Hallelujah! A New Year Approacheth!

I am so excited to have a New Year unfolding!

• I didn't do anything extraordinary to even warrant a Christmas letter (Hi, I did dialysis 1,068 times (oops, 1,069 because one day it didn't work and I had to come back the next day) and went to about 4,000 yard sales);
  
• I avoided being filmed by "Hoarders" (note sentence just above) only because I kept my curtains closed;
  
• Thanksgiving sucked because for the first time in my sons' lives (37 & 38 years), neither one of them were here (sob);
  
• Christmas ads started before Halloween and were just plain annoying!
  
• After two years on Unemployment after losing my precious job - even Unemployment ended;
  
• Maybe I can make bag-loads of money selling all my yard sale stuff on Craig's List;
  
• Maybe I can have Mechanic Man build shelf-units in the walls, which would do double-duty as storage for all my stuff AND insulation for the house!
  
• A New Year means a new slate!
  
• Maybe instead of a job, I'll do fascinating volunteer work and have something to write about other than I'm terrified that "Hoarders" will find me;
  
• Finally, it will be such a fantastic New Year because I just found out I'm going to be a GRANDMOTHER!
  
  

Happy New Year everyone! Now, I'm going to crochet about 30 baby blankets, shop for a car seat for my car so I can drive my grandbaby around to show off, sign up for the Gerber College Fund, get a new digital camera for pictures, collect ribbons and buttons and sequins and stars for the 5,000 page scrapbook I'm going to make for my grandbaby, generally go wacko on baby clothes, purchase a year's supply of Pampers, spoil, spoil, spoil my new grandbaby. See ya later!
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Joining the Unemployed

I am curious - when someone who makes a LOT of money, like WSU Coach Paul Wulff, and is fired from his job - does he go on unemployment??? And how does he do a job search? I mean, are there a lot of college coach positions open in the Eastern Washington area? Does he go through depression like a lot of the newly unemployed? Will he be unemployed for over two years, like me? Just wondering.

Confessions of a HoarderCollector

I am a collector. I collect tea sets. Santas. Snow Globes. Christmas decorations. Glass animals. Duncan Miller glassware. Stationary. Window box displays. Scrapbook supplies. Books.

And I have embellished on what I collect. Like the tea sets. I actually started by collecting vintage 50’s children’s porcelain tea sets, like what I had when I was a little girl. Three pieces of my tea set survived my childhood and sat on a desk at my mother’s house. When she told me I couldn’t have them returned to me until she died, because she didn’t trust me with them (at the age of 50 years old, let alone when I was 5), I started collecting that set. And then, when I couldn’t find the whole set, I started collecting tea pots. And then I started collecting tea cups and saucers. And then I started collecting adult-sized tea cups and saucers. Or, like the scrapbook supplies. I collected paper. Then I collected ribbon. Buttons. Lace. Doilies. Glitter. Sparkles. Sprinkles. Ink.

And I put these collections in little piles. Cups in cups in cups. Saucers on saucers on doilies. Little boxes with little drawers stacked on top of one another. A stack of books with about 50 books in a column, five columns so far.

Let's just say that I am super easy to shop for.

Oh.My.God!!!!!

I think the film crew from “Hoarders” just knocked on my door! Film rolling!

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Bake a Cake, Win a Turkey, or Starve!

Thanksgiving was just around the corner, years ago, when my sons were 8 and 9. I worried about Thanksgiving, coming and going, without a turkey. It was going to be a pretty grim Thanksgiving; I was eyeballing chickens and wondering how fooled the boys would be.

The boys participated in the Boy Scouts Bake Sale the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The prize was a turkey dinner, complete with potatoes, gravy mix, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. With $6.00 to my name, I knew this was my only chance. That, or we'd have to settle for chicken.

The scouts were supposed to make their own cake. Home made by the boys. My mind slithered back to the soap box derby earlier that year, where the boys were supposed to make a screaming racing car out of a block of wood, *by*themselves* There was a family at the bake sale that evening - affluent, intelligent, and beautiful parents with equally beautiful twin boys, age 9. The twins showed up at the derby with a cherry-red, cherried-out, speed demon race car that won hands down! My son showed up with a hand carved by him (with a little inadequate help from me), lemon colored (for a reason) obviously home-made car that wouldn't even roll an inch without help.


Now my mind came back to the night before Thanksgiving, and there on the table of 20 cakes was the twins' cake, stunning in its beauty, of course, an absolutely beautiful beehive cake with yellow and white striped icing, and little furry bees on toothpicks "hovering" over the beehive, every detail finely etched as if it were created by some elite French chef. And our cake, Mr. Happy Face, which was bumpy and wavy, black frosting smeared into a crude half circle with a crooked little smile and two globs for eyes – the saddest cake I have ever seen. (But hand-made by my son!)

I grumbled to myself. I had decided I was going to have to buy the cake back for $2.00, leaving me $4.00. I could still get that damned chicken.

It was getting darned close to disaster time in my family as our misshapen cake, made totally by my son (did I say that already?), was sitting forlorn and lonely as all the other cakes were being raffled off – it was down to the beehive cake or the happy face cake.

Bee Family bought my cake AND theirs!

I felt a strange twisting in my gut – I was bitter and angry and jealous and peeved and crabby. They could have bought all 20 cakes! And of course, Bee Family won the turkey dinner. It was a test for me to practice sweetness in the face of total disaster. Now, I had no turkey dinner. And I had no cake!

I told myself that this was a good thing. I still had SIX dollars to buy my "chicken" dinner. And spare change to get two ice cream cones for two pretty sad little boys.

We got to our car and I was loading the kids in, when Mr. Bee came up to me with this HUGE box, the hump of a gigantic turkey peering over the edge; potatoes, stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, the WORKS. "We've already got our turkey – this would just go to waste – would you mind taking it off our hands?"

Well, I tell ya, I could hardly talk to him as I choked up and teared up and tried to stuff all the guilt I was feeling for, well, for feeling cheated, and poor, and pathetic!

There is always something to be thankful for. If you find yourself in a downward spiral, something will come along to lift you out of that hole. I am ever thankful for this family's gift to my family.

May I be able to pay it forward in every moment where I can pass along a kindness or a gentle touch. Hoping everyone finds abundant reasons for being thankful.

