magenta streaks in his short hair flirted with a young girl. I had seen them throughout the day walking among the crowd, and by afternoon they sat next to each other, heads bent together in a deep discussion (what do you think of the new Katy Perry song?), blind to everything around them, their fingers interlaced in innocent romance.

We walked around, met Native American artists, musicians, and practitioners, admired wares, made small purchases, enjoyed recognizing people from prior powwows. I was able to touch base briefly with an old friend who lives in Lumberton. Is it possible we met 23 years ago? He's still handsome and turning heads while we chatted, and it was the true spirit of powwow that we got to reconnect after nearly two years since our last face-to-face.

The dance competitions were amazing, and I learned many new things and left armed with research questions to learn more. When I got separated from Bill, who got closer to take photos, I watched two grandmothers chatting him up. Later he told me that they were commenting on the lack of undergarments among the beautiful young warriors.

My favorite moment, though, was the flash of movement I caught in the opening ceremonies--a staff turned sideways, and a nearby bone weapon turned on its side as well--a flash of tanned skin as two warriors fistbumped a greeting after too long apart, their faces broken into happy grins.

Bright, alert and responsive

I held him close to me and looked into his eyes. They were deeply sunken in, if it's possible for something so small to be deeply anything. They watched me, though, curious, and seemingly oblivious to their own sunken-in state. He is 10-1496. My first turtle. Well, the family had a "pet" turtle when I was a kid. I think he was just a turtle who happened to live in our yard, and I would hang out with him when I was out there. In kid time, it seemed like we had him forever, but it was probably just a few days. And then there was Floyd. I awoke from a nap to stare into the suspended face of Floydtheturtle staring back at me, Ismail standing behind him, "Can I keep him?" We bought him all the necessary accouterment, according to the PetSmart people, but we kept finding him upside down, limbs limp and hanging out, neck bent back... We would right him, and he would perk up a bit and hang out, but in a couple of days he had died. We assume he was dying when we got him because he had not hibernated appropriately that year. But this was my first legit turtle. 10-1496. And he was dehydrated. Hence began my first shift at the Triangle Wildlife Rescue Clinic. In the coming months, over 1,000 baby birds will find their way here, having been rescued from cut-down trees, unfortunate falls from the nest, and a myriad other fates that bring birds to the attention of their human cohabitants, and the babies will come through here needing to be fed every 15 minutes for 20 hours of the day. They start in little "nests" made of plastic baskets lined with paper towels, and then graduate to fledgling cages, pre-flight cages, flight cages, and eventual release as close as possible to where they came from. But on this day, it was too early in the season for the birds, and so here I was, caring for the ten turtles who have been rehabbing here since last year. Turtle shells regenerate, and significant shell injuries can heal over time, but they grow slowly and need a long recovery period. And even once they are healed and nature-ready, timing is important: we can't release them when they should be hibernating, so they convalesce for months at the TWRC. The senior volunteer training me showed me the turtle medical records, in green folders (as opposed to purple for mammals and yellow for birds), and went over the "turtle protocol" with me. These are turtles, people--the medical records are WET. I smile as I realize that no matter where I go, I can't get away from documentation requirements. Ask any social worker you know--we're ALL behind on our notes!! But like all good medical records, this one has a mini mental status exam on it. The senior volunteer says, in all honesty, "Mark here whether the turtle is bright, alert, and responsive, or lethargic and depressed." I think of the countless turtles I've moved from their suicide treks to the yellow line, and how they tuck in as soon as I touch them. I look at the volunteer. "I obviously have a lot to learn about turtles if you are telling me we can assess such a thing..." She laughed. "Oh yeah. You'll see." And sure enough, as soon as she pulls 10-1496 from his cage, he pops his head out, stares intently, looks completely in tune with what's going on. His eyes are sunken in, which is a sign of dehydration, but not unusual. I am struck by his papery skin, which she says is typical. We weigh him, and then place him in a second box which we've filled with an inch of water, that is carefully poured to make sure it's between 75 and 80 degrees. He's meant to soak in there for 20 minutes every day, since turtles don't get their hydration from drinking--they get it soaking. This turtle came with a shell injury and is marked "Cannot be released" because he is also missing a leg. And so I began my rhythm of taking the turtles out of their cages, placing them in their soaking bins, and cleaning their primary cages, which means changing newspaper, replacing water dishes, replacing food dishes. On my first visit, it was not yet spring, and the turtle boxes sat on heating pads. Today, as we prepare them for post-hibernation release, the heating pads have been removed. They were also much more active today. Last time, I met my favorite, "Wild Red," the red guy who, once I replaced him in his primary cage, began climbing on his hide box so he could ssssssllliiiiiiide down it--over and over. Today he was flipping himself over, swimming aggressively in the water, climbing on everything he could to get out of the box. Throughout today's cage cleanings, there were sounds of scritching, climbing, flipping, pushing, nudging, bumping, and insistent escape plans being formed. Someone called about a goose who'd been found limping on a busy Raleigh road. They brought her in, and I got to help with the initial exam. As long as by "help" you mean sit in silence and watch, trying hard not to get in the way. I was really thrilled that they let me sit in--I had assumed they would leave that work to the experts, but they were totally cool about letting me "help." The goose was obviously stressed and might have a broken hip. We gave her fluids, anti-inflammatories, and pain meds. They we put her in the ICU until the NC goose experts could come and get her. When I first got in today, I thought I would get straight to work on the turtles, but I was also let in to the ICU where we had a pileated woodpecker (huge and gorgeous) in a large cage, and the mocking bird brought in yesterday by Becky, the volunteer I was working with today. The mocking bird was "young and stupid," we're guessing, because Becky and her boyfriend were trying hard NOT to hit him with their car, but he was just hellbent on hitting that grate and they had to delay their grocery shopping to bring him to the clinic. Silly birds. But he was gorgeous and full of attitude and looked every bit like the mom in the "Are you my mother?" book, but without the scarf and purse. I also peaked in on the black racer snake who has nearly fully recovered from his injuries and thought of the green guy I found (healthy and well) in my living room the other day. The morning shifts also include preparing the turtle food dishes--little servings of tomato, squash, zucchini, scrambled egg, berries, kale, parrot food (soaked first in water to soften it) and omnivore diet (also soaked). At the end of the shift, everything is carefully scrubbed and soaked in kennesol, a strong veterinary-grade disinfectant. As I forced myself to think carefully about every surface I touched (or more often, didn't touch), and to think so hard about cross-contamination, and as I cut the food into little teeny tiny squares, I thought of the delightful contrast between here and Carolina Tiger Rescue. Going from some of the largest, most aggressive creatures on the planet, to the tiniest, most vulnerable... From the wildest animals native to the literal jungles of Asia and the planes of Africa, to the fellow city-dwellers who hang out in my backyard. I thought about the blocks of ice popped out of the tiger water dishes every winter morning, to the 78-degree mark on the thermometer of the turtle water pitchers. I thought about the feeding sticks at Carolina Tiger Rescue, which we use over and over, with the raw chicken and pork juices on the end, and the 50 different times I scrubbed my hands with sanitizer in one shift at the clinic. And I thought about the efforts being made to save the birds at the clinic while remembering the story of Romeo snatching a snack as it flew by. I guess eventually all the little pieces of my life make up some unified puzzle. Or maybe it really is just a mishmash of crazy things.

