Karma points

If you haven't been over to the Expat's blog lately to see her store's playfully elegant card sets, now is the hour. And should you be interested in burnishing your karma a bit, really bringing out that old dharmic sheen, you can go to Tomato Nation and check out today's entry. Long story short: The Expat and I have a vested interest in kicking cancer in the nards, and getting kids into biology and chemistry is an investment in the longer-term vision of said antineoplastic pummeling. If you donate to one of three Donors Choose projects aimed at giving kids more resources with which to science (shut up, it's totally a verb), you can enter to win one of the card sets.

The benefits of participating are important enough to render in bullet form:

• Help kids!
  
• Get a tax write-off!
  
• Feel that altruistic glow!
  
• Get thank-you letters from students! (I got one last year that said, I swear, "Thank you for the paper and pencils. Now we can have homework every night." Hee-larious.)
• Be entered to win swag!
• Maybe win the swag, which will be delivered by yours truly! (Possible FedEx codicil goes here.)
  
• ...
• PROFIT!
  

Still not dead

Y'all, I have not been having a good few weeks, so please forgive the paucity of postings. But big hugs to everyone and hey! I am working on fixing the problems! This requires locking Warren Ellis in a keg full of ferrets and a fuse wire; this also offers possibilities for solving the world's energy problems.

To make up for it, a return to Desultory Reviews: The Midwife edition.

I picked up Jennifer Lee's Worth's (nee Lee) book about her experiences as a lay midwife working with a religious order in London's East End after the war on a whim. Turns out, it is not the kind of book that should be taken lightly. It should be used to whack, with great force, the heads and shoulders of people who say that women's history hasn't been hidden, because the book is chockful of social history in an area that's traditionally been considered, let's use the technical term, icky. Because girl parts! And while the book is autobiographical rather than designed to help the reader deliver a baby, the details—how rooms were prepped, what prenatal care involved (boiling urine! Mm!), and how preemies were cared for—are still engaging. Doubly so her description of her fellow midwives. Sister Monica Joan, who proves that half-senile monastics can out-Hybrid the best of BSG, steals the show. Big thumbs up.

There were two complaints worth airing: First, it's not clear that this was intended to be one of a trilogy, so the author's hints about her Forbeeden Luv get a bit wearing, especially when you realize on the final chapter that she's not going to tell you what the story was. And second, the extensive glossary on Cockney pronounciation and slang feels like Worth's hobbyhorse, something an editor should have gently pried out of the book. Less rhyming slang; more Sister Monica Joan!

Tishialuk girls are neat and tidy

So, again, apologies some more for the sporadic nature of the updates. Life has been happening, not always smoothly, and I haven't been in the writing space mentally in a while.

When last we met, we were farewelling Doc and wishing him all the best at his new home in Brandywine, where he was going to make a fine lawnmower. When I came to class last week, however, he was still peering out over the door of his stall, inspecting a new arrival with his usual bonhomie. Huh, sez I to the barn staff, quoi le hell? Oh, said they. About that.

There are three sides to every story, yours mine and the truth. Some sort of miscommunication or misunderstanding had occurred, and the owners of the Brandywine Equine Shady Acres or whatever it's called had not understood that (a) Doc is skinny, (b) Doc is in fact quite ill, and (c) it's not so much a retirement situation as a hospice. They just took one look at his increasingly bony frame and pointed out that the neighbors would, with reason, call the ASPCA to report a starving animal. The officers would then probably call for him to be put down, and while that might eventually be the fate of most retired horses, the imminence of Doc's likely end did not appeal.

It's hard to fault the would-be Tooks for the decision, and it's hard to fault the barn for wanting Doc to have time as a pasture creature. They continue to treat him like a king and have accepted that he will stay in the barn until he shows signs of actual discomfort. For the moment, he's eating well, though his body doesn't seem to be nourished by the food. He whickered very loudly when he saw me; I was abashed, since, thinking he would be gone, I was un-pommed, and gave him alfalfa cubes instead. He took them with a look of resignation (and I stocked up on fruit at this weekend's markets).