Wearing the Suit of Professionalism

I loved Doug Clark’s take on the Karl Thompson/Otto Zehm issue here in Spokane. It was contrary to his usual funny, witty, and sarcastic commentaries – it was serious, eloquent, and on the mark for the truth that is going on with our police department.

He mentioned the police department’s guide for being a good police officer. (And mind you, most of our police officers follow the guideline; it is the few that are marring the reputation of the whole.)

Ten years ago, I started a chapter of a legal association in Spokane for legal secretaries and paralegals, NALS of Spokane. (NALS is a national association for the education and professionalism of non-attorney law firm personnel.) We have a series of tests we take covering laws, regulations, ethics, and skill sets that guide us in our jobs – even though we are low man on the totem pole, so to speak. A quarter of our eight-hour test covers two Code of Ethics manuals, one for attorneys and one for judges. Secretaries and paralegals follow the same principles as attorneys and judges – we follow, in fact, their Manuals. (The "Model Rules of Professional Conduct" for attorneys was created to resolve issues, like the Watergate scandal.) When I read both manuals (just as long in length as for police officers), I was struck by how it affected me. I wanted to wear the values and philosophy like a suit. I mean that I wore professionalism, integrity, ethics, high ideals, and moral fortitude. I held myself to a high standard, and my actions influenced all the staff around me, and even the attorneys. My attitude held weight for my entire firm – little old me.

When I read Clark’s article, my mind went back to the day I passed my certification test – I thought to myself that the manual police officers follow is the crux of everything wrong with the police department. They are not reading the manual. If a small peg on the board of a whole bunch of holes can read the manual and carry a whole law firm, then a police officer should be able to do it, too.

Conundrum

Is it too late to do Spring Cleaning??? You never hear about Fall Cleaning. I'm just wondering. I had so many nice days to do Spring cleaning but there were yard sales to go to, friends to visit, scrapbooks to scrap together, puzzles to assemble, games to play. Now that we have a record-breaking Fall (instead of the usual two little days of autumn colors before ten feet of snow clouds our vision), you think today would be too late to do my Spring Cleaning?

Unemployment Blues

Today I opened my last unemployment check.

[Ominous drum roll]

It had a note at the bottom to the affect: Good luck in your job search and your future life that will not be what you have been accustomed to.

Um, there ain't no job in my future unless it is Tuesdays and Thursdays, pays well enough to feed me and not too well to impinge on my meager social security disability - which is paltry to the point, I should be eligible for food stamps. Yikes. Oh, and also, the job should be glamorous, fun, self-fulfilling, self-gratifying, and - oh, what? You mean I should have a dreary dull job just like the rest of you? Filing files, filing data cards, filing taxes, filing my nails.

Then the news came on - and I was featured!!!! Well, not me specifically, but they talked about the fact that "54% of Americans are unemployed." That is an outrageous number. For me, it has been two years of unemployment. They featured two different women, however, who have been unemployed for three years and are not covered by health insurance (or unemployment insurance).

There are people out there, lots of them, that are far worse off than me. I can't whine about this. At least I have my disability check - and I know of people that need disability but aren't eligible because either they didn't pay into social security, or their ailment isn't "bad" enough to become a category.

This is a very scary road I'm starting to travel down.

Train Lullaby

We live next to a single train track that goes through Millwood.

I kind of worried when I first moved here, how that would be. Sometimes, it is so heavy and loud, that the pictures on the wall shake, the small bottles collected over 50 years ago, vibrate to the edge of their little shelves - and we unconsciously push them back as we walk by.

I try to guess which way the train is coming from - east? west? And then it appears in my kitchen window, the engineer so close I can see him smile at me, the engine so massive I am surprised at how small the engineer is, how he can control something so huge.

At night, it passes with a different sound - it is rhythmic, subtly clunk-a-clanging along, but muted - as if the night clouds buffer it somehow. If I am awake - I am soon lulled to sleep. In fact, if I am awake, and not able to ease into sleep - I wait for the train. It is faithful and timely. Soon - soon, it will come whispering by, and I will be asleep by the time the caboose comes through.

The Kissing Gate

When I was a teenager, we lived on a little farm just outside of Spokane, where my Dad practiced being a gentleman farmer while keeping his day job as a reporter for The Spokane Chronicle. He bought a beat up old tractor and drove it around the fields, plowing just to plow. With that tractor, he built a fairly large vegetable garden outside the back yard. To get to the garden, he built an old fashioned stile. Three steps up to a landing, three steps down to the peas, beets, carrots, beans, corn, tomatoes, lettuce. We had everything you would want for vegetables. It was a heady scent, to sit on the stile at night in the moonlight.

It was to the stile that I would take my date. First we had dinner with my family, then we went hand-in-hand to the stile (I thought everyone had a stile to the garden!), and we would sit on the top step and talk, maybe kiss, smell the tomatoes, until, invariably, the back screen door would whine open, and Dad’s voice would interrupt, only 15 feet away through the Locust trees, “You kids doing anything out there?” It wasn’t really a question. It was more interpreted by my dates as, “You kids are NOT doing anything out there!” And my date would surreptitiously slip away from me a couple inches – not even close enough for kissing.

I had three young suitors go through the dating ritual with me – one became an attorney and politician here in Spokane; one became a missionary and preacher; and I married the third, had two sons, and after seven years we parted.

There was Magic in the garden stile. It was safe and there was a special aura around it – as if little fairies would float up from the garden itself. My sister also “dated” at the garden stile. I’m fairly certain we were the last virgins in Spokane County and it’s probably because of the stile.

Or maybe it was my Dad. It’s kind of hard to fool around when your Dad keeps appearing on the back porch.

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The Rumors of My Death. . . .

I got home last night after being out of town for the weekend, with the first email being from someone I don't know, starting, "Remembering Art especially as the ski season approaches."

Art's dead? O my God! Art - who has been the token male in my women's dinner group for - well, since forever. He knew the rest of the gals way before me. Art - who met us at Disney World and was my personal driver to and from dialysis - where he would camp out in the lobby and visit with all the people coming in to wait for their turn on dialysis - for three and a half hours.

How could this be????

I started to weep, trying to dial one of the group - Kathy. And when I tried to subtlely find out what had happened, she was confused and said she didn't know anything. I sent her the strange email and she finally wrote back and said "I think she is trying to find Art."