Sweet sugary goodness

I lay awake at about 3:30 this morning, an unfortunately frequent occurrence. I was in the bed in the dark, thinking middleofthenight kinds of thoughts, and slowly it dawned on me that my stomach hurt. I wasn't totally aware of it at first, but there it was. A distinctly uncomfortable state squirming its way into my consciousness.

"Why does my stomach hurt?" I tuned in to my belly. "What is that feeling?" hmmm...

Oh!! It's HUNGER! I'm HUNGRY!! Of COURSE I am!! I had a tiny dinner. Like eight hours ago. Hhhuuunnnngggeerrrrr.

I got up. Padded to the kitchen. In the 25-foot trek I thought of the Crunch Berries. Remember them? Captain Crunch, all square and mouth-tearing, and sweet deliciousness. Comingled with the sweet sweet sugar-bombs, round and pink and berrylike. Mmmmm...

One of the many nice things about living with a 43-year-old teenager is that I get to rediscover the simple things.

Like Captain Crunch and his berries.

I took down the box. Got out the bowl. Poured the milk.

The first bite took me straight to the past. Not childhood, for sure, because my mother would never have allowed Captain Crunch. But some feeling of summer vacation, probably college, when sweet cereals meant a carefree weekend for some reason, when all reason and adult decision-making was cast aside to make room for the "vitamin fortified" fluff of junk cereal.

They're different now. The berries are all sorts of colors, and the berry-to-square ratio is much higher. Ah, they always spoil a good thing.

I headed back to the bedroom, and was nearly through the living room when I saw him. He stood in the doorway, hidden, mostly, by the shadow falling diagonally across his body. The darkness and strange shadows hid most of his face. I screamed and jumped back, nearly spilling the crunch.

"You scared me!!!"

Eddie sat between us, his body a tense torpedo, his claws gripping the ground. His eyes, which I couldn't see in the light but imagined, looked from him to me, waiting for the answer. Tense seconds past. I could barely make out his frown in the shadows.

More silence.

I took a bite, but hesitated to chew.

His eyes settled on me. Pure fury.

"You stole my Crunch."