Manny and I continue to struggle along together, but after our lesson last week he colicked up and tried to roll under his next rider. Another horse had done the same; since both had been vaccinated that morning, one wonders whether their systems might've had one thing too many to deal with. I don't know about Sunny, but Manny cribs like crazy; it might not take much for his GI tract to get hinky.

All is not hooves, however. I finally got over to the local university follow-up program to hear what fun things await the nearly 20-year (this December! party in New Orleans! celebratory Mezze of Destruction for all!) cancer survivor. They'd given me preemptive homework, or maybe it's more fun to think of it as a quest: get a reedonkulous number of tests, including the dreaded mammogram, which on women with small boobs is pretty much pointless torture. But I did it, so I got to spend a few hours at the pediatric cancer center, talking with a social worker, the resident, various nurses, and a sweet medical student who looked about 12 and said that she'd never listened to a peds survivor's story before. And man, mostly the time was spent talking, with brief breaks for a physical exam and basic stats. They wanted a full family history, the cancer story, the pericardial-problems saga, whether I've got PTSD (yes, kind of, but it's not debilitating), and what problems I've encountered with physicians.

In exchange for all my yapping and for a vial of my blood ("I'm bad with sticks and I have a three-strikes rule." "I'm good and I have a one-strike rule"—she wasn't lying, I got a Bugs Bunny bandaid, and although I don't get swoony after needles, they wouldn't let me get up without someone at each elbow), I got the rundown of do's and don'ts. DO keep exercising. DON'T overdo it. DO eat healthy. DON'T do eight shots in half an hour (ah, the joys of a hospital on a college campus), and DO drink only in moderation (fortunately, they cleared continued research for that J Martiniol abstract that IE and I have been preparing, as long as we don't try to rush the speriments). DO go see a pulmonologist; DON'T smoke ever (no fear). DO get flu shots; DON'T get The Hamthrax. And so on.

There wasn't anything terribly surprising in their recommendations or warnings. I know my liver, kidneys, heart, and lungs didn't exactly benefit from the treatment; I know I'm mostly fine. What did come as a bit of a shock was the constant comment that I'm unusual in being this up to date, and that I'm far from the first person who had to work through grief at the realization that cancer never really leaves your life.

Also surprising: how great the peds space was. I was VEXED not to have brought my camera; the firefighter action figure lying on top of the sharps box in the bathroom was a study in composition. Kids are allowed to choose a ceiling tile to paint, so there are flowers and motorcycles and a gold-toothed pirate skull and sailing ships to stare at as you lie on the table. Treatment rooms are decorated as Sesame Street-esque storefronts; I was interviewed in Joe's Barber Shop, which is a black joke and fucking hilarious under the circumstances. A large section of the waiting area is full of child-sized crafts tables, with an arts coordinator in a paint-covered apron helping kids decorate bowls and vases in tempera and glaze. I grumbled about having blood taken and asked jokingly if there were lollipops in the offing; "No," said the nurse calmly, "But there are M&Ms at the desk; take some on your way out." Well before I got to the desk, the social worker poked her head back in: "The catering service drops off bag lunches for patients who've had to be here for a long time. Would you prefer ham and cheese or peanut butter and jelly?"

The biggest difference from what I remembered was the lack of wailing. The social worker, who's been in oncology for more than 20 years, explained that the sedative that did for Michael Jackson is extremely effective—and safe, when used with observation—and is now standard for kids who are getting spinal taps. You used to hear the most blood-curdling heart-breaking howls from children who saw the LP tray; now, they're conked out and don't wake up until everything is over with. As someone who had a hideous experience with her second tap, I say 'BOUT TIME.

Given all this plushy treatment, my plan to spend a day being self-indulgent seemed a bit, er, self-indulgent, but no weakness! I ate my lunch in a park, reading a book about how a catastrophic flooding of the Black Sea may've been the root of the Flood myths in Sumerian and Hebraic culture, then went to Aveda for a spa massage: lotions and scrubbers and more lotion and paraffin and more lotion and Saint Petersburgundy, please. Thence to Le Pain Quotidien for hot chocolate and a croissant, and then off to Firefly for fried things with cheese and a couple of wondrous strange cocktails with a friend, who joined me in eavesdropping on the unsuccessful blind date next to us. "Oh my god, the word Jager should not come up in your first meeting with someone." "Her body language: 'I am not impressed.'" "'But I'll be nice.'" "'But this is a one-time thing.'"

