Author: halfnutswilltravel

I’m a Luggage Pig

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The best thing about solo travel?  I can over pack to my heart’s content.  I get a carry on and a purse, plus two free checked bags and dammit, I’m going to use them.
Clothes and shoes for seven whole days because who wants to do laundry?  Detergent in case I decide to do laundry.  A curling iron in case I need to curl my hair; a straightener in case that was a mistake.   While I’m at it, where’s my blow dryer? Maybe I’ll use that. I don’t know what amenities my AirBnB will include, but I’m not packing an iron and I applaud my own restraint on that one.
Two different wool coats, because I’m more fashion conscious when I travel.  My Birkenstocks because no I am not.

The one downside to solo travel?  I have to schlep all of that myself.

How I celebrate December 28th. Apparently.

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At this time, on this date, one year ago I was running all over town looking for an open clinic or doctor’s office that could administer a tetanus shot without making me sit for hours in a waiting room full of flu-symptomed people.  I didn’t think the puncture would from my rusty screwdriver knitting accident required medical intervention, but I did think a booster was in order since eleven years had passed since my last one.  In the end,  I wound up running across the county to find a clinic that had a latex-free tetanus vaccine.

I won’t be needing another one of those for at least 9 years, or until I stab myself again (whichever comes first – I won’t be offended if you bet) so to keep the tradition of weird medical quests going, today I had to drive all the way to Clayton, North Ceyechartarolina to see an opthamologist for what I was certain was a sprained eyeball from binge-reading my Christmas presents.  More accurately, I was driven to Clayton; I can’t see very well because ‘remove your contact lenses’ seemed like the kind of internet medical advice one actually should follow.  To give you an idea how rare of a medical condition Sprained Eyeballs actually is, my optometrist still refuses to acknowledge that it’s a real thing and referred me to the opthamologist.

Now,  I know what you’re thinking.   Is Clayton, North Carolina really where you want to go for diagnosis and treatment of a rare and debilitating medical condition?  And the answer is obviously no.  But it’s a holiday week and it was either this, or wait until the literal next year.

“On a scale of one to ten, where is your pain level right now?” Sherrie the nurse-type-person asked me.

“A two.  Maybe a three.”  Now I just felt silly.  “But it’s a 2 or 3 in my eyeball, not like, a 2 or 3 on my toe.  That’s different.”

Sherrie nodded her non-judgey understanding.  I like that woman.

Soon, the younger-than-me looking doctor came in and introduced himself.  “I’m Dr. Kevin,” and he shook my hand.

“I’m patient Serena.”  Possibly patient zero for a brand new eye disease you’ve never heard of I wanted to tell him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his hand shake starting to feel uncomfortably long.  “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Under what other possible circumstances would I meet an opthamologist?”  I blurt.

He conceded that opthamology is a bit of a dull profession and got on with his exam.

After shining a bright light into both eyeballs, which I felt was total overkill because my left one feels fine (if not a little strained from having to do all the work of the diseased right eye, too), he retrieved what looked like a piece of litmus paper from an overhead cupboard and rubbed it in my eye.

“Woah!  What is that?  And why did it make my eyeball feel better?”  I admit, I was a little disappointed to realize that if a cure was that readily available, the chances of having an eye disease named after me were dwindling.

“That was to numb your eyeball,” he answered one of my questions.

He told me that I have three white spots on my right cornea (and two, non painful ones on my left) and am suffering from something known as contact over wear.  Even though it’s not a germ-related disease, he gave me a bottle of antibacterial eye drops and wants to see me again on Thursday.

I asked him if I could also have some of that numbing stuff to take home.

“No, that stuff will melt your corneas,” he attempted to be funny.  Opthamologist humor.  Sigh.

Tomorrow I have to go shopping for a pair of glasses, and that’s going to suck a little.  But first, I really just want to stop and give a shout out to the real hero of this story.  The internet.  That internet thing has a really bad rep for doling out unsound medical advice, but today, it really came through for me.  I Googled sprained eyeballs and the internet said, “Woah, I don’t know what that is, but you should really take out your contacts.”

