Life: Daylight and dog puke

Daylight savings time got off to a rocky start Sunday, as my husband and I had trouble adjusting to that loss of an hour and getting out of bed for our nephew's baptism. (The late night with friends didn't help.)

We ended up just going to the post-baptism luncheon, and were only minorly hassled by the family. (This is one of the few photos that anyone took where my nephew is actually smiling -- perhaps he didn't like wearing a dress?)

But the payoff for the switch to daylight savings time was huge on Monday evening, when I could commute home while the sun was still up.

And now that the weather has decided to warm up into the 40s and 50s this week, I'm starting to feel frisky -- wearing lighter jackets, opening windows, wanting to get outside.

Speaking of opening windows, I had to air out the house last night. Apparently, one of the dogs got sick on Sunday and we didn't notice. Monday as I was leaving, I stopped in the family room. What is that smell? I look around, don't see anything on the floor, then notice dried vomit on the sofa. Yuck. And right where Loki likes to lay.

I cleaned the cushion as best I could, but that wasn't good enough. The room still reeked yesterday. So now, the sofa cushion has been banished to the garage while I figure out how to remove the odor from it. My concern is not just the odor, but cleaning it in a way that won't cause the cushion to fade. I guess it's a downside of dog ownership.

Another downside? Fur. Everywhere. Loki and Thor are majorly shedding. They have an appointment with a set of clippers as soon as it's reliably warm enough outside. Maybe in a month. And while I'm complaining about dogs? Poop. The snow has mostly melted off and it's time to get out and really clean that backyard. *shudder*

You know, I think I'm due some extra tailwags and snuggles when I get home today.

On the bright side, our Colorado vacation is fast approaching. Just 10 more days. Our tax refund should be direct deposited the day before we leave, so it'll almost feel like a free vacation. :)

Giving some heart

I saw this on That Grrl's page, and she picked it up from BlogTalkers.



The question posed was this:

Heart. What is close to your heart? Does heart disease run in your family? Would you say your heart is in good shape? Would you ever consider donating your heart after passing away? Why or why not?

When I was writing a comment in response to the question on That Grrl's page, I realized the question really struck a nerve with me and I needed to write about it here.

This is the essence of what I wrote in my comment to That Grrl (she hasn't approved the comment yet, so I can't copy it word-for-word from her site):

Heart disease runs in my family. Big Time. I do every thing that I can to keep my heart strong. When I die, if my heart is in a condition that someone can use, I say please use it.

I believe that what is an ending for me, can be a new beginning for someone else. Possibly several people. And that brings me comfort.

When my father died a few years ago, all he was eligible for was tissue donation. My mother, knowing my strong feelings about organ donation even then, readily signed the paperwork. To me, this was a bright spot in an otherwise incredibly painful experience -- maybe someone would see some benefit from my Dad's death.

The idea of letting my body rot in a sealed vault in the ground, separated from the natural cycles of life, has no appeal to me. I'll be done using it. Take my organs, cremate the rest and scatter me to the winds.

Obviously, I have strong feelings.

But I also believe that when it comes to death, you should follow whatever practices give you and your loved ones the most comfort.

I know the idea of organ donation can provoke strong responses in people. Have you given it some thought?

Things I've discovered this week

All 5th- and 6th-grade girls have long hair
It's not a scientific sampling, mind you. But, when I went to my nephew's school production the other night, I noticed this trend. Of at least 150 students in 5th and 6th grades, half being girls, I only noticed *one* girl with short hair. One.

Footloose represents the entire decade of '80s music
Yellow Submarine represents the '60s, the Hustle and Y-M-C-A represent the '70s, and Achy Breaky Heart sums up the entire '90s. At least they did at my nephew's school production of "On the Radio", about music through the 20th century. Granted, it's an elementary school production, and these songs have a distinct visual element that's fun for families, but it still disturbs me. Did I mention how much I enjoyed my nephew's performance?

Playing is more fun than working
Duh. Everyone knows that. But I mean it more in the sense that sometimes I'd rather spend hours manipulating my photos than connecting three sentences together in an effort to write. How's my novel coming? Don't ask. But look what I made.

I can't sleep late any more
I was thrilled to have Monday off for President's Day. I didn't have to get up for work, and I didn't have to get up to go to my workout class. A true day off. Except, I woke up at the same time and couldn't get back to sleep. Bah.