Meh. We'll get more. And I crunch crunch CRUNCHED myself to happiness.

Although he mentioned it again this evening. Apparently, this is serious business.

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Thank you SO MUCH for the Lowe's gift card!!

(What follows is a real, honest-to-goddess, thank-you note that I sent today.) Gene and Cathryn, I want to thank you so much for the Lowe's Gift Card you gave us for Christmas. I have a "real" thank-you note in the works, but it's been hard (no lie) to get the card, a pen, an envelope, my address book and a stamp all in the same place! So before way too much time goes by (I know--it's almost FEBRUARY!!), please accept this email as an expression of my heartfelt thanks. This is how much your gift card means to me... 

You gave us a generous gift of $25. Really, a TREASURE for us. And you know how much I love Lowe's. So we were sitting in the bedroom, debating what to use the gift card for, and I thought, "you know what, this room really needs a new paint job." It was the first room we painted when Ish and I moved in, and now it's got holes where the shelves fell out, and Bill and I have re-arranged furniture, exposing poorly painted places. And I would like to have a different color in the bathroom part. 

So I pulled out all the various paint chips I'd been collecting over the years, and I pulled out the tan colored sheets I would like to use for the accent color, and called Bill over. We agreed we would love a blue, provided it's not "Carolina blue" and we picked out "Chicory"--a nice, bright blue that leans toward navy and not too horribly far from cobalt. But brighter. Cheerier. For the bathroom area, which includes the sink section and the toilet/shower section, we chose "Honey kissed," which is basically a rich butter color. Nice and light for the tight space, but also a great complement to the brown sheets/accent color. 

And with my handy-dandy Lowe's card, I went and got the test cans because I've learned over time that I am horrible at imagining colors, and I need to do a real test section. (The two cans were about $5.) I ran in to Cathryn there, and I was glad to be able to tell her thank-you in person. We are going to paint the bedroom with your gift card! Yay!!! 

I put the chicory on the wall, and the honey kissed test spots, and I LOVE it. SO great. Thank you so much!! There's a little bit of a delay now, though, because really, if we're going to paint this room again, we need to smooth the ceiling. So I set the DVD player to play an astronomy "class" DVD, and I set to smoothing the ceiling. Unfortunately, there's a section over the sink where the ceiling had been patched, before my time, and it can't be smoothed--it will have to be redone. Which is cool, 'cuz Bill is a pro (literally) and has friends who are pros, and well, we'll get it done. And while we're at it, we'll redo the ceiling in the bathroom as well. 

Only, as Bill pointed out, we also need to replace the fan and the light fixture, which we should do while we're doing the ceiling, since we'll need to cut the holes to size. And I realized, as I stood there, that the cabinet under the sink is really wonky, and really, no amount of paint is going to make that cabinet look like new. And frankly, the sink is a kind of non-color. Not white, not a rich color, just kind of bile, blech, icky color, and, well, why don't we run out to Lowe's and see if they have a sink like the one I put in the other bathroom that was only about $125. And so we walked around Lowe's and found a half-dozen sinks with cabinets that were oh-so-cute and 26 inches wide for about $125. But in this bathroom, we really need the wall-to-wall cabinet that is 36 inches wide, and well, those are $500 or more!! That's like $37/inch!! Yikes!!

So why don't we just buy this adorable vessel sink that I love love love, and BUILD a wood cabinet underneath? We can do it!!! (Bill, however, went into a little bit of an apoplectic response at the thought and begged me to come up with a different plan. In the end, though, I won, and we'll have a wood-topped cabinet and a very cool vessel sink.) But hey, while we're here, you know, says Bill, I saw a freezer at Home Depot that was damaged and they were selling it for $150. Let's see if they've got something like that here... 

And so we were hanging out in the fridge and freezer section when we noticed a $700 refrigerator on sale for $300 because it's "damaged" (had a ding on the left side), and then we saw that the freezer that we need, similar to the damaged one at Home Depot, was only $160. So after some debating, we bought them both, especially when I saw that the total energy consumption for the two of them would be about $50/year. (Later I went on the Duke Power website and learned that my fridge is costing about $200/year, so I am looking forward to my savings!!)

So here's the tally so far... 

Refrigerator: $325 (with the hose to hook up the ice maker) 

Freezer: $160 

Paint: $75 (or so) 

Paint supplies: $50 

Adorable vessel sink: $140 

Wood for the cabinet (not including the blood, sweat and tears of making the door): $80

 Faucet (which is so cute and looks like a pump): $109 

Ceiling fan: $60 

Light fixture in the bathroom: $25 

Light fixture over the sink: $30 

New closet door (it has a big hole in it and we can't have that with the "new" room): $20 

New knob for the closet door 'cuz I've always hated that one: $30 

Ceiling repairs, including labor for the plasterer Bill works with: $100 

New hooks because we're getting rid of everything black and going toward brown: $30 

New sheets: $40 

New bedspread: Free (thanks mom!!) 