And so to bed.

I aten't ded

It just feels that way. Lieber Gott, this year is packed with worky event.

Many of you have been kind enough to send good wishes to my beloved Doc. Your strength is the strength of ten, and he has done unexpectedly well. He's gained back some weight and isn't spasming much, so after a bit of waffling and many consultations with the vet, the barn has decided he's stable enough to survive the trailering to a farm east of DC, where he will live out his remaining time as a pampered lawnmower. Further credit to the staff: At my lesson last night, no fewer than three employees stopped by to remind me that he would be leaving this weekend. I stopped by his stall, where he was bright-eyed and big with the cupboard-love nickering, and gave him one of the season's first apples. The vet's best guess now is that cold weather will pose a real problem for him, but for now, he's relaxed, comfortable, and probably 90% apples by weight; I could not wish him better.

Sins of omission

Somehow in my voracious hoovering up of all things Golden Age SFian (as we all know, Bob, the Golden Age is from 12 to 13), I entirely missed Frederik Pohl's work. Sure, he may've snuck in as a short story here or there, since our basement library, where my mother's meticulously organized science fiction shelf—alphabetical by author for standalone novels, year of publication for anthologies and Amazing Stories back numbers—had its share of bricklike Year's Bests. But he never really stuck out (and my habit of ignoring bylines didn't help), so I glided past him with little more than name recognition.

A few years ago, though, Pohl spoke at the National Book Festival, mostly humoring questions about what Robert Heinlein was like and seeing the tent fill up with Neil Gaiman fans hunting for advance seats. He was thoroughly gentlemanly and, though obviously getting on in years, sharp and gracious, not to mention funny as hell. I promptly started haunting the used bookstores, huffing dustmites and getting gleefully confused by his Heechee books; of course if we encountered alien technology, we would spend the first thirty years trying to figure out which bits of it were valuable and which were junk food wrappers. I didn't want to slap the narrator halfway across the room, he used Ya as an initial for the character's Russian wife (too many people would've used Y), and the people in his stories seemed three-dimensional even after they'd crossed the event horizon in black holes. I've been kicking myself about the missed chances ever since.

And now, come to find out, he's got a blog. God bless the future; it's not everything we hoped for, but in some ways it is much much more.

What's up with that thang?

It's something of a relief to find that we're not the only delegation in Morelia who fretted about the local violence. We've been updating our senior staff daily about the state of affairs, and we've quizzed various hotel employees, merchants, and Marcos, the most patient driver who has ever chauffeured American visitors about the city, only to hear that the problems, while acute, do not generally seem to involve the civvies. It's a give-and-take limited largely to encounters between the forces of law and those of chaos; those not buying/selling/trading/transporting drugs or attempting to interfere with same seem to have been left mostly (though, tragically, not always) alone. But even attendees from within Mexico were worried, and most of them have been quite relieved by the situation now that they're here. Things downtown are so resolutely mellow that it's hard to remember that there are concerns.

Morelia has a beautiful soaring 17th-century cathedral in the middle of town, flanked by twin plazas that serve as the center of social life for the residents. On Saturday nights, the town sets off fireworks before illuminating the cathedral's facade and towers, and there is general festivating. In honor of our conference, the town added another pre-illumination fireworks show, this one on Thursday night. The main drag was closed to road traffic, smoochy couples and young families thronged the street, teenagers in vaguely colonial costume handed out fliers for a living history production, and music about the rockingness of being from Michoacán pulsed over the speakers. At a prearranged moment, the lower windows of the cathedral began to strobe red and yellow, the music soared, and fountains of white fire rose from the front gates, then the central facade, and then the towers; mortar shells in the plazas rose into the sky, whistling sharply and exploding into flecks of gold and green. The display went on for about five minutes, everyone craning to see the showers of color directly overhead, and then it was over and we joined a line to get into the cathedral to hear a concert. Nota bene: The Orquestra Juvenil de Morelia does astonishing things; their "Marche Slav" was amazing and the organist's rendition of the "Toccata and Fugue" was masterful.