BlogCatalog
I signed up with BlogCatalog. It's kind of social networking for bloggers, and a good place to browse blogs. Haven't played around with all that much yet.

BlogRush
I also signed up with BlogRush, which is a syndication service for bloggers. There's a widget in my right column that shows headlines from five other blogs. Somewhere out in the blogosphere, a headline of mine appears on someone's widget. Hopefully, someone or two will click through and find this post.

Mosquito Ringtone
I'm not buying this ringtone. It's just that I've been reading about the mosquito on news articles online, and was intrigued to actually get to hear it. The mosquito is a high-frequency noise that most adults can't hear because we lose that frequency as we age. It was developed as a tool to deter teens from loitering outside businesses. So, on the ringtone site above, they have samples of the mosquito played at different frequencies. I can still hear the mosquito at the 40 and younger frequency, which is good, because I'm still under 40.

Feb. 12

Thinking of you, Dad. Happy Birthday.

Plenty of blood, but no sexy vampires

I work in the blood industry. The romance writer in me instantly wants to start talking about vampires after a statement like that, but, alas, this isn't about vampires.

Nope. I work in the blood industry for a company that writes software used by blood banks to keep track of donors and test results and to decide whether blood is safe to transfuse. My job is in the quality assurance area, so you *know* it deals with lots of regulations and other things that will make your eyes glaze over.

See, aren't vampires more interesting?

My point with the boring work stuff is just to say that a lot of my coworkers are former blood-bankers and I have an appreciation for the blood-banking side of things. So when a writer I know from my Windy City Romance Writers group wrote about donating blood recently, I perked up.

Manic Mommy, as she calls herself in her blog, posted a really entertaining account of her latest trip to donate blood, then followed it up with a challenge and a chance at a prize for anyone who donates before Valentine's Day.

It's a hugely worthwhile cause, especially because winter is a time notoriously slow at blood banks. A low blood supply translates to low stocks of blood at hospitals.

So, read her post, donate blood and enter her contest. And if for some reason you can't donate (like me) try to draft some others to donate instead (like what I'm doing to you here).

Why the dearth of posts lately?

I'm caught up. I've posted all the stories I've been meaning to post. (OK, I still have a few from Australia to finish back in July, but I'm mostly caught up.)

If you're wondering why there have been so few posts lately, it's because life has been eventful, but yet not necessarily in a good way. A lot of health topics discussed. A lot of doctors and hospitals. Not for me, personally, thank God.

It started before Labor Day, when Marriott traveled down to Mississippi to visit her 90-something-year-old great-aunt who was in decline and needed to be hospitalized. Marriott spent a good two weeks with her in the hospital and getting her settled in a rehabilitation facility. She was back to visit last week and things are continuing to look good for her aunt.

Also around Labor Day, JC's husband went into the hospital with what they said was heart failure, but after a few weeks decided were blocked arteries in his heart. After a quadruple bypass, he was eventually released and is recovering.

Dave's sister was heavily pregnant at the time, too. She had her baby in late September (happy, healthy boy), but then had to go back into the hospital with peripartum cardiomyopathy. A rare but very serious complication from pregnancy that her cardiologist is optimistic will clear up within the next year. She's home with the baby now and doing well.

My five-year-old dog, Loki, had her annual checkup in late September. Her new vet decided to aspirate a lump on her belly, and found mast cells in it, which are a form of cancer cell. A week ago, she had the mast cell tumor removed, which involved taking the tumor and at least 3 centimeters of flesh around it. Lab results show it was a grade 2 mast cell tumor, and we'll find out from the vet on Monday what that means for Loki. The vet is very optimistic, and Loki is happy and healthy seeming, so I'm allowing myself to feel optimistic, too.

Meanwhile, Miss Loki still has stitches in her belly and is being forced to wear a T-shirt to keep her from licking the stitches until they are removed on Monday. The T-shirt looks ridiculous, but Loki doesn't mind, especially after having to wear a cone for a few days.

Also, healing thought have been going to my great-aunt Edie in Australia, who is having a slow and painful recovery from back surgery in August. Hopefully, she'll finish her rehabilitation and be back in her own house soon.

I think that's the extent of all the health news that's been consuming my conversations lately. A lot of positive healing thoughts have gone out and will continue to do so.

Huh. CVICU has been redecorated. Yea.

It's not really the CVICU itself that was redecorated, nor the waiting room outside the unit, it's the surgical waiting room associated with the unit that's been redecorated.