That comes to $1274. 

And the scary thing is, I'm not even kidding!! This entire email is TRUE!! And so, I sincerely say, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE GIFT CARD!!! Love you guys!!!

The Way it Turned Out

So, somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain lives this alternate life I started living back in my 20s, where I spend languorous Sunday mornings, sleeping in a bit, reading the New York Times Entertainment section or a good book. There's coffee brewing, a light breakfast. In good weather, I'm sitting in jammies on a porch, enjoying the early-morning light with a certain European sensibility that usually involves croissants. In the winter months, these mornings are spent indoors, perhaps a fire in the fireplace, and always, a great cup of coffee. Back in the day when I worked at a video store, I had a customer a lot like me now--same age roughly, same build, brunette... she said she liked to rent movies to watch Sunday morning while having coffee and breakfast in bed. What a great idea!! I often think I'm actually going to achieve these mornings. Some day.

In reality though, it goes something like this...

At my baseline, with no outside influences, I can't sleep through the night, and I certainly couldn't ever sleep in. But nowadays I've got the animal menagerie... Here's Cinnamon, tapping me ever so gently with her paws on my face, "Can I have three bites of food?" So I give her the food dish, she eats three bites of food, and off she goes. I generally fall right back asleep until 15 minutes later when she'd like three more bites of food, and so on through the night.

And there's Decker who has lost his sense of smell and can't find the food dish unless I put it up in his face, so about twice in the night there are the insistent pawsandclaws on any exposed flesh (usually my face), and the "Why do you keep hiding the food dish???" panic until I point out to him that it's RIGHT THERE where it always is.

Tolliver at least is a self serving unit, but for some reason, even though there's a food dish on both night stands now, he always wants the one on the other side of the bed, so there go 12 pounds of feline trotting across the bed, navigating the hilly terrain that is my body.

And the reality is, I really don't mind all the interruptions. I mean, hell, I'm awake anyway... But regardless, these are not the Sunday mornings I once envisioned for myself.

And on this particular Sunday morning, I awoke to four inches of glorious snow and eventually roused myself to feed, medicate, and let outside my friends' dogs, who I was watching for the holiday. The snow meant I was walking, so I layered on two pairs of sox, boots, scarf, hat... the works for the four-block trudge.

And off I went, mine the first foot prints in the snow, crunchcrunchcrunch down the street. Silence. The snow still falling, and each tree a new photo opportunity, each path a classic Christmas card photo with the white glaze and tree branches iced. My camera, of course, sat comfortably useless on the dining room table...

I was almost at my destination when a car pulled up, his window unrolling as he stopped. And if I were living "It's a Wonderful Life," this would be one of those moments when the scene freezes and Clarence narrates about the main character's, well, character...

"You looking for a dog?"

Ah, the fateful words I've heard so often.

Sigh.

"No."

"Well, there's a shepherd up there, he seems really sweet..." I'm approaching the car now, my neon SUCKER FOR A LOST PET sign shining brightly. Dude says he wishes he could take the dog home, you know, given the snow, but he's got a dog of his own (so do I), blah blah blah. I firmly resolve to not look for the dog, but say instead, "Yeah, if I can get him to come to me, I'll grab him. It'll be ok." And dude drives off.

I literally take about two steps away from where the car had stopped, and there he is, all goofy smiles, all snow-trimmed fur, all happy, sweet, easygoing dawg. He walks right up to me with total tail-wagging sweetness. I grab his collar, he falls into step, and we trudge together all the way back to my place, where I drop him in the backyard, awake the MAN OF THE HOUSE, and we make a quick plan to introduce the dogs and keep everyone safe, warm and dry while I trudge off to take care of the pets I was sitting. More trudgetrudgetrudge in the snow.

So much for my resolve. I didn't want to look for him, which the Universe obviously knew, so he came to me. Walked right up. Like he was mine. Walked all the way home with me, like he knew the way.

Sigh.

So now I have this German shepherd, who, it turns out, is ancient and has difficulty walking, especially on the wood floors. His hind end drags unless he's moving in a straight line, and although he can jog and play with Eddie when they're out in the grass, he's really quite pitiful in the house, where his feet twist out from under him and he slides about. But he has a wonderful spirit and great energy, and is all smiley and adorable. His favorite thing to do is sit at Bill's feet and hang out. Of course, being a shepherd, once in position, no one else can get near Bill, so now Eddie is all shaky neurosis that his Daddyhuman has traded him in for a bigger, more chill model. No amount of reassurance and love seems to counteract that worry.