This morning we all got an email from Art himself, alive and well, with a picture of him riding his motorcycle around Florida just for the heck of it, long white hair and beard blowing in the wind, and because 75 is NOT too old to have fun.

The rumor of his death is grossly exaggerated. Mark Twain was on to something there.

(Sigh)

His Hands

I love Mechanic Man's hands.

We were at a swap meet on the west side, and he stopped to check out some clunky big greasy car part, some part that is Greek to me. He placed his hands on it, like he was caressing a baby.

I thought, what beautiful hands. Big, powerful, beefy, strong. He swings a mighty sledge hammer with those hands.

He feels motor parts with those hands. He can tell the fitness of a part, feeling the strength, or the weakness, of some heavy metal car part.

He lifts engines and other heavy equipment with those hands.

He disassembles and puts back together in intricate detail, pieces and parts, with those hands.

Such powerful, beautiful hands.

He touches me gently with those hands.

Gray Power

I got my hair cut this afternoon - Short! Short! Short!

And Gray! Gray! Gray!

I've decided I kind of like it. So, I think L'Oreal is losing one of their main customers. I should have bought stock in L'Oreal. I've supported them for many years. Once I hit my 30's and my natural auburn hair was getting a few grays in amongst the red, I bought my first hair color from L'Oreal. (After all, women older than me, at the time, were touting that we aren't getting older; we are getting better.)

It's more salt and pepper - streaks of near white. Overall - it's not a bad look. And it might even appear that I have some smarts up there - it somehow gives me a wiser demeanor. I think.

My hair stylist - Mechanic Man, of course. Gives new meaning to "only your hair dresser knows for sure" and he's not talking!!!

:)

Bad, Bad Kidney

September 30, I will have been on dialysis for two years. The average time spent before transplant is six years. Trivial little facts on the Second Anniversary of Dialysis:

Total Weeks: 104
Total Days: 312
Total Hours: 1,092
Cost per hour average: $1,143.00
Total Cost for two years: $1,248,000 (yes, that is almost one and a quarter MILLION)


In the last two years, I have had four surgeries, multiple doctor visits, 20 drips to unclog my site, bitten by a dog in my dialysis hand once, had my blood pressure crash about 40 times. (This morning, for example - 60 over 40 and still breathing)

Every dialysis day is an event. I call them “Bad Kidney” events. Like, a bad dog. They simply misbehave. Even though they aren’t functioning – those little guys continually act up.

• First you get poked by two needles – and there is every chance just one of the needles will not work, or will infiltrate, or will hit a nerve. Sometimes, when any of this happens, you have to go home (they charge you anyway for the needles and the prep of the machine) AND you have to come back the next day! AND, this little scenario is all you think about every time you start dialysis. Will it work? Are they using the right needles? Will the flow be sufficient?
  
• Then once you start – you have to worry about your blood pressure crashing. Which usually happens towards the end. Alarms go off, they have to add back fluid, and you leave needing to have fluid removed but you wait until the next time.
  
• Also, once you start, you have to worry about the blood flow both going into the machine and coming back into your arm. If it is too low or too high, it sets off alarms.
  
• Every time the alarm goes off (an average of 9 times for me each session), it intermittently STOPS my dialysis and then restarts and adds that lost time to the total time spent on dialysis.
  

I love the other patients at my dialysis center. You get to know each other, say hi, you run into each other at stores – and more often than not – at restaurants – where there’s lots of forbidden foods loaded in our no-no ingredients (sodium, potassium, phosphorous). And there we sit, eyeballing each other – knowing we are indulging in our favorite foods with sinful delight.

Unfortunately, I’ve noticed an ugly trend at my center –around Christmas. Winter is not kind to dialysis patients – we’re worn down, our immune systems are compromised, we get flu shots – but we still get the flu, or something kind of mundane to healthy people. And then we lose people – usually in droves. Last winter, it was two women who both died from heart problems. And then there was that one young kid, 35, paralyzed from the neck down, who went home from dialysis one day and decided not to come back – he died after only four days of no dialysis. It gives you pause. (My Dad did the same thing – lasting seven days.) We lost them all in one weekend, so that Monday morning, I came in and noticed the three empty chairs immediately. The techs aren't supposed to tell us what happened, but they tell me because I have that open honest face and people tell me their deepest secrets - including what patients died this weekend. Yeesh.

Oh – add the above trivia to the 90 patients my one center has (Spokane has seven centers) and these are the center’s numbers:

Total hourly earnings: (this is what insurance pays, not what they charge) $102,857 (an hour)
Total annual earnings: $56,160,000.

Ever wonder why insurance is so high?

P.S. I'm thinking of creating a second blog - called Bad, Bad Kidney just for journaling - except that I've said in this one post what happens to me every day, 156 days a year.

Bennies of Being Old

There are many benefits of being old, and being an old woman:

1. No periods. I know - if you are a guy, you don't understand, unless you live with someone who has them.
2. No menopause - I'm too old. Again - you don't appreciate this unless you have a gazillion hot flashes in one hour; sleep with someone who has a gazillion hot flashes in one hour; drive behind someone with a gazillion hot flashes in about a two mile stretch, screaming her head off with a string of expletive deleted words.
3. No rush hour traffic. We avoid them. We don't need them. They are a total waste of our energy.
4. No paying for parking downtown at $150 a month. Whoopee!!!!
5. No dressing up - I can go out in my tattered jeans and baggy t-shirt. Pretty much anywhere.
6. I only need two pair of shoes - one pair for the single party I go to a year (to go with the one dress I own)
7. No alarm clock.
8. I'm so old that Medicare pretty much pays all my health bills (about $600,000 a year)
9. I don't have to work. Ok, so I'm disabled and on social security. Still - no work.
10. No boss - unless you count Mechanic Man, and I pretty much humor him.

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This Bites!

I was bitten by a dog yesterday.

Writing those words seems so bland. Like I just said I was bitten by a mosquito.

No, I was ravenously gnawed on by a large dog with a very strong jaw. Mechanic Man and I were doing our usual browsing through various yard sales. We routinely meet and greet the various dogs and cats who act like we have arrived solely to visit with them and give them our attention and pets. I look forward to these visits because we don’t have room for pets, and I crave the cuddling and warm fuzzy feel.

But not this time.

This time I was going back to the car – and the dog (on a chain inside the owner’s fenced yard) ran up to the fence, both paws on the fence, acting so much like all the other yard sale dogs – I thought in a friendly, “pet me!” attitude.