We were all very chuffed to have gone. But this morning, one of the hosts relayed a story to us that made us feel as though our preemptive worrying had been very small taters. "I talked to an attendee this morning, and he said, why there was nothing in the news this morning or warnings to the members? Because he was out last night near the plaza before the concert, and the police had closed the road, and then he heard shootings! He says this is a very dangerous place." Somehow the flocks of people heading cheerfully toward the explosions did not suggest that perhaps he was overreacting.

Of course, if you are a defenseless pineapple, mango, or jicama root, this is indeed a violent area. The gaspacheros show no mercy.

Behind pink walls, somewhere there's a blog

ARGH. I forgot to bring my camera cord, which means no uploading of photos until I get back. I'm taking them like a mad thing, though sadly I did not catch the dyslexic bus labeled "Colectivo Moerlia," being at the time too busy trying to both process the semiotics of a Mexican-style chibi Virgin of Guadalupe helium balloon and not spill my gaspacho, a cupful of chopped jicama, mango, and pineapple mixed with lemon and lime juice and layered with salt, chili pepper, and finely shredded queso blanco, a snack so sublimely juicy and generously scooped that it's served in a cup inside a plastic bag.

TRAVEL IS SO MUCH FUN, Y'ALL. And I shouldn't shout, because it's annoying and it makes the altitude headache (which, fine, I am an outlier for having one at a measly 6,000 feet, but oh God knowing that does not help) worse. But they make the Coke here with pure cane sugar instead of our agrosubsidized corn syrup, and I've seen a dude with a mullet dyed electric blue, and the Key limes stuffed with sugared coconut cost about ten cents. Some shouting is warranted. VIVA!

In haste, for I am laggardly and sick of packing

Is there any DNA evidence that The Park Bencher and I might be sekrit Siamese twins? Because I'm starting to wonder. She has yet to post any woebegone moans about missing the chance to see Neil Gaiman, Neal Stephenson, and Paul Krugman at the same Worldcon party, which one can only assume was epic and healed hundreds of undeserving Canadians, but otherwise...man. E-doppelganging.

The postponed-for-swinely-flu trip to Mexico is back on, and I leave tomorrow. Concerns about violence in the state, which is earning itself a name for drug-related shootings, have been somewhat assuaged by the assurances that the bullets are targeted at authority figures who've had the nerve to interfere with local entrepreneurial efforts and have studiously been aimed away from tourists, which, I think you will agree, is among the most conditional reassurances ever. Nonetheless, we have agreed to endeavor to avoid finding ourselves in a position to make any trouble for the area businessfolk, or indeed to involve ourselves in their endeavors or draw their attention in any way. Don't mind us, we'll soon be gone.

Y'all be good.

The things we carried

Turns out it's a good thing that I'm on my new kick of not leaving the house without a bullet-proof layer of SPF Avogadro's Number, because mosquito-repellent toxicity can maybe get me instead.

I spent six weeks during the summer before senior year working at an archaeology field school in Alaska's squashy bush country. Taiga, or huge flat stretches of land where the permafrost level is about 6 inches below the surface, is mosquito-breeding heaven: With almost no hills to speak of, drainage is minimal, and water that doesn't make it to one of the slow-moving rivers ends up pooling in large shallow ponds on top of the frozen zone, broken up somewhat by muskeg, a squodgy mass of vegetation that has been described as feeling like wet mattresses. Mosquitos breed there in astronomical numbers, providing a bountiful food source for the local avifauna and attacking anything warmblooded without mercy. 

Most of Alaska's wildlife is at least somewhat protected by thick bushy fur, so given the choice between trying to find a landing place on a bear's snout and diving for unprotected human flesh, the average Anopheles alaskabastardicus will invite three million of her fellows to join the Homo sapiens buffet. Oh, and due to circumstances beyond our control, we spent a night and most of two days without a netted outhouse. Our bare bums must've seemed like Christmas to the skeeters, and we all swiftly lost our senses of humor about bites in private places. We spent the six weeks in a permanent haze of Deep Woods Off, pure deet smeared on our clothes, and incense-like smoke from mosquito coils, which contain some sort of insect neurotoxin that probably doesn't do much good for humans. From where we sat, slapping incessantly at the bugs, going without some sort of chemical protection would've been the road to madness. Even our two vegans weren't above cheering the deaths of our hungry tormentors.