So, we're hoping to find the shepherd's humans. A search of craigslist determined that he'd been out there for several days before I picked him up, and posting our ad with our phone number prompted a call from a rescue lady, who offered to find him a home in case we can't find his owners. So we feel pretty good that he'll have family soon.

But in the meantime, I have the near-constant sound of clawed feet skittering across the floor, a more-neurotic-than-usual dawg, and three terrified cats. Not exactly the peaceful Sundays with coffee and a book. Not exactly...

Flavored Drink

It was probably three weeks ago when Bill announced he would be doing a presentation IN the prison. He and the gentlemen he had been speaking with would be doing a panel presentation to the men awaiting release--a chance to build a hopeful vision for their post-release experience, to warn them of pitfalls, to help them stay focused on success and avoid bouncing back.

Oh, and Jenny, I'm going to need you there with me...

Whoa, what? Run that by me again? IN the prison? You want me to go IN the prison? With you? WHAT?

Which brings us to 6:00 last night when I pull into the parking lot of the Orange County Corrections building in Hillsborough. The razor-wire-trimmed fence was eerily lit by the streetlights, but behind it is a simple courtyard, a few buildings, the smiling face of someone I know holding her sweater around her in the cool fall night.

We were half an hour early, but not at all alone as several people were getting out of cars as we were, and all celebrated a little minireunion in the parking lot. Volunteers, people we know from the Unitarian Church in Hillsborough, and friends Bill had known "inside" were all gathering in the parking lot, hugging, slapping backs, catching up.

We wandered eventually through the entry way where the guard asked for ID. He looked at my license, looked at me, "What's your last name?" Really? That's what you want to know at this point? Holding my license...? "Um, Edwards." He looked again at my license, clearly had trouble reading it, held it to the light, bent close, leaned over, jiggled it... "OK." And let me pass.

The other side of the fence led to many more greetings, hands shook, names going by, Ted, John, Stone, Blink, Chris, Tim, etc. Handshakes were accompanied by locked eyes as I tried to get a sense of who could be trusted and who not. A recent (work-related) training taught me that only 25% of people in prison are sociopaths. The rest can make solid, trusting relationships. I wonder how much information you need to tell the difference. (This, btw, is a minimum-security facility, so the 25% number will be much lower.)

We stand around as a few gentlemen inside the dining hall re-arrange the tables. People are chatting; Josh, the photographer who has been documenting Bill's experience of the American Dream, is there as well. We take a second to notice the menu, photocopied pages tacked to a bulletin board, encased in a glass-faced cabinet that has a HUGE padlock on it. We wouldn't want anyone to steal the menus...

I notice some highlights, the little details that make the daily experience real. "Flavored drink" is served at several lunches. The day they serve hamburgers (with buns), "mustard" and "ketchup" are listed as individual menu items. There are vegetarian alternatives, and one day it's "cheese sandwiches." Mmmm, tasty. And while I know lots of people like liver and onions, I assume I'd be eating the cheese sandwich on that day.

We head inside, and it's another flurry of handshakes, name after name sliding by, gentlemen in green pants and white t-shirts. Some hats, some beards, everyone smiling, everyone really nice. Some of the "wives" at the event try to sit, unnoticed, in the back with the volunteers, but we are called out and must sit on the back-facing seats at the front, part of the panel discussion to come.

Blue starts the presentation, letting everyone know we'll be talking about jobs, housing, money, transportation, and relationships. He offers the prompting question about jobs, gives the floor over to the speakers, and one by one, men who have served time at this facility and are now making their way on the outside, tell their stories. One started back as a landscaper, hated the work he was doing, but within a few months of being out is making more than I am. Another told of the struggles of rejection after rejection because of his record, but he persevered and eventually got hooked up--making it now, with the help of his wife.

I eventually got up to speak—after some of the women told their stories of how they met their now-husbands. I chose to talk about one small piece of our journey together—to focus on the people who support you, cut out the people who bring drama and strife. This was a theme that would come up again as the evening wore on. Don't let the toxic people get you down. It's better to go it alone than with people who hold you back. The crowd had been attentive throughout and listened politely to me as well, but the phrase, "sometimes the toxic people are in your own family," got the largest response as I spoke. This was something they knew all about.

The speakers shared their stories of resiliency, perseverance and success. They assured the listeners they would succeed with the right preparation and appropriate help. Look, we did it. If we can, you can.

I had noticed a friend in the audience--his presence blocked from my view till I stood up to speak—and I went to him afterwards. He has a few more months to go, and is preparing to get out. He said he looks forward to spending time with his now-grown kids (he's been in about six years) and hoping for grandkids when the time is right. He's smiling the whole time we talk. Every time I've seen this guy, he's been smiling.

I figure if you can smile in there, you can make it out here.

Waking Rip Van Winkle

I simply can't imagine what it would be like to live outside of the popular culture for over 20 years, and then rejoin us. I think I would be very awkward weirdo you could definitely spot in a crowd.