I was wrong.

He bit down hard on my hand and chewed, then grabbed my other hand as I was trying to get his grip off of me. I came away with dozens of puncture wounds on the top of my right hand, and deep bite marks and cuts on the top of my left hand and middle finger. I now have steri-strips and gauze wrapped around both hands, and a splint on my left middle finger.

More worrisome is that the bites narrowly missed the large vein going across my left hand – my dialysis hand. I have dialysis in my left upper arm – and all dialysis patients need to keep their arms and hands SAFE for future dialysis sites because they always fail eventually and a new site needs to be ready. It’s very scary.

Anyway – three hours spent at Emergency, including the “scrubbing” of all the wounds, sending in a Dog Bite report, and now home – typing with about five fingers.

I will not be petting strange animals anymore. And that is really, really heart breaking for me. It makes me cry.

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Bring Them Home

The Parting Shot photo on Huckleberries August 30, 2011, was so heart breaking. I worry about every CHILD that is serving as a soldier in these days. Every one of them is a son or daughter, some are even fathers or mothers.

http://www.spokesman.com/blogs/hbo/2011/aug/30/parting-shot-83011/


I am thinking of the soulful song from Les Miserables, Bring Him Home. I can hear it in my head, it bleeds from my heart. Please, God, bring them ALL home.

God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there

He is young
He's afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

He's like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.

Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy

You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

Lyrics from Les Miserables, Bring Him Home

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Junk (I mean Yard) Sales

We've gone to yet more yard sales, and Mechanic Man has made whopping deals - like a huge box of tools (that look like a lot of junk to me) for five bucks. And the huge box of similar "tools" from the "free" pile. (Free.) And the box of true junk that included a gazillion little boxes with a gazillion little bits in them. Five bucks. And now, take a look at our (what we thought was LARGE) shed - where you pull up the door and several boxes threaten to explode out at you from RIGHT THERE. (sigh) And now take a gander at the boxes by the tomatoes - which will never ripen because the sun just does not shine there any more. I ask you - there is a moral to this somewhere, but I don't know where. Is it still a deal if it's starting to sprout parts in your garden? If you run out of shelf "space," how long does the "shelf life" last? Can you ever have enough greasy parts? Can you take it with you when you die? Can Mechanic Man live to be 498 years old? Is there a sale-a-holic association? Is there room for one more?

Oh my God - I think the Hoarders TV crew is coming up the driveway!

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It's Always Something

So this is one of those things that happens every now and then, when you are on dialysis.

It fails.

I mean - they hook you up with two needles and then discover that it's clogged or stuffed or stopped or failed.

And while they are discovering this, moving from needle to needle and then trying different spots with new needles, they say something innocuous like, "well, if she can't run today, she can come in tomorrow." What? What do you mean by "coming in tomorrow?" Do you mean I have to come in AGAIN and have two needles stabbed into me AGAIN? And then I have to come in on Wednesday to get back on track?

Anyway - that's the story. Dialysis SUCKS. Or in my case, today, DIDN'T suck.

What a pain in the tush, er, arm, er WHATEVER.

It's Always Something.

Nuts and Bolts

I know it's not that interesting to you wonderful readers out there, but I thought I'd catch you up anyway.

You know that I have spent the last six weeks doing something I thought I would never do in my whole life - at that is sticking long, large, huge needles into my upper arm for dialysis connections. Two needles. I was working toward developing a "buttonhole" which is created by inserting the needles into the same spot over and over, about 12 times, until a channel is created much like the pierced-earring hole you got when you were at 10.

The nurse coaching me (bless her for coming out of her way Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to guide me) was disappointed that the buttonhole was not forming. Friday, what should have been my 17th day, proved unsuccessful. I tried, she tried, my tech tried - and that was that. Not happening.

So Friday was my 1st day of trying again only in two different spots and the tech is doing it instead of me.

I bawled all day long - felt like a total failure. I flunked Poke-Yourself-with-Two-15 Gauge Needles 101.

I am trying to keep an up attitude about this whole dialysis thing. It is my mini spa, after all, and I should be able to relax, put my feet up, get a pedicure and a foot massage, and come out refreshed and gearing up for a busy day.

There, you have the nuts and bolts of it.
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Culinary Cuisine Catastrophes by Calamity Jeanie

So, it began with my future mother-in-law asking me if I even knew how to cook. Maybe it began with my own mother’s training me how to cook. I mean, she instilled in me the concept that oatmeal raisin cookies were a hearty breakfast. As the oldest of four children, and the fact that Mom liked to sleep in, I was in charge of a “hearty breakfast.” And there’s oatmeal, eggs, butter, raisins, and sometimes nuts in oatmeal raisin cookies. It’s just so logical and right!

So, that’s the first thing I learned to “cook.”

Along came high school and I chose to skip Home Economics for an extra choir class and ended up taking Home Ec for summer school. The teacher assigned us to tables and each table had four students. Each table was further assigned to a course. My table was assigned to desserts.

So my recipe repertoire grew to include pies, cakes, cookies, and the finale was a Baked Alaska! I can throw together a Baked Alaska and have energy left over to go sit on the couch and watch reruns of Desperate Housewives.

When I got married, I was a Junior in college and one of my required classes was Home Economics 101. I got called in towards the end of the quarter because I was. . . . . FAILING!!!!! (And no cooking was involved). I had to convince the teacher that I was indeed domestic, and that I did things like iron my husband’s handkerchiefs and tried to iron his t-shirts but they kept melting into the iron, but I would persist.

Back to cooking. Being struggling and poverty-stricken college students, we went to a wholesale store and bought bulk food by the case. Cases of soup. Cases of fruit. Cases of vegetables. And the ultimate score was a case of Jello. In fact a case of strawberry Jello. A case of raspberry Jello. A case of lemon Jello. And I proceeded to invent about 101 ways you could have Jello. It was whipped, frothed, foamed, layered, fruited, molded, beaten, whisked, fluffed, shaped, diced – you get the idea.

I ventured into the main course cooking routine by following some of my mother’s advice (and I’m forewarning you that I don’t think my mother was a good cook – like you hear all sons around the world claiming that “There’s no home cooking like my mother’s home cooking!”). There’s her famous tuna noodle casserole (Boil noodles, add one can Cream of Mushroom soup (Campbell’s), one cup crushed potato chips, mix into bowl, cover with crushed potato chips, bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes).