Why do I care? Well, when Dad had his abdominal aortic aneurysm two-and-a-half years ago, we spent many, many hours sitting in that surgical waiting room during his two surgeries. A tiny little room, probably 12-by-12, no windows, with a little television in the corner and no more than 10 chairs. I'd truthfully hoped to never have to visit that room again.

Then, in September, things went south for JC's husband. Diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol are a dangerous cocktail. After a couple weeks in the hospital with a seemingly vague diagnosis of heart failure, it was determined that he needed bypass surgery. Her husband is only 44 years old.

So, I took the day off to keep JC company while her husband had the surgery. Unfortunatley, it's something that I have experience at -- sitting in hospital waiting rooms. Also unfortunately, it was the same hospital where my Dad went for his surgery.

I met JC in the cafeteria, where we had a late breakfast, then we journeyed up to the room. Same set of double doors you had to walk through, same nurses station you had to walk by, same long and empty hallway you had to walk down. But then, the room itself was different. A corner closed in for some sort of air filtration system, new and more comfortable chairs, the television moved, some fancy coffee machine setup installed.

I could handle this. No overwhelming flashbacks.

We talked. We chatted. We went back to the cafeteria for an early lunch. (That's what you do when you wait -- you eat a lot.) Then back to the waiting room.

Then the doctor was there with the results. They'd done quadruple bypass. Things looked good. He was in recovery and it would be over an hour before he was in his CVICU bed and available for visitors.

We took that window of time to collect JC's children from Jules' house, then met up with Marriott, who took JC and the kids back to the hospital.

That was over three weeks ago. I'm happy to report that JC's husband is home recuperating from his quadruple bypass surgery. The diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol are still issues, but he has a "remodeled" heart that with proper care should last him a good many more years.

I'd survived my reunion with the CVICU surgical waiting room. Most importantly, I was happy that I'd been available to keep JC company during those long hours.

My first business trip

I'm about five weeks late with this, but I'm happy to report that I've been on my first official work-related overnight business trip.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. For many people that's nothing to celebrate. Some of my friends seem to spend more time on business trips than they do at home. Really. They travel that much.

But it's been over 15 years since I graduated from college, and not once in that time have I had to travel overnight for business. Sure, there were writers conferences. But those were related to fiction writing, and I have yet to earn money from that, so I don't like to count them as actual business trips. Then there was the Society of Professional Journalists conference in Indianapolis about 10 years ago, but we drove and made it a day trip. Doesn't count.

This trip was three nights in San Antonio helping a software consulting firm administer system testing on one of our regulated products. Bonus -- I got to travel with Kyle.

Oh yeah, we were busy with work. But we also managed to over-eat at a few restaurant, workout at a gym at least once (twice for Kyle), and find time to explore the Riverwalk and see the Alamo.

Some people I know NEVER sight-see when they're on business trips. Too busy. Too drained. I understand, because I was exhausted much of the trip also. But, yet, I was some place new and it would have been against my nature to not get out exploring for at least a few hours.

And now I know how cool the San Antonio Riverwalk is. How pretty the Alamo is lit up at night. And how crazy the spaghetti-bowl expressway system is there, especially when trying to use a navigation system. (There's a story here about a lot of last-minute lane changes, possibly illegal turns, and recalculations by the navigation system, but I won't embarrass Kyle with the details...)

There's aren't any more business trips in my foreseeable future. It's not part of the usual job description of a software quality engineer. But, if there are any trips, I look forward to writing about my second official business trip.

To view the full set of photos from the San Antonio trip, visit my Flickr page.

My worst nightmare actually turned out kind of funny

Public speaking. A common enough phobia.

Friends and co-workers told me that I actually wasn't aweful at it. That I hid my nervousness well. But I didn't feel that way. I'm terrified at the thought of getting up in front of people and not knowing what to say.

Last year I took a few classes to help me feel better prepared for public speaking. I was tired of feeling limited by my fears.

I took a four-week presentations class at the local community college, then followed that up with a five-week acting for non-actors class. Funny thing was, people who do a lot of public speaking were terrified at the idea of taking the acting class with me. Personally, I saw no difference. Public speaking was public speaking -- terrifying no matter what kind. So I took that acting class alone.

And I discovered that I wasn't too bad. Some people actually said I was funny. Quiet, little me -- funny?

Anyway, that's a long lead-in to this story.