However, Bill manages it every day. And yes, even though he's a weirdo who stands out in a crowd, that's a whole different matter.

But here are some of the new experiences we've had over the last few weeks.
First, don't forget, it was only a few years ago he took his very first escalator ride. He still says, "That just ain't right," every time we get on one, which, thankfully, isn't often. I'll be planning a trip out to the airport to ride the people-movers, just to see his face. I've already got a few people who have said they want to come along to watch.

More recently, if you read my previous entry, you know I was in the ER last weekend. Come Monday, it was Hawaii 5-0 night, and we needed dessert. I was feeling better, but not quite 100% yet, and I had worked all day, and by the time we were in the Food Lion, I was exhausted, a little green around the gills, and struggling to maintain. I leaned heavily on the cart, even going so far as to forego milk till later 'cuz I couldn't lift the jug.

Bill, meanwhile, had finally succombed to the seriousness of his leg injury and followed the inevitable path to crutches. (For the record, this led to a much speedier recovery, and he's doing great now!) We had gathered the necessities when I remembered the dessert, and I headed off to the frozen foods. SquiCHUNK squiCHUNK squiCHUNK I hear his crutches behind me. I pull up to the frozen pies. I immediately spot the berry cobbler and remember the vanilla ice cream in the freezer. He spots the Key Lime pie. And then he sees the Coconut Cream pie. And then he sees the Turtle pie. And then his eyes become like saucers, his face the picture of a perfect, angelic little boy on Christmas morning--frozen cheesecake! apple pie!! cobblers!!! chocolate cream pie!! vanilla layer cake! chocolate cake! cream pastries! pastry puffs!!! His eyes roam the shelves in front of him. He breathlessly inventories the options. In seconds, he has mumbled the names of dozens of creamy wonders. And then he looks at me. "HAS THIS AISLE ALWAYS BEEN HERE?!!??!!!? Why have I never seen this before?!??!!??"

We decided on the Turtle pie, which, even happily shared with friends, meant plenty of leftovers. It was quite the miraculous recovery the next day when we, both still not quite ourselves, hobbled through the house, racing-the-race-of-the-gimpy to see who would get there first when it occurred to each of us we could have turtle pie for lunch.

The week prior he had come to me about the kitchen. We've had a long-standing debate about whether to hand-wash dishes or use the dishwasher. To me, the dishwasher makes a great drying rack after you've washed the dishes by hand. To most people, I think, that is weird. So Bill does most of the dishes and he gets to decide, and lately, he has decided to use the dishwasher. "So I put the soap in, and then there were suds EVERYWHERE!!!"

OH NO!!!!

He described his efforts to mop it all back up, running the rinse cycle several times, and "Tell me how I'm supposed to do it."

Bahahahahahahaha!!!

So I take him to the kitchen, show him the automatic dishwasher stuff, and go to point out how they are different--how of course, you couldn't possibly know without looking but once you look... wait!!! The two bottles have nearly identical wording. "Dishwashing liquid" vs. "Dishwasher liquid." In TINY letters. NOWHERE does it mention hand-washing or automatic dishwashers.

How could anyone be expected to know the difference? OMG. This is definitely not a world for strangers.

But I explained the difference, and of course, that made perfect sense, and then... it dawned on him. Months ago, we had run out of dish soap, but he'd found some under the sink. He put it in the dishpan, but it didn't sud up. So he figured it was "old," and rather than risk upsetting me for throwing something away (LOL!!) he put it back under the sink and forgot about it. Voila.

So other firsts this time of year include the haunted house last weekend (he laughed while I screamed bloody murder), the pumpkin patch, the Renaissance Festival coming up this weekend, and soon, carving pumpkins. He has his phtographs hanging at a local coffee shop, and last night he had his first photography class (thanks Hank!!!)

I'm sure there will be more of these entries. And hopefully he'll survive the pumpkin carving unscathed!!

Cheap tequila and Sierra Mist

After three days of scraping, caulking and priming the outside of the house, when it dawned on me that I wasn't going to come anywhere close to finishing this monstrous painting job, I realized I was miserable and decided to take Sunday off. No more painting for me. It wasn't going to get done this weekend even if I worked all day...

Saturday evening, I came home from babysitting and had talked with friends about pork--the Parkwood BBQ had been that day, and David Sedaris had mentioned to my friend an affinity for pork. By moonlight.

But at midnight, when my abdomen was apparently exploding and whatever alien baby had been developing over the last few hours was ready to burgeon forth through my belly button, I was definitely not thinking romantic thoughts about Porky Pig. I worried it was a stomach virus and that I'd given it to the kids I'd just babysat, and felt sad for all the people whose fb updates had announced their own bouts with this GI hell.