Hey, I like it!!! But Mechanic Man’s mother was REALLY a good cook and her idea of tuna casserole involved fresh tuna and nothing from Campbell’s and no potato chips. Eeeeeuuuuu.

So, to answer my future mother-in-law (who is now my ex-mother-in-law), I can do dessert! I am great at dessert!

And I have the main course thing figured out, too. Around time to start assembling all the ingredients for a good dinner, I start out to the kitchen and I mutter to myself out loud (so that Mechanic Man can hear me – this is a must), and I say something like, “I think I’ll do something with hamburger and Cream of Mushroom soup. . .” and Mechanic Man practically tosses his chair over trying to get out of it fast enough to beat me to the kitchen, slamming his hand over the cupboard door that holds anything Campbell’s and he’ll say “Um, I think I’ll start something-something.” And I return to the couch, my job done!

You don’t have to be a cook to have a successful relationship (and I’m not starving!)

~Formerly known as Calamity Jeanie, now Domestic Goddess~

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Viral Mother-in-Law

Wow - just read this on Yahoo: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/mother-in-law-sends-worst-email-ever-to-bride-forgivable-2504517/Viral Future Mother-in-Law

And the wedding hasn't even happened yet.

It reminds me of a meeting with my future mother-in-law - not nearly so horrid, and she has mellowed with time and is now a pleasant frail little old lady.

But that meeting was one for the books. We had gone to my parents first and my future hubby did all the old fashioned things - like actually asking my Dad for permission to marry me. And then they had the usual back and forth conversation, like, "How do you expect to support my daughter?" "What if she gets pregnant before you two graduate?" (We were both juniors in college and would have one more year to go before graduating.)

Then we went to his parents, and while my future father-in-law was dizzy with pleasure at gaining a new daughter that he thought was sweet as pie, my future mother-in-law grilled me much more intensely than my Dad grilled my future husband. She wanted to know how I was going to support my husband if I (shock of shocks) DARED to get pregnant before we graduated. And it went down hill from there. Like, "Do you even know how to cook?"

We married, graduated, had two children, and seven years later (when the boys were 2 and 3), he left for another relationship - and it had nothing to do with my cooking.

Later, at his Dad's funeral, my ex-husband told me that I was the lucky one because I got to divorce his whole family. (I kind of thought of that, once the divorce was final. There are some things you are really pleased to lose.)

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No news. . . .

No news - i can't think of anything fun to write about. Til further notice. :)

Dithers, Drama, & Duldrums

Ok, I know you didn't ask, but I'm going to say it. I am starting to NOT have fun with this dialysis thing. Do you know there is even a website called "I Hate Dialysis" here???? It's actually quite good - not a pity party but an empathy party. Nobody knows like someone else on dialysis. There is so much stress. So much anger. So much sadness. So much really icky stuff. You try to minimize it and not make it the center of your life - but there it is. You have to watch WHAT you eat. You have to watch HOW MUCH you eat. Your list of what you CANNOT eat is three pages long, while you can put on a little post-it note what you CAN eat (white rice, unsalted green beans, and Mandarin oranges, or any combination thereof). You have to watch your blood pressure and hope that while you are on dialysis, it doesn't crash - which happens so much that when the alarms go off, you have to look at your own machine to find out if it is you or not. Of course, if you really crash, you're unconscious, so you don't even give a rip.

Now, because I want a particular method of dialysis called the Buttonhole, (where two needles are inserted in the same two holes over and over until they create a channel, or track, much like the holes for earrings), I need the same technician over and over to create that track. And there is no guarantee that I will always get the same technician. So, I am (dramatic drum roll) DOING THE NEEDLES MYSELF.

I am in training, but it is hands' on. A nurse guides me. I have had three sessions this week, and only the first one was successful. I missed the track of the second needle on Wednesday and had to start over, and today, I made it, but nicked the vein and had to withdraw the second needle and use my temporary site (a catheter in my chest) for the second tube.

First - it hurts.
Second - it is overwhelmingly stressful.
Third - you have to hold off the two sites at the end for ten minutes to be sure they won't bleed. Wednesday, I was done, got up, and blood started to gush. I had to re-hold for another ten minutes.
Fourth. Time D.R.A.G.S. when the needle isn't in right and is touching a nerve and you sit there for three and a half hours in pain. I'm talking a TEN, on a scale of one to ten. I am THIS close to having them take me off early - which wouldn't help me in the long run. (Now I understand why the corporate headquarters' nurse asks me if I have skipped any treatments. Before this, I thought why would I do that????)

So - this is my sad tale. I'm just no fun.
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Lady Bug, Lady Bug, Birds & Bees

So, I checked out my newspaper box (the old orange SR box), and it was covered in Lady Bugs, my favorite little critter of all. I always think of them as pretty little ladies, prim and proper. But before my eyes, I see that all of these Lady Bugs are in pairs - one on top of the other. I clapped my hand over my mouth when it suddenly occurred to me that they were. . . . . . .

HAVING SEX!

Oh my God, that's almost like when I found out my parents "did it." (This was early puberty and after the initial shock, it didn't bother me any more, except I really didn't want to go into their bedroom for anything.)

So, I left the paper in the box and came into the house. I think they need their privacy.

Who knew????

(It is a little disturbing to realize that Lady Bugs aren't all ladies.)
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Birthday Thoughts

Things about April 29 that are very important to me:

* It is my birthday. I have always liked having my own day.
* I am sharing it (unwillingly, I might add) with Prince William and Kate Middleton. I will always remember that it is their wedding anniversary. And I hope they take it to heart that it is MY day and that they need to tie the knot well, and permanently, because I will always remember. Always.
* It also is the date that I can officially take my social security. Which means I can kind of ignore the fact that I'm on disability and can now toss that negative term down the old life tube. I am no longer "disabled" - I am retired.
* I also share this day with my nephew - which is perfectly fine. I know where he lives and he'll honor me for the rest of his days.
* My son's birthday is the day after mine (he was due on my birthday but God knew how very important my own day was to me and He felt that my son deserved HIS own special day). He will honor me for the rest of his days.
* Please note - I celebrate my birthday for a whole month. I expect honor, respect, bowing, and courtseying. Consider me The Queen.