Labor Day. Five weeks ago. Wookie was in town (thank you for the photos!) and a group of us went to the closing day at the Bristol Renaissance Faire.

We decided to watch a show for a comedian/acrobat named MooNiE. Very funny. He doesn't talk much at all -- most of the show is communicated through body language.


Then MooNiE brought someone up on stage to help with a skit. As I watched, I ran through the possibilities in my head: What if I get dragged up? Unlikely, since we're near the back. But what if? Obviously, play along. He wants his skit to succeed and won't set it up for failure. But, WHAT IF? You've taken a class. You've done improvisation comedy. You can handle it. Just play along and roll with it.

Good thing I had that internal dialogue. Because, not three minutes later, MooNiE tapped me on the shoulder to go on stage with him.

Deep breath. Carefully give sunglasses and purse to husband. Calmly walk up to the stage. Ignore the crowd. Watch MooNiE for cues.

Thank you, he mouths to me.

I smile. (I'm pretty sure I smile.)

He produces two red paper cocktail napkins. Hands one to me. Keeps one himself. Indicates I should follow his example.

Twist. Twist. Twist. Make a tiny tear. Twist. Twist. Twist. Shape the top.

OK, I'm doing my best to follow.

He shows me his napkin. It now looks like a pretty little red rose. A look of flirtatious pride lights his face.

I show him my napkin. It now looks like a limp and twisted red paper cocktail napkin. He looks crestfallen. The crowd laughs. He takes my napkin and tosses it aside.

Then he makes a big to-do about presenting me with the rose. He offers it, then pulls it away. Offers it again. I play along. Each time trying to take it, knowing that he'll flirtatiously pull it away again. Each time the crowd laughs. Each time I laugh.

He gets down on one knee and offers the rose. He kisses my cheek then offers the rose. Then he indicates that I should kiss his cheek.

It's blazing hot. There's sweat dripping down his face. I feel the need to improvise. Oh, no. I look reluctant. I reach forward and wipe the sweat from his cheek. Ah-ha! He laughs.

He runs forward, grabs a towel and wipes his face. He returns to me and presents his now-dried cheek. OK. I lean forward to kiss him.

He turns his head. I end up kissing his lips. D'oh! I didn't see that coming. I *should* have seen it coming.

I laugh. The crowd laughs. He hands me the rose and leads me off stage.

Whew! I'd survived.

"You did good," my husband said as I sat down. "You were funny."

"I've never seen anyone do that before," said the stranger next to me, who's evidently seen the show multiple times before.

I was happy. I'd face my fear. I hadn't died onstage. Two years ago, I never would have done it. But, that day, my worst nightmare actually turned out kind of funny.

Another scary Ren Faire experience

I was feeling brave. I'd survived my trip onstage with MooNiE. I'd even gotten in front of dozens of people at Vegetable Justice and tried to throw tomatoes at a man while he insulted me (didn't hit him though... would have liked to!) Now we were near the end of our day at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, and my girlfriend's 16-year-old daughter wanted me to try the Pirate's Assault Catapult.

Combine a trampoline, a harness and bungee chords. Get in the harness and jump as high as you can on the trampoline with the bungee chords giving you extra lift. That's the Pirate's Assault Catapult.

There's not an amusement park ride that scares me, I boldly think. I'm within the weight limits (barely). So what if I'm wearing a skirt (they have a system to deal with that)? So what if I'm the only adult in line (I do care, but my friend's daughter doesn't want to go alone)? OK, I'm in.

They help me into the harness. They rig up a big towel like a diaper to preserve my modesty (lots of younger girls are wearing them, too... that doesn't help, it still looks like a diaper...). As I wait, a girl across the way does flips on the trampoline. My husband, Dave, tells me that I'll be able to do flips like that. Sure, I think. OK.

They strap me into the bungee chords, then tell me to start jumping. It takes a few jumps to get going, then I finally get to the top height.

Oh my god. Is that my stomach I just felt drop?

Next jump. Oh my god. Am I going to survive this?

Next jump. Oh my god. Don't get sick. Please don't get sick.

A few jumps later. Maybe I'll survive this. I'm not sure. I still feel sick.

Next jump. Is that Dave telling me to flip? No way! I'm barely holding it together.

A few jumps later. Really Dave. I'm not going to flip. You have no idea...

A few jumps later. "I can hear you Dave." There, I talked!