Three hours later, though, I was vomiting, the pain was still intense, and now it was settling in right around my appendix.

Visions of Houdini danced through my brain, and Mr. EvertheOptimist next to me started talking kidney stones, and soon it was apparent that I was going to the ER.

But maybe it was just a virus. Knowing no trip to the ER would be cheap, even with insurance, I worried over what to do.

The advice nurse at UNC told me (over the phone) that since I get my primary care at a Duke affiliate, she couldn't help me. I told her I work there and that I was trying to decide whether to come to their ER, and she said, of course, that I could come to the ER, but that she couldn't offer me any advice.

I hung up on her and woke the very nice Dr. Sotolongo (go DUKE!) who reassured me--didn't sound like my appendix, but even if it were, I had plenty of time. Don't worry, give it a few hours, but if it's still hurting in the morning, I should come in to be evaluated.

I apologized for waking him, and he reassured me--this was the exact kind of call they were meant to take. Thank you Dr. Sotolongo. You rock. Even at 3 a.m.

A few hours later, now dawnish, it was still hurting. A LOT. Like nothing I'd ever felt before, and now it's been going on for six hours.

So I find sweat pants that fit and paw like an animal through my pile of winter clothes looking for a comfortable, loose-fitting sweatshirt, doubled over, afraid any wrong move will explode my appendix, and off we go to Durham Regional (go Duke!).

Bill (thank god for Bill!) dropped me at the front door to park the car, and the security guard grabbed me a wheel chair. I was checked in in seconds, signed the consent for treatment with a big purple magic marker (no kidding), and was ushered to a curtained room. "Put on the gown--it fastens in the back. I'll be right back." And then begins the bizarre puzzle that was assembleyourownhospitalgown, a square of fabric with snaps that didn't correspond with one another, and even though I knew what it was ultimately supposed to look like, I was mystified. Bill started to help, but seconds later the nurse came for my vitals, so I simply held it against myself, but then there was a doctor who also helped, and soon I was vitaled, gowned, and prodded by an MD. Seriously, in fewer than 15 minutes, I was checked in, in a room, in a gown, had vitals, an initial exam by the doc, and we were beginning the gynecological exam. Within 30 minutes, I had blood drawn, had been given anti-nausea medicine by IV, was offered (and declined) morphine, had the beginnings of a differential, and was drinking the contrast dye for the CT scan. Excellent service.

I was told to drink a cup of contrasty stuff every fifteen minutes for an hour, then it would take an hour to work through my body and I could go for the scan. By now, I was ravenously thirsty, having not drunk anything in over six hours. I sucked down the first cup--it's kind of like Sprite, I mused allowed. But the nurse hit it on the head--it's like cheap tequila and Sierra Mist. Once she said that, I couldn't taste anything else, and soon I was struggling to keep it down, even with the anti-nausea meds on board.

Janet, the very nice nurse, brought me blankets that had been kept in a blanket warmer. (Warm blankets!! OMG!) I shivered, I felt like vomiting, my stomach hurt, I hoped it wasn't a kidney stone, and I drank cheap tequila and Sierra Mist.

The 60-minute mark coincided with the shift change, and soon the incredibly nice doc and nurse were letting me know they were leaving, and the new doc and nurse were introducing themselves. Sanjaythenurse commented that I'd declined the morphine--"no one ever declines the morphine," he said, but by now, with the panic factor subsided, I was not feeling so bad. 140 minutes after my arrival I was being wheeled to the CT scan place and met with the incredibly nice CT guy. He asked a long list of questions about possibly allergies, told me the reason for the drip contrast in addition to the stuff I'd drunk, ran down the possible side effects, including the oh-so-rare kidney failure and death option.

Please god, don't let the test to tell me I just had bad gas kill me. Please. Don't let this, of all things, be the end of me.

He asked if I was pregnant, then noted the notes--oh no, your test came back--you're definitely not pregnant. (I knew that). "But you declined morphine. No one declines morphine..."

One of the side effects of the contrast drip, btw, is the sensation that you've wet yourself. Really? (Oh yes, really.)

And off I went into the zippy zippy machine, like out of a science fiction movie, with the big round hole and the flashing red lights. Above my head was a fake window that used an expensive translucent picture and lights to make it feel like you're looking out a window at trees even though you're in the basement of a hospital in downtown Durham, but I closed my eyes and tried not to think about arresting in the CT machine or the irony of dying in a hospital after riding a motorcycle, hanging with tigers, or any of the other crazy-ass shit I do.

The ohsoniceCTguy was very kind as it finished and reminded me to drink plenty of fluids to flush out the contrast, "you know, whenever they let you go home..."