Good job, internet!

Merry Christmas 2015

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imageLast weekend my friend, Renee passed a lovely afternoon by writing her Christmas cards.

“Instead of sending cards, maybe I’ll just mail little envelopes full of glitter.  You know, so when people are still vacuuming it up all year, they’ll know I’m thinking about them.”  I told Renee.

She said that was a good idea, as long as I only mailed them out of town so friends can’t track the glitter back into my house.  She’s smart, that Renee.

I’ve never much been a fan of the long-format Christmas letter because it seems to be a tightrope walk between complaining and bragging and I’m not agile like that.   So instead of rehashing the strange and glorious events of 2015, which is now heaving with her final, wheezy breaths, I want to very simply wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  And since I didn’t spring for the postage on those brilliant glitter-grams, just know that every time you don’t see sparkles, you’re on my mind.

The Twitch is Back!

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blogLast night I uploaded the following blog post titled, Twitch.  Early this morning I had an email notification of a comment that needed moderating.  It was some advice from my friend, Graeme about which Elvis movie I should watch first.  I approved the comment and a little while later, I had notification of another comment.  When I logged in to moderate that one, the blog post was gone.  GONE!  It wasn’t in my published, drafts, or trash folder.  Kablooie!  I suspect my mother had a hand in this because she doesn’t appreciate when I write about her ghost.  

I put out a call for help and my lovely friend Jan just happened to have a copy of this post in her email!  Can you believe it?  When you subscribe, WordPress (who as of this writing still hasn’t replied to my frantic note to customer support) drops a copy of my blog right into your email account!  It’s a great time to be alive, folks (sorry, mama)!  The lesson in all of this, of course, is that one should always subscribe to their own blog.  And save a local copy.  And just maybe not to stop caffeine, cold turkey.

Twitch

If this unrelenting twitch above my left eye is any indication I’m presently being haunted by my mother’s ghost.  As much as I could really do without that in my life right now it’s still preferable to the more plausible possibility that I need to lay off the coffee again.  For days I’ve been walking around with my left index finger trying to pin my eyelid to my skull to hold it still and apologizing to friends and strangers whom I’m afraid will think I’m winking.  This weekend I switched back to decaf, but just to be on the safe side I’ve started quietly inquiring about exorcists who may be practicing in my local area.  So far I’ve turned up nothing but concerned looks and one panhandler who claims he can not only see my mother’s ghost, but will banish her in exchange for a bottle of peppermint schnapps.  ‘Tis the season.

elvisBut forget me.  Do you know who had a great twitch?  Elvis.  And this time next month I will be haunting Graceland myself, attending his 81st birthday party.  In order to gain access to this soiree I’ve had to join a cult called the Graceland Insider’s Club.  There is no test of Elvis knowledge (thank goodness!), or bloodletting required for entry, just a $21.99 membership fee, which includes many monetary benefits; if I visit Graceland eight more times in 2016 that membership will have paid for itself with the money I’ve saved on parking alone.

I can see how someone might mistake me for an Elvis fan.  I was married by an Elvis.  The first lie I ever told was about Elvis.  I’ve got Elvis ornaments hanging from my Christmas tree and I also happen to think he’s incredibly handsome when his lip isn’t doing that thingwoodyelvis that my dog’s sometimes does when he’s irritated, but not enough to growl.  But the truth is, I know almost nothing about the guy.  I’ve never seen one of his movies.  And while I recognize his voice when I hear it, I can only name a handful of songs he sang.  I do know there is a difference between an Elvis impersonator and an Elvis tribute artist because I accidentally insulted the first guy I called to inquire about officiating our wedding.  It turns out he wasn’t ordained anyway.

This trip is just the tiny, first step of an assignment I’m sending myself on in 2016 to try and figure out what makes some people capable of being so wholly devoted to one person / object / idea; and conversely what makes me so incapable of such passionate devotion.  There’s a lot to be nervous about here but the one fear I’ve not been able to calm is this trepidation about trying to pass myself off as an insider.  I can see me being left standing just outside the inner circle in my new blue suede boots, just my spectral mama and me, winking at all the Elvis-y people.  That by itself isn’t so terrible.  I’ve met a lot of very nice people by winking at them.  But what if I go through the rest of my life never understanding what it is I’m missing?  And what if that’s actually why I’m twitching?