A few jumps later. OK maybe I'll try a flip. Maybe. On the next one. Or two...

A few jumps later. "Next one" I tell the worker.

Next jump. I make it half way over.

Next jump. I flip! Cool!

Next jump. Another flip. I think I crack a smile.

"Last one" the worker tells me. OK. Flip again. Definitely smile.

Then it was over. I was ecstatic. I'd flipped. I'd looked ridiculous as hell in my diaper. Most importantly -- I'd kept my lunch down. Just barely. :-) Ironic enough, it was scarier than getting onstage with MooNiE had been.

Update 2-21-08: I should have credited Wook with taking the photos. (Sorry Wook.) The top one shows me and my friend's daughter. The bottom one shows two other people, one of them flipping.

World travels

Cool internet feature I found. Allows you to create your own custom map of countries and states you've visited.

Here's my world map:

create your own visited countries map

And here's my U.S. map:



create your own visited states map

I admit, I may not be perfect in my recollections of where I've been, but my mistakes are mistakes of omission.


Added 10/03/07:
And here are the countries in Europe I've visited:



create your personalized map of europe

More special dates

Yet another cluster of special occasions to mark.

Today is my wedding anniversary -- lucky number 13. Happy Anniversary Dave. :-)

There are also birthdays for JC, Auntie Donna, my godson Adam, and my nephew "Louis". Happy Birthday.

We're waiting for good news about a new neice/nephew "Peanut" to be born (due two days ago).

Wishing continued improvement to Rick who is recovering from major, major surgery.

And, thinking about the Red Dog, who went to the bridge five years ago today.

(I'm not sure which I feel more like: A morning weatherman reading off a list of announcements, or that lady from Romper Room who held up the mirror and listed different kids' names every week. I swear, she saw every kid but never a "Haley". LOL)

And I call myself a Bears fan?

I was looking at an old email from around Easter 2003. I'd been to visit my friend Marriott in Miami and was flying home. The email made me smile, even after all these years. With football season about to get underway, I thought I'd post it here:

Bear with me, this gets a little long.

So I'm flying home from Miami via Atlanta. For various reasons, on the segment from Atlanta to Chicago I'm in first class (yeah, I know, tragic...)

As passengers are boarding, I notice that a few young men say hello to another passenger in my row. I can't see this passenger, because the rows don't line up and he's in the far window seat. I don't think much of it.

As we're taking off, the woman next to him (whom I can see clearly), starts rambling about premiere golf courses in Chicago, and then babbles on about the layout of the Chicago expressway system. It sounds kind of giddy and odd to me. Something's up here. Is this passenger somehow famous? Maybe an athlete based on the golf conversation.

All I can see of him is the top of his head. He's African-American and doesn't look familiar. All flight I wait for clues. As we're about to land, the woman asks for his autograph. Bingo. She asks his number. I don't hear the reply. But I now know he's an athlete on a team sport.

He deplanes in front of me, and I get a clear view. Not overly tall or bulky. Nothing to firmly place him or his sport. He catches me looking at him. I smile. I don't recognze him! I'm feeling stupid. This story is no good until I know who I flew with!

We're walking through the terminal now, and he's to my left, even with me. He has his phone on and his earpiece in his ear. I hear him talking and keep walking.

"Are you from Chicago?" he asks. I look at him. He's talking to me.

"Yes," I reply.

"Where do you live?" he asks.

"The western suburbs."

Now I'm really feeling stupid because I'm in a conversation with this man and I don't recognize him!

"How about you?" I ask.

"I'm in transition," he replies. "I just signed with the Bears about a month ago." I remember it was a big story when the Bears signed someone recently. I wish I'd paid more attention.

"What's you're name?" he asks.

"Haley." OK, I bite the bullet and confess that I don't know him. "And what's you're name?"

"Kordell," he replies.

Kordell. Kordell. I know that name. He's big. But I don't remember any more.

He holds out his hand to shake hands. I look down at my hands stupidly. I'm pulling my suitcase with my right hand. Should I switch? Oh, wait a minute, he's pulling his suitcase with his right hand also. We do a left-handed shake and keep walking.

Someone calls out to him, "Hey Kordell, good to have you here."

He responds politely, then turns to me, "Did you catch that?"

"Yes," I reply. We talk about my weekend in Miami and what he was doing in Atlanta. Someone stops him.

"Kordell, I just wanted to shake your hand, man."

He responds politely, then smiles to me, "Did you catch that?"