Obviously deet isn't really good for you, though it was the lesser of two evils. As we packed up, one of the other students grimaced, "I have a new baby niece to meet when we get home. Better hit the sauna for a few days first; if I touch her now, I think she'll shrivel up like plastic in the microwave." We did end up spending quality time in the McGrath firejumpers' sauna, trying to sweat out all the toxins in the haze of menthol-oiled steam (and the story about how that evening involved meeting various locals whilst mutually nekkid was funnier after the fact). Maybe it worked: Sarah's niece survived her first encounter with her aunt.

I'm still going with sunblock. Should the fates call me back to the bush in high summer, too, I'm still bringing the Off.

It's not a tumah

Hey, guys, know what I'm going to be a lot more careful with in the future? Sunblock. 

As a responsible if reluctant adult, I went in for my annual dermatology check-up so that no Japanese Fighting Moles can steal a march on me. I don't tan for fun, but I rock the pseudo-Victorian pallor that is my birthright without always slopping on some SPF or pulling on a hat, and of course there's the tiny fact that I let some irresponsible types nuke my chest for a few weeks.

ANYWAY.  A few weeks ago, I noticed an oddly textured patch on my left cheek, and when the dermatologist took a look at it she announced that it was either a very odd-looking oil gland or an early basal cell carcinoma. I glared at her: "And by basal cell carcinoma you actually mean an early-stage, surgically treatable tumor with clear margins that'll be no problem at all to resolve, RIGHT?" She blinked. "Right." "Okay then. Biopsy that sucker." "You're not...upset?" "What, over something that'll be easily got rid of? No." And, oddly, that wasn't a lie; give me something uncomplicated with an easy solution, and I'm a happy camper.

The most unpleasant part of the biopsy was the anesthetic, because for some reason our hindbrains react poorly to the sight of a needle anywhere near our faces, and because even with a skilled needlesmith (as the nurse was), lidocaine itself burns like fire. Four slightly abraded minutes later, I was out the door, wishing that beauty spots were still de mode, because on whom, exactly, are those peach-colored bandaids inconspicuous? 

The office called the next week to say the magic b-word, and if the phone slipped out of my hands because I'm bathing in SPF 45 these days, who is to blame me?

Docdate

UpDoc? Anyway. Everyon's favorite redhead is doing well, still inspiring the envy of his neighbors with a stream of treat-bearing visitors and admirers. If he were in normal condition, he'd be gaining weight from all the extras he's getting; instead he's ribbly and a bit bare of hair around the ears and forehead. The few nips he'd gotten during his first spate of turnout have faded, so either the staff have figured out the herd dynamics or the horses have.

In other four-legged news, Manny appears to have dropped weight. He is cribbing worse than ever—I tried to shut the gate to class and couldn't pull it out of his teeth—and has gotten even more sensitive about his girth area. Suspicion falls on an undiagnosed ulcer. He still hasn't quite managed to bite me, though that's partly because I've been careful to have help around for grooming and tacking up. He behaves somewhat better when someone with a dressage whip stands near by to poke him lightly in the chest at the first sign of toothy tendencies.

This weekend will involve forced sociability, as friends and I are hosting a baby shower for the lovely Ginsays. We've told her where and when, but not what sort of festivities there will be, and she's agreed to be surprised by whatever we do. Since this shindig will involve me cooking, traditionally my weakest point, the biggest surprise may be whether anything I bring is edible. Updates if we all survive!