33/33/33

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Twenty-three: the number of echocardiograms, as of yesterday, my son has had since he was two years old.

Jack was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy two months after me, and seven years after his oldest sister.  We were all given the 33/33/33 prognosis; thirty-three percent get better, thirty-three percent stay the same, thirty-three percent get worse.  If fear and dread are any measure, one of those thirds has always been much, much heavier than the other two thirds combined.  And multiplied.  By thousands.  There are three of us, and three equally likely outcomes.  The wait and weight have been excruciating.

Madison’s heart size and dysfunction have remained as they were found almost nineteen years ago.  My own function has fluctuated, with the averaged result and current status being that I’m exactly where I was about a dozen years ago.  Stability is such a wonderful thing, except for when you are wishing for improvement. 

Still, I wasn’t  prepared for yesterday’s news from Jack’s cardiologist.  Jack has grown into his heart.  It is amazing to me that I forgot this was even one of the possibilities.  His physical restrictions have been lifted, except for weight lifting and tackling sports – which is totally ok with me (I am wholly anti-youth-football).  My son has always been and always will be extraordinary.  But now he gets to be normal.  We made the dreary drive home from Duke through drizzle and traffic, excitedly planning his spring tryouts.

Though that 33/33/33 statistic was true two decades ago, huge discoveries in the treatment of cardiomyopathy have been made.  While quality and quantity of life have both been improved, it’s still too soon to know what those new numbers are.  I think I kind of like it better this way, not mentally divvying up our futures.

I don’t care if Monday’s blue

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Last night my two youngest kids did this annoying thing they sometimes do where they both outgrow all of their clothing while they sleep.  I promised I’d take them shopping right after school, but in my haste to send them out the door in short and snug pants I didn’t check that they had everything they needed.  Halfway to school my daughter announced she was going to need me to bring her gym bag later.

I got home and set out to clean the house from the weekend of birthday partying and Fakesgiving feasting.  I washed down the cabinets while the iRobots battled it out on the hardwoods.  While I was mopping, one of my slippery ribs, well, slipped.  It’s not dangerous but rates a solid, “ermph” on my vocalized pain scale; above an, “uh…” but well below a sound that you’d just have to hear because I can’t spell it.  It’s usually due to some randomly generated inflammation, so I took a couple of Aleve and called it a day as far as cleaning was concerned.

I left the house to grab a smoothie for lunch and dropped off the gym bag at school.  As of this writing, these are the only two tasks at which I have succeeded today.

I came home and inventoried the pantry and refrigerator, deciding I’d make meat loaf for dinner.  Except for a green pepper I had everything I needed, so I drove to Target because Starbucks.  It’s not my favorite coffee, but counting the one inside Target, I live in the greater tri-Starbucks area, so it is the most convenient.  One green pepper and a box of Good & Plenty later (It’s technically my wedding anniversary, and even though we don’t celebrate it until the day after Thanksgiving, I’m acknowledging it with his favorite candy, which I realized I had not given him in a really long time), I am standing in the checkout line dumping my finally-cool-enough-to-drink venti Christmas Blend all over the floor.  Because Monday.

I seriously cannot account for the rest of my afternoon.  Maybe I was abducted by aliens, but they beamed me back home after I fucked up some expensive space shit.  I don’t know; I really can’t remember.  But, I was home in time to drive carpool, so that’s what I did.  I arrived first and as I waited for the kids my sister-in-law texted to tell me that Kohl’s was having an online-only sale.  Thank.  The.  Lord.  If there’s anything I hate more than sticking my hand into a mystery hole at a Halloween carnival, it’s shopping.  Once we were home, I sat down with each child individually and filled our online cart with everything they’ll need to last them through another night’s sleep, then I proceeded to spend the next forty five minutes trying to check out because Kohl’s will neither recognize that I have an account, nor let me check out as a guest because I have an account.  They’re having a difficult day, too, and I should be more understanding.  But I’m not because I end up having to empty my cart, close my browsers, delete my cookies and re-select 27 items (in the correct colors and sizes).  But I still didn’t get my damn Rewards points.  And until every last item shows up on my door step, I’m not ready to declare this a triumph.