"Oh, yeah," I reply. I ask him if he's doing any training now. He says he's doing a lot, staying in shape and resting his neck.

Someone calls to him again. "Hey Kordell." Kordell turns to me again. "How about that? Did you catch that one?"

"Yes," I laugh. "You're really enjoying this aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah." He laughs back. As we're nearing the escalator down to baggage claim, he asks, "So are you a Bears fan?"

"Yeah," I say sheepishly. "But obviously not a big enough fan."

He laughs again. "You did fine."

He asks if I heard which baggage claim to go to. No, I didn't check any bags. We find the correct claim area. I leave him.

"Well, it was good talking to you. Good luck this season."

I rush out to the arrivals area and find Dave. Get in the car. After a minute I ask Dave. "So, who's the Kordell who signed on with the Bears about a month ago?"

"Kordell Stewart. He's the new quarterback. He used to be with Pittsburgh, remember?" Oh. The quarterback.

"Huh," I say. "Well, I just had a five minute conversation with him as we walked through the terminal. Nice guy."

Needless to say, Dave was impressed. :o)

Although, looking back, Dave wasn't impressed for long. Kordell's stint with the Bears ended up not working out the greatest for either him or the team. I think he's retired now.

In praise of my little yellow truck

My little yellow truck just hit 100,000 miles yesterday.

Of course, I managed to miss the grand moment. Saw it 20 miles pre and 30 miles post. It's probably for the best that I missed it, because I might have been tempted to pull out my camera and document the event. Using a cell phone while driving is bad enough, but using a cell phone to take a picture while driving has to be much worse -- and who would want to see that photo anyway?

I'm probably jinxing myself here, but my 2001 Nissan Xterra has spent her working years doing the daily commute in the Chicago area, and shows no signs of even contemplating retirement yet.



Oh, I remember when the little yellow truck was young. She cut her milk teeth on the steep grades of California Street in San Francisco, showing off for all those ancient cable cars chugging alongside her. She wasn't even a teenager yet when she carried Marriott and me cross-country to Chicago. (Am I carrying the metaphor too far? By "wasn't even a teenager yet" I mean she hadn't hit 10,000 miles. Oh, and did you catch the cross-country reference? Xterra. Cross-country. Get it? Talk to me privately if you didn't.)

The little yellow truck is the third vehicle I've gotten to drive past the centenarian mark.

First there was the blue muscle car - a 1972 Pontiac LeMans (350 V-8) that my grandfather used to own. The only thing that would have made her cooler (all the guys told me) was if she had two doors instead of four. But, hey, we all have our faults.

Then there was my little red car - a 1991 Pontiac Sunbird. She had front-wheel drive, a sun roof and a really nice ability to never show her dirt (one of the guys at work was constantly asking if I'd just gotten her washed -- like I could afford to pay for regular car washes while working at a weekly newspaper). In her later years, the little red car developed a few quirks, but she served me well.

I guess I have a thing for thinking about my cars in terms of color, but at least they have color. All my husband's cars over the years have been the "little black car" - how boring. ;-) But, then again, my husband and I don't always agree on nick-names, as he likes to call my Xterra the "big yellow bus", which actually brings to my mind images of those short buses the school district used to drive students with special needs. I digress.



Since this is a post in praise of my little yellow truck, I won't complain about her gas mileage. It's a fault that's not unique to her. Most of her friends on the road are guilty of the same.

Instead, I'll praise her for her virtues. Her faithful service. Her ample passenger and cargo space (Loki and Thor positively adore her). Her stadium seating and rooftop basket that give her a distinctive profile. And her quirky little first-aid kit that gives her such a cute bump on her rear, even if the kit contents are probably out of date now.

I'll stop blathering on now. I know she's just a car. But yet...

The cicadas stopped

They were the strongest at the end of the first week. All up the side of our 8-story office building. Buzzing by 5th-floor windows. Underfoot as you walked on the sidewalk. Flying by the car while driving down the street, even the expressway.

Then they slowly dwindled. Not so much underfoot, but still a constant hum in the background.

That hum was still there early this week.

Today, it was gone.

I'm sure there will be sporadic sightings for a little while yet, but for the most part, the cicadas are gone. Until the next time -- 17 years from now.

The class of '87

It's been 20 years since I graduated high school. There was once a day, seemingly not so long ago, when I thought only old people had 20-year reunions.