And then it was time for the long wait. We were there another four hours or so, while I napped, texted, deferred phone calls to Bill, who had been SO helpful all through this, and was now tasked with answering all calls and coordinating everything we weren't going to be able to do that day. He even tried unsuccessfully to pass off the Bat phone (it didn't ring), and let my mom know I was ok, while I updated fb and responded to about 472 text messages. More than half the calls intimated that I might be pregnant, so let's be real clear--I am a social worker in a health setting. I know how birth control works. I also promise you, the symptoms I was experiencing--way worse than morning sickness. Trust me on this one. Unless the baby I might be carrying was Athena, to be born full grown, I definitely wasn't pregnant.

Sanjay checked on me a few times, and eventually the doc came in to tell me they had seen my appendix, and it was fine. My ovaries, however, not so much. "Follow up with your primary-care in the next couple days, and you can go home."

Less than ten minutes later--no lie--I was gone. I dressed, Sanjay took the IV out, reviewed my aftercare instructions and Rx--Vicadin. "I'm guessing you won't get that filled?" "I doubt it," I acknowledged. "I figured, " he said. "You turned down morphine. But, you have it if you need it."

Ismail had come a few hours earlier with coffee and breakfast. I wasn't allowed to have it, of course, but when I got to the lobby, there he was. By now the exploding sensation had shifted to my head from the caffeine withdrawal, and I sucked down the coffee and stuffed bagel in my mouth while we waited for Bill to get the car. "Nice outfit," he said, while we waited on the curb. "Yeah, I dressed special for the occasion."

We stopped by mom's house on the way home, and she said she'd aged ten years in the last few hours. Then I went home and slept. For hours.

The bat phone rang, but thank god it was one of the docs, and we talked through a case, and then mom came over and made beef stroganoff, and then it was back to sleep.

I made it. I survived my Sunday off.

DNN

So, this was the weekend to try Eddie, the Neurotic Wonderdawg, on a leash. It was a decision made in moment of spontenaity, although we'd been talking about it for some time. So we were standing outside, headed somewhere, and we decided to go back in, get the dawg, take him for a walk.

Even though we'd only been gone a mere minute, he was at the door. OH MY GOD!!! I DIDN'T KNOW WHEN YOU WERE COMING BACK!! I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE HOME!!!! It was all tail wagging, full body presses, dancing on the back paws, love nuzzles, love love love love love.

And then Bill grabbed the harness and the high-energy greeting turned into armageddon-proportioned waves of energy and whole-body wags and canine CHAOS that undulated through the barking, snuffling, lipstick-sharing, OH. MY. GOD. YOU'VE GOT. THE. HHHHAAAARRRRRNNNNNEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!

You know those money-collector game thingies at the science museums? They're roughly cone-shaped and you roll your quarter on its edge, and the quarter makes slow arching circles around the outer edge of the cone, lapping ever so slightly faster until it nears the bottom and for a few milliseconds, the quarter spins so fast you can't see its edges, and it hovers, suspended in air, spinning blindingly fast for a bizarre eternity... That was Eddie at the sight of the harness. No lie.

Now imagine, slipping a harness over that quarter. OMG. I got him in the neck part and then--oops, he's out--and back in, and he was shaking and nosing and lipsticking and yelping and shaking and I had to slip his foot through the loop--and he's out again, spinning circles, yelping, screeching, wagging--and Bill is "SIT! Eddie, SIT!" and Eddie is doing LOTS of things that are definitely NOT sitting.

We finally get the harness on--twisted of course--and get it untwisted. And then we open the door and ahhhhhhh--off we all go, tumbling down the street. Eddie pulling on the harness like he's pulling Santa's sled, and Bill stubbornly stopping him every few seconds to teach him how to walk sanely on a leash.

Eddie's inner dialog, I suspect, was something like this: I'mwalkingwithmyfamilyI'mwalkingwithmyfamilyI'mwalkingwithmyfamilyI'mwalkingwithmy
familyI'mwalkingwithmyfamily--something'spullingatmyneck--I'mwalkingwithmyfamilyI'mwalkingwithmyfamilyI'mwalkingwithmyfamily.

After several minutes we were able to exert some control, except, of course, when we came upon a bulletin on the Doggie News Network. We had to sniff every inch of the ground, stopping at the interesting news about Snoop Dog or Bow Wow (among others), and of course, add our commentary. Piddle piddle piddle. Who knew a dog could store that much piddle?

The one news source no one is interested in? The red hydrant on Timmons. So much for the stereotype of the dog and the hydrant. This one must surely be a Fox news outlet.

We sufficiently tuckered the dawg out and took him home. Then on Sunday, we actually took him to the coffee shop with us. It went surprisingly well. We expected five minute increments at first, but were happy to see he lasted over 30 minutes, and all was good until it just wasn't any more, and we took him home.

The dog days of summer, that took over so much of last month, have given way to the doggie days of fall, and it's good.