The Queen of the Universe has spoken.
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The House

We went to an estate sale today and it happened again. I go into someone else's house and imagine if it were mine. I think this is because I live in a little tiny house that is not even big enough for me, let alone engine-lifting, car-moving Mechanic Man. This house had it all - it had the wrap around deck/patio. It had a two car garage. It had a shop that was two stories tall and big enough to probably work on ten cars all under cover PLUS a 20 foot windowed office. The kitchen looked over the back yard and patio (and shop, in case Mechanic Man got lost in there, and I could have an inkling of where to find him). (Note to self: need to plant GPS bug on Mechanic Man.)

Homemade soup was being made in the kitchen for the relatives having the sale. The cook kept going in and out while I was looking at stuff (like I need MORE stuff). I told her I was staying for lunch because there were so many people there, nobody would know a stranger was sitting down at the table. She laughed. But I was serious! Still, Mechanic Man took my hand and said, no, we had to go back to our little hovel and try not to step on each other.

I was envisioning whole rooms for different me's. A craft room (not that I am crafty but I AM working on a scrapbook with my dinner group). A music room where the piano is not covered with boxes that we haven't put in storage yet, because if this were MY house, all that stuff would be on the second floor of the massive shop. A library! (And then I could actually keep all those thousands of books that I don't want to give to Goodwill.) A guest bedroom complete with made bed. A second bathroom (a his bathroom and an everyone else bathroom and I'd only really pay attention to cleaning the second bathroom since the first "his" bathroom is hopeless and I don't want anybody else going in there. ever.) A walk-in pantry. A mud room. A computer room. Rooms! Many rooms!

So, here I sit on the couch, which is my reading room, computer (lap top being on my lap) room, tv room, and music room, even though the piano is covered with boxes.

Tomorrow we are going to more yard sales and estate sales and imaginary this-is-my-home sales.

.... And a laundry room.
.... And maybe a full basement.
.... A den?
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Farewell To My Identity

I went through my closets and pulled out my prized possessions - several very expensive dress suits that I looked hot in and worked hot in. When I put one of these power suits on, it was like putting on armor. I grew. I flew. I was Power Jeanie, Secretary Extraordinaire. I swear that I could type faster, think sharper, and could toss the grammar book down the elevator shaft because my power suit was ON. People looked at me in awe - I was that good. A professional secretary with crisp lines, brain at snap attention, focus on the prize - a job well done by a super human machine.

I gave them away today to a sweet friend (thank you so much, Ginny) who will delegate them out to a women's transition group where women are stepping back in to the work force.

My very first reaction to watching my suits roll out the door was to sob! I think one of those suits was still wearing my heart on its sleeve. And then there was the huge relief of letting go of one more thing to make a decision about. It's done. I have one more task done. I need a personal coordinator. That brought another sob.

O boy - this business of cleaning house and paring down my stuff to a manageable small pile is just so emotional!

And I haven't even tried to tackle the prized possessions of thousands of books. All books I have read. All books I plan to read again. All mine, mine, mine. All real - no Kindle here. All made of paper and ink. All dog-eared and comfortable in my hands. All alive with characters and adventures and mysteries.

(Sigh)
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Do You Wear Your PJs to Work?

Recently I posted on Facebook that I was spending the afternoon in my PJs while I was doing the laundry (mainly because I needed to wash my favorite comfy jeans that I usually don’t relinquish very easily). A few people responded, and one noted that I’d be surprised how many places she wears her PJs. So, do you wear your PJs in unconventional places?

I have been able to go out in the summer in pretty PJ bottoms with flower prints, or Betty Boop, or Mickey Mouse, and pretty much go wherever I want – to the store, to the post office, for a walk – and nobody is any wiser. At least that is what I tell myself. Maybe people are whispering to each other about how loony I am to go out in public in my pajamas.

My next door neighbor, a man in his 70s, mows his lawn in his striped pajamas (tops and bottoms). He looks perfectly normal and at home. Because, well, he IS at home. But still.

We had a lady that came into dialysis at 6:00 in the morning in her pajamas. I envied her. Then I started coming in at the same time and found myself slipping slowly into the relaxed dress of slippers. Then pj bottoms. And so now there are two Pajama Ladies. I mean, who’s going to see us??? We’re half asleep anyway and if we are lucky, we’ll go back to sleep while we are sitting there and sleep through the whole thing and wake up three and a half hours later, fully rested, refreshed, cleansed, and refilled. Can’t get any better than that.

Friends were recently discussing their “pajama days” where they just putter around the house in their pj’s and bunny slippers, sipping coffee, eating sweet rolls, reading a book, and doing nothing all day long but enjoying their own company. Never dressing up like an adult. This is the life!!!

So, I’m on my way to Walmart (where I’m pretty sure the dress code is pajamas) to find myself a new pair, since I’m wearing out the one I love (and I need to have one to wear while I wash the other one). I’m planning a Pajama Day a week!

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Bling! Bling!

Driving along a lonely stretch of road, there on the shoulder, was a solitary little pine tree, with a bright red glossy Christmas ball hanging alone on a branch.
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Loss and Grief and Dinner

I had dinner with my four friends last night – this is my support group and my bonding group – the ones I play with, cry with, commiserate with, conspire with. There is so much grief and sorrow in our group lately. I left last night feeling depressed and at loss. One of our group, Jackie, shared with us the stress and worry over her son-in-law, who has gradually, slowly, and resolutely lost his vision over several years. He is only 40. They have tried everything, seen every doctor, done every test, tried injections and other mystery meds, trying to save his sight. But to no avail. It stresses the family – the children are suffering – in their early teens and watching their beloved Dad lose one of the five senses that is probably the most important. I cannot imagine this.

Then there is Kathy, whose Parkinson’s is getting worse and more pronounced. She plods along, literally one step at a time, moving forward and remaining positive. I bowl with her (and Jackie) and I notice more tremors. Her once really high bowling average is now 158 (but much higher than my 103). But she remains positive and proactive – paying special attention to any changes and in her monthly meetings with her specialist, informs him of the updates. He has told her that all his patients seem to know much more intimate details of their progressive decline than he does.

Then there is Sharon, whose Lupus has deteriorated in different ways – making her joints ache, causing her difficulty in breathing, causing her to tire much more easily.

And me – while I move on to a different way of receiving dialysis, which requires two large needles every time. I am dreading it – start on Monday.