I'm old.

OK, I'm not really old.

It's all a matter of perspective and mind-set.

But my good-old Class of '87 doesn't seem to be planning a reunion. I'm not sure that I'd really care (since I didn't go to my 10-year reunion), except that a high-school friend emailed me and got me involved in this whole "What's going on with our 20-year reunion?" search. They've orgainzed a message board and a MySpace page. It's a young movement, apparently, with only about a dozen people on the fact-finding mission. And, so far, there are no facts to be discovered. Nada. Zilch.

I think these brave fact-finders are going to discover that they've just volunteered themselves to organize the event. I hope I haven't dragged myself into it, too.

My other 20-year reunion

The 20-year reunion that I'm really excited about is coming up next week. It's the family reunion we're planning in Australia.

My grandfather came to this country to go to college during the Great Depression, leaving behind a brother and three sisters in Australia. To make a long story short, he met my grandmother and decided to stay in the United States. But the ties within the family stayed strong.

In 1987, my grandfather got both his children and all his grandchildren to cross the Pacific with him and visit his siblings and their families in a big gathering of over 50 people. There were three generations: my grandfather and two of his sisters, my Dad's generation of first cousins, and my generation of second cousins.

When my Dad died two years ago, we started planning another big family trip. It turns out my other American cousins can't make it this time, but Dave and I, my Mom, and my sister and her family are all going.

Other cousins are traveling from the far reaches of Australia to attend. I'm not sure how many to expect, but we could easily be at the 50-person mark again. This time, there will be four generations represented: my Great Aunt Edie, the first and second cousins, and now a generation of third cousins.

For me, it'll be my fourth trip (1980, 1987 and 1991), but for my husband and my nephews, it'll be their first. Expect to see more details as the weeks go by. I hope to keep posting while we're there.

Odd encounter of the month

So, I'm leaving work last night, and as I'm crossing the parking lot, a kid comes riding up on his bicycle. Had to be about 12 or 13 years old. Junior high age, I'd say. As he rides up, he says something.

"What?" I ask.

"Wanna [insert F-word here]?"

Dumbfounded silence. Huh. More dumbfounded silence. How does someone respond to that?

"No." I keep walking.

"Why?"

Really? Really? He's following that up with a "Why?"

I want to keep my mouth shut. I really do. I know better than to feed the trolls, but I can't help myself.

"Because you're an [insert insult here]."

He continues to ride his bike past me, and I get in my car and drive away.

A million better retorts come to me in the car, but, mostly, I'm puzzled by the whole thing. Does he really expect that line to work? I guess it only takes one time -- and if it works, then that makes me really sad.

Cicada sighting

It's the summer of the Cicada here in Chicago. The annual breeding year of the 17-year Cicada.

But, I've been asking myself, where are all the Cicadas that everyone has been talking about? I don't have any in my neighborhood.

I had my first encounter yesterday at work. I was sitting on a park bench outside the building and noticed one sitting next to me. Then I noticed a few on the edge of the building. And then I noticed more and more. Plus a faint buzz on the horizon. At last -- Cicadas!

I was visiting a friend in Wheaton last night, and I noticed that she doesn't have any in her neighborhood either, even through it's a long established neighborhood with a lot of trees. A co-worker in next-door Glen Ellyn has them, so I was really surprised that her neighborhood didn't have them. This made her laugh.

She said that she was in Downers Grove over the weekend and the buzz of Cicadas was so loud it was difficult to carry on a conversation. They were everywhere underfoot and buzzing around to the point that a few of the kids were shaking with disgust. "You know, in Wheaton, we don't get no plagues of locuts," my friend's high school-age son is reported to have told the Downers Grove crowd, tongue firmly in cheek, "We're good, god-fearing people."

(If you don't get the joke, follow this link to the Wheaton Wikipedia entry.)

AAA reminder

The Sun-Times today ran an article about a subject near and dear to my heart. The article was about someone who survived a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm, and urging people who fit a certain profile to get tested.

"Fighting a silent killer: Because they normally don't have any symptoms before they rupture, aortic aneurysms often don't get spotted until it's too late, making this man one lucky guy" is the main article, with an accompanying health blog entry about "You have an AAA: now what?"

Why is this subject so near and dear to my heart? It's what killed my Dad two years ago.

The article didn't seem to offer much new information over this article from a few years ago, but it's good to see it raising awareness.

If you fit the profile, please get tested.