By this time, it’s 5:30 and I am ready to start that meat loaf I was going to make for dinner.  Except guess what?  What I thought was an onion in the fridge was actually a turnip.  Turnips couldn’t possibly be any good inside a meat loaf.  I call Mike and ask if he’s near home yet.  He is.  I ask him if he will pick up the onion I need.  After a pause, he says he will.  Then he asks how long the meat loaf will take.  I tell him an hour, at least.  His silence tells me he doesn’t want to wait that long to eat.  I forgot; he’s 50 now.  He’s an early bird.  Or, I suggest, he could pick up Chinese.  He thinks that’s a great idea, even after I tell him I’m still going to need that onion so we can have meat loaf tomorrow night.

fortune
Sarcastic asshole smiley faces.

We have a pleasant meal, though the beef and broccoli had a strange cinnamon-y taste I wasn’t expecting.  I give Mike the box of Good & Plenty and suddenly remember why I haven’t gotten him any in a really long time; black licorice causes him to have heart palpitations.  I guess on this, our third anniversary, my subconscious just wants his heart to skip a beat for me the way it used to. You know, back when he still ate licorice.

Between the cleaning, the shopping, the cooking – hell, even the coffee – I feel like I’ve failed at basic womaning today.  I’m going to go soak this Monday off with an oatmeal stout in a bubble bath.  If the aliens don’t drop toasters into the tub as retribution for whatever damage I caused up there in their UFO, tomorrow’s going to be much better.

Sister Schubert, oh your time has come

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The Bird
Look, Ma.  I traced my hand.

I have no trips of any significance planned until January and ‘tis the time of year when I shift from the Will Travel to the Half Nuts part of my blog:  The Holidays.

Our Brady Bunch will be far-flung this Thanksgiving; my stepsons are going to visit their mothers in Florida, my younger kids are heading to Virginia to see their father, and my oldest is (gulp) spending the holiday with her boyfriend’s family at the coast.  Before all that scattering, though, we get to have Fakesgiving.  I spent the first half of today grocery shopping, and the second half grocery chopping.  Tomorrow I start baking and I won’t stop until the last college kid walks through the door Friday night.

I’m not going to lie, the holidays have been hard the last six years.  First there was the loss of a huge part of my family I called in-laws, who defined our traditions and held tightly to the sacred and secret holiday recipes.  I suddenly didn’t have my children for half of the holidays anymore.  And then there was the addition of a huge group of new people that I now call in-laws who have their own traditions and recipes.  And despite having six years to get used to this, I still underestimate how much alcohol I need on hand to cushion the special kind of loneliness that comes from being in a room full of people.  But here’s a little secret I’ve discovered: the liquor store doesn’t celebrate Fakesgiving so they won’t be closed when I run out of rum again.  And this year it’s just Mike, and our kids, and me – so probably I won’t even need booze.

Burnt Cake

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He thought ‘Satan’s Food’ was too inflammatory, so he called it Demon Cake, instead.  Isn’t he cute?

I’d known Mike for two years already, but our courtship was in its infancy; he was still pretending to like spicy food and I was pretending I had the capacity to give a shit about corporate Christmas parties.

He’d asked if I had any interesting recipes for the dessert competition being held in his office, and I suggested my Satan’s Food Cake.  It’s a scratch-made chocolate cake that bites you back.  He told me the name wouldn’t fly; many of the co-workers hold bible study several mornings a week.  I told him to call it whatever he wanted, or just pick up a box of Krispy Kreme.  In hindsight, I probably wasn’t holding up my end of the pretending all that well.

He feigned some ignorance and I offered to help him with a test run on the evening before his birthday.  It went well, up until we burnt the cake because we were out in the driveway kissin’.  I still blush when he tells the story, mostly because he changes it a little bit every time, but depicts little old me as the aggressor.