Anyway – it just seemed like LOSS was the theme for the evening. We have all lost parts of ourselves, and the stress bleeds over to our friends and our family. Mechanic Man holds on – but inside he is brewing, angry at whatever is out there that makes people he loves have to go through processes to keep them alive.

It is hard sometimes to keep “up” when everything seems to be spiraling out of control.

And yet, at the end of dinner, after all the crying and laughing and sharing, we hugged each other close, even though we will see each other in a week. These are my sisters of my heart. We share, love, and empathize, feel each other’s pain.
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Hi Costs, Hi Insurance, Hi Anxiety, Bye Money

Just now, I noticed all the media attention on the Idaho Medicaid hearing going on. It’s not just Medicaid, but Medicare, health insurance, medical costs, pharmaceutical prices, the recession, so much that just adds to my stress level in a very unhealthy way.

When I first started dialysis, I had the blessing of a staff at the center who manages all my financial worries. It’s a huge relief. Dialysis costs around $250,000 a year per patient. It’s a booming business. But how much of that is actually the cost of running dialysis? That $250,000 is what insurance companies, and also Medicare as secondary insurance, pay – so what was it originally? I ask this because three weeks into dialysis, I went to Orlando and vacationed near a different dialysis center and later was billed for $8,000 for the week. (My center is $12,000 a week.) When Premera wouldn’t pay (because it was “out of network”), the Orlando center sent me a new bill, written down to $800. That is 90% of the total bill. Then, after I paid $100, they zeroed out the balance. So, dialysis for the week cost me $100.

Another little tidbit: A transplant costs around $500,000. Medicare will cover a dialysis patient for the rest of their life on dialysis at $250,000 a year. Medicare will cover the prescriptions (usually around $3,000 a month) for three years post-transplant, around $100,000, and then NOTHING. So, think about this for a second. I can be on dialysis for 30 more years ($7,500,000 – that’s seven MILLION, five hundred thousand). Or I can have a transplant with the initial cost of $250,000 to $500,000, plus three years of medication (which is required to keep my new kidney from rejecting, and that I need to keep taking for the rest of my life, not just for three more years).

My family has a genetic kidney disease that causes End Stage Renal Disease which is fatal if not for dialysis or a transplant. Two of my siblings have had transplants. My sister was doing well until the three-year period had passed, when she became solely responsible for her medication costs. She lost her job because she was out sick too many times (the result of other people’s “common cold” where she would end up in the hospital to save her kidney). (Fact: most people on dialysis lose their jobs because of all the time they are unable to be at their desks). She felt the only recourse was to sell her house, become indigent, and eventually become eligible for Medicaid because Medicare quit after three years post-transplant.

My brother had a transplant five years ago this April. The following is part of an email he just sent to me. I am fearful that the pending health care reform will further hurt the thousands upon thousands of people dependent on drugs or treatments to keep them alive. Will we all become expendable and our expiration tags pulled?

********************

Last Monday I called Group Health Pharmacy to verify that they would not bill a 3rd party drug provider, which they will not. Then I insured that they would be able to fulfill my prescription of cinacalcet at 90MG, once a day and that I would be able to pick up a 90 day supply, verifying that I would indeed need to pay $1954.50 up front. Tuesday I showed up at the pharmacy and the young lady at the counter showed up with the bottle, rolled her eyes and said, "Yikes!". This was the same reaction I got from the pharmacy clerk at Costco, where I had gone to pick up this prescription on the previous Saturday. As an aside CostCo couldn't sell it to me because when they ran my Group Health card the latter refused the payment stating that I had to go to the Group Health Pharmacy for this purchase (those assholes [Group Health] are really on my shit list, btw). Then the afore mentioned young lady said, "Do you know how much this is going to cost?" I dead panned her with my now stock answer, "It's that or die." There is no real come back for that. Then the young lady told me it would be $651.50 - to which postal, nuclear bombs went off inside me (that is a 30 day, not 90 day supply).

Now I know it wasn't her fault, however the previous day I had spent almost 1 1/2 hours on the phone with three different people from Group Health verifying that the prescription would be correct and waiting when I showed up. Really. How does Joe Paying Customer get a mega buck giga corp to listen to him? It wouldn't be that huge, but I have already been shunted down to their pharmacy rather than a pharmacy of my choice, and once I get home I call my 3rd party to tell them I have the drug in hand and would they please send a reimbursement form, which takes 7 to 10 days to arrive, which I then have to fill out, affixing the original receipt plus the sticky prescription label from the bottle, then mail and wait an additional 4 to 6 weeks for reimbursement. Now, because they only coughed up 30 days I have to do this all again on April 1.

Anyway, bottom line, the drug costs $1303.00 per 30 day supply. Group Health will pay 1/2 leaving $651.50. The 3rd party (which happens to be the drug manufacturer) will then pay $500.00 leaving me with the remaining $151.50 per month for this single medication. That is on top of an addition $66.66 for the rest of my medications for a total of $218.16 per month. It could be worse, but, damn - that is coming close to a car payment, and the Wife really needs a new car.

However, the reimbursement form arrived in yesterday's mail which made it only 7 days and I have filled it out affixing all required labels. So, now that Susan Delfino (of Desperate Housewives) is going to be getting her transplant (oh, poor thing) I wonder if the writers will bother following up on how that only solves this handful of problems, but creates a whole new set to deal with.
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A Life Unscripted

Do you ever have a script for your life - something you plan for and expect and at the end of the day, nothing went as it was written?

My life is like that most of the time. I have intricate, detailed plans for my day and how it is going to go, positively, my way. Why don't the actors in my life read the script!?! I ask you!

I have a plan for dialysis, when I switch over to "real" poke-you-with-needles dialysis. I have a tech who is absolutely perfect. He's thorough, he's detailed, he's an excellent needle poker - his patients say he is virtually painless. So, he is who I planned for my attack.

He's quitting in three weeks. March 19, to be exact.

This was not in my script. No way. He was supposed to be The One. All the others are novices, and I've heard the winces and moans from their patients.

My fistula is almost "done" maturing and the nurses are chomping at the bit to get me started. Now, my plan is to hold off for another two or three years - unheard of in temporary access site legends - these sites are only supposed to last three months and mine is going on 18 months. Another 18 won't kill me, maybe.

I would like someone to apply for the replacement poker - skilled in needle control. Tall, dark, and handsome would help. This is, after all, my mini spa and I would like to carry on that image.

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Desperate Housewives are Desperate!

Oh, let me count the ways I used to be a fan of Desperate Housewives. That's right - past tense. After tonight's episode, I quit.

I have watched every episode three or four times. I have bonded to Terry Hatcher, as Susan. I have related to her ever since she locked herself out of her house, stark naked. It’s something I would do. I have followed her every antic thinking how I would handle the same situation, and I have found myself thinking, when I’m in a predicament, “What would Susan do?”

And, shazam! They made Susan go on dialysis - just like me! This has got to be good, I thought. BUT - Susan is NOT doing what I do and I would be embarrassed and mortified if I acted as she is.

I am a dialysis patient. I have dialysis three times a week, for three-and-a-half hours every session. Susan has it for six hours every session and let me tell you that no dialysis patient has dialysis for six hours at a time unless they are 400 pounds, diabetic, retaining water like a fish out of water, and have several other diseases tasking their bodies for some kind of normalcy. Also, I do not enter the dialysis room and “choose” where I will sit. I do not whine to police officers that I have dialysis and therefore they should let me go. I do not complain to restaurant hostesses to move up my reservation because I have dialysis. Not to mention the very restrictive diet I am on, which includes the amount of liquid I drink, and the types of foods I eat. No cola. No oranges. No potassium. No sodium. No chocolate. I do not drink a 32 ounce cola just before I go on to dialysis. We get weighed before and after dialysis and our goal weight is deducted from our starting weight and all that extra liquid is taken off during dialysis. Also, dialysis patients don’t all sit around with a beeper for a potential kidney transplant – in fact the majority of dialysis patients have myriad other ailments that disqualify them for a transplant, which on a good day would take three to six years to get.

I am totally disgusted with the way Desperate Housewives is moving with regard to dialysis. They should be ashamed of themselves. They are giving all dialysis patients a bad name. I pride myself in having an up attitude and see that same gumption in all the patients around me. And, also, I am surrounded by people on dialysis that are far, far worse than I am – most of them are diabetics, the most common reason someone needs dialysis. Most are in wheel chairs. Most use oxygen. Most have other diseases. We are not exempt to other ailments just because we are already “serving time.”

I don't go through my life acting like dialysis is this huge albatross around my neck. It's a routine I do - I get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, bring in the paper, go to dialysis, shop at the store on my way home, and I LIVE LIFE! Susan needs to get a grip.

I quit you, DH. Quit!

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How Can You Downsize and Rent Out Your House While Suffering From ADD and Possibly Alzheimer’s

OR
Disorganized Pandemonium

OR

It’s All Trisha’s Fault.

It all started with an article by Trisha on downsizing or organizing your STUFF. Like books.

I started well enough by going through my closet and weeding out all the dresses and business clothes since I don’t work and will probably never work again. And then something caught my eye – my jewelry from when I was a Cookie Lee dealer and so pretty soon, I was on the bed, sorting through all the jewelry I haven’t sold and won’t wear and maybe I’ll try to sell – oh! And there, I found a bracelet that I probably WILL wear and so I looked for something to – oh! An organizing tool box with little cubbyholes, just right for jewelry and so – oh! There are the dress suits I bought when I was a size 8, never to be that thin again unless I stop eating for a month. What to do. What to do. And then as I’m walking through the kitchen with the suits to put in bags for the Women’s Transition Center, I see a couple dirty dishes and I stop and fill the sink, wash the dishes that I have slowly accrued since I am only at the house once a week. And then I walk back in the bedroom – oh! The tool box is sitting there open and empty and I start sorting through the jewelry again and pull out just enough pieces for me to personally wear sometime in the next 20-30 years. And then I see the book case, and start sorting out the books I want to keep with the books I want to give to Goodwill. And then I spy the huge flower vase full of coins and next to it the empty coin rolls to fill and I start sorting the quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies and . . .

Four hours later I have a huge pile of books, dresses, jewelry, rolled up coins and – oh! All those bottles in the utility room. What to do! What to do! What to do!
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Sarah Plain and Small

When Gabrielle Giffords was gravely wounded along with several others by a young unhinged man, and six innocent bystanders killed, something absolute and unconditional happened: a nation split by politics, debates, innuendos, pointing fingers, blaming others, and selfish prattling, was moved to unite and to reprioritize what is important.

And in a far corner in Alaska, Sarah Palin could only take the low road and interpreted the whole episode in Arizona and references to her “cross hairs map” personally.

Sarah, here’s my message to you: Shut up and sit down. It is not about you.

To repeat the words of President Barak Obama:

We can be better.
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Mommy Magic

Remember how you used to watch your child leave for First Grade all by himself? You know the time. It was after the 23rd time that you walked him to school and finally released him like a little bird from the nest. You watched him walk down the sidewalk, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was a tiny (tinier than he actually was) little speck in the distance. That watching was your Mommy Magic. It embraced your child and protected him from all kinds of danger, from cars, from strangers, from dogs, from mud slinging from the road, from any manner of harm. You didn’t close the front door until you gave that little speck an extra hard mesmerizing stare that would cover him for the day and bring him home.

I did it. Often. It was a ritual of mine that I just HAD to do. Later, when my oldest joined the Army, I realized I had the power to lift planes with my Mommy Magic. I would stare at that plane until it was a tiny little speck far, far off the horizon and I would not leave my post until I had used up all of my super vision.

I have the same power with words. Like saying, “Drive careful.” Every time my “boys” leave my house, I must say the magic words, “Drive careful.” And I, my power, will make it so. Or, when they were little and we were visiting anyone. My one word would ring out, “Behave.” And like magic, they sat still and didn’t play in dirt and didn’t sock each other in the eye.

Um, the last is actually a poor example. When they visit me and start acting like apes doing a comedy routine and I say, "Behave!", they just laugh at me.

I have discovered I still have the mind power going after 38 years. I blessed my son, moving to Arizona, with my sage advice: “Drive careful.” (Plus, pack your car with two blankets, sleeping bag, water, food to last four days in case you get stuck in the snow and can’t get out.) I watched him walk to his car, my vision boring into the back of his head, memorizing his body, and didn’t close the door until he was a little speck on the road, far, far away.

After two days and the obligatory “Drive careful”, he made it to his new apartment safe, sound, and in one piece.

So, my job is never done. :)
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