In the six years since, we’ve stopped pretending a lot of things.  Next week we mark the third anniversary of when we stopped pretending we weren’t going to get married.  On most days, that one still blows our minds.

We won’t be burning a cake in celebration this year because he’s turning fifty this week, too.  There will be plenty of better, unburnt cake to be had.  If you’d like to not burn a cake along with us, I recommend the recipe below.

Cheers

Satan’s Food Cake
1 ½ cups Swans Down cake flour
1 cup sugar
½ cup unsweetened cocoa
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon Mexican chili powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup cold water
¼ cup canola oil
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon Madagascar vanilla extract
Combine all ingredients with electric mixer until smooth.  Pour into a greased 8 inch round cake pan and bake at 350 degrees, until done (about 25-30 minutes).  Remove and cool on wire rack.
Glaze
1 cup confectioners’ sugar
½ cup cocoa
3 tablespoons water
3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 fists full of strawberries
When the cake has cooled, whisk together everything except the strawberries.  Pour the glaze over the cake, and use the strawberries for decoration.  They don’t have to look demonic, but it’s a nice touch.

Ticket to a Happy Marriage

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I’d already snapped a photo and was putting my phone away when he said, “Oh God.  You aren’t going to have your phone out all the way across Europe, are you?”

Understand, we won’t actually be in Europe for another 5 months, and I’d just taken a quick picture of my pasta salad so I could try to recreate it later; pasta shells, feta, black pepper, shredded basil, and tomatoes.  No dressing.  Simple.  Delicious.

He exaggerated on, using his own phone as a prop, “Snap. I need to post this.  Snap.  I need to post this.”  God, he’s unattractive when he mocks.  I know he thinks the same about me.  I wait for him to finish.

“Yes.  My phone will be out all the way across Europe.  So will my giant camera, probably even across the Middle East, too.”  I add the last part because I know he does not think I should go to Israel.  He thinks I should not because he does not want to go himself.

“In fact I’ll probably do many things, nay, all the things that annoy you so maybe now is a good time to start planning your own itinerary.”

When I dreamed this trip, I’d had in mind that it would be solo; a detail that was supported by his vehement push against it because Rome in the middle of winter will be miserable and cold.  I’d explained that the end of March is not the middle of winter and the whole point of going was to be there for Easter.  I can’t very well expect the Pope to reschedule Easter for more agreeable weather.  It came as a surprise when he began saying the words, ‘we’ and ‘us’ when I discussed the trip.

Soon enough, I realized that getting to Rome could be much less expensive if I take the long way around – like I do.  As such, last week I booked our flights into London and out of Paris.  The outer walls of my odyssey are in place, with a nine day nebula in between, propped up by one pillar; I must be in Rome for Easter.  The time for extending the pilgrimage into Israel does exist.  We can use small, local airlines to maneuver us fairly inexpensively where we need to go around the region.  And having him with me in Paris, in the spring, won’t suck.

“God, why are you always so quick to tell me to go do my own thing?”  He rephrased that question twice more in rapid succession before I interrupted him to answer.

“As much as you don’t like the annoying things I do, I don’t like being reminded that I am annoying.  If you tell me how much you don’t like me taking pictures across Europe, I will still take pictures across Europe, but be very aware with every click that I am bothering you.  You will ruin an otherwise lovely experience.”

He defends himself, “My trip won’t be ruined by your taking pictures.”

But mine will be ruined by knowing it annoys him, and I’m not built for the force it would require to drive this dull point home.

A long time ago, Rilke sold me on this idea that each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and this month we celebrate the third anniversary of taking our vows to remain separate, but together.  We faithfully work to iron out the wrinkles in how such a union can actually work in practice.  But let me tell you this; it hasn’t been easy in matters of travel.

We will meet for lunch twenty times again, just as we did today, before we leave.  With a little luck and a lot of hard diplomacy, we’ll have it all figured out by then.  In the meanwhile, I need to brush up on my French, learn a little Italian, and maybe make some of that pasta salad.