An apple a day

...does apparently keep ill health more or less at bay. I've stopped by to see Doc several times in the last few weeks—with the summer camp schedule futzing with dressage, it's been irregular—and indulged his desire to mug me for his favorite addiction. He's still sweet about it; a whicker and the occasional half-step forward, with a look of undisguised eagerness, are as far as his dignity will allow him to venture. I try not to disappoint him, but the finite number of apples that I (a) carry and (b) consider within the bounds of "don't cause him colic" guidelines let him down. Although his appetite seems sound, he's thin and not regaining weight, no doubt due to whatever's gone wrong in his innards. But a merry heart he still hath, except maybe when the deer come too close to his turnout space. He has yet to reconcile himself to their presence; he has never cared more than the idle flick of an ear about dogs or coyotes, and we had great fun doing cutting maneuvers to drive a bold fox out of the ring one autumn night, but deer give him the wiggins.

There's a horse-trading bit of doggerel about white legs:

One white leg, buy him
Two white legs, try him
Three white legs, look well about him
Four white legs, do without him.

Doc, as can be seen, sneaks in under the wire, though at this point most people would probably see his other problems first. Luckily for him, everyone at the barn adores him—he's fast becoming the Mister Chips of the stable, although spotty elder Jackson has seniority and little flash bastard Chia, a pinto pony of malicious intelligence, is a strong favorite among the tweens. My biases in this case are well known, but I'm impressed by how many other adult riders of all skill levels have had fond stories to tell about him. These days, Doc's hope that all bags will contain apples are rarely disappointed.

And scarr'd the moon with splinters

IE complains that I earwormed her with the inevitable "Walking on the Moon" reference. Surely this is the fault of the Police and I am blameless.

Geek time! In honor of the anniversary, the BBC recently presented a haunting photo from the latest pass over Tranquility Base, showing the ant-trail of footprints between the landing module and a set of scientific instruments. So much effort for such a tiny set of dusty waffle-stomper marks.

I got tingles when the rebroadcast reached, "Houston, Tranquility Base here," and damn if it doesn't sound like Armstrong was a little choked up too. It's a long way from home. Glorious, beautiful, frightening, and sad.

Now where's me flyin' Chevy?

NASA is observing the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 lunar mission by streaming the mission's recorded radio transmissions in realtime. Listening to it today, I realized that being up there and hearing that the module was now, say, 25,000 nautical miles from Earth would've made me scream, "Turn this ship around RIGHT. THE HELL. NOW!" in a voice that, vacuum be damned, would've been heard. The engineers and astronauts sound practically bored, which is a testament to their training.

The fortieth anniversary is traditionally celebrated with rubies, which would make a strange match for the cold gray-white of the lunar landing pictures.

The picture he was cleaning showed an armored figure standing in a desolate landscape. It had no weapon but held a staff bearing a strange, stiff banner. The visor of this figure's helmet was entirely of gold, without eyeslits or ventilation; in its polished surface the deathly desert could be seen in reflection, and nothing more. This warrior of a dead world affected me deeply, though I could not say why or even what emotion it was I felt. In some obscure way, I wanted to take down the picture and carry it--not into our necropolis but into one of those mountain forests of which our necropolis was (as I understood even then) an idealized but vitiated image. It should have stood among trees, the edge of its frame resting on young grass.
—Gene Wolfe, Shadow of the Torturer

Ticky Doc

I stopped by the barn this weekend to check on my favorite redhead, and he's doing surprisingly well, which goes to show what I know about horse health. His bloodwork shows that he hasn't had a miraculous remission, but he's cheerful and active, thoroughly investigating bags even after it has been established that they no longer contain apples, that said apples have joined the orchard invisible, that they are in fact ex-apples. (He also, scuttlebutt says, yoinked a Mott's juicebox from an unsuspecting moppet last week and chewed on the cardboard until all the fruity goodness was gone. Bad Doc! Hee hee hee.) The barn staff are in no hurry to see him go, so they're taking a wait-and-see approach: As long as he's comfortable, they're content to keep him as a companion rather than a working mount.

Doc's also getting some T-Touch biofeedback work, which doesn't seem to hurt and may even help. I used to be adamantly anti-alternative medicine, but the years are softening me to the idea that treatments aimed at improving quality of life are not incompatible with those extending life. If Doc doesn't object to massage or having his Reiki fields realigned, and the person doing the work is happy in it, mazel tov.

The barn went through a brief span a few years ago where there was a leetle too much personal drama—some intramural adolescent-type dating, with Divers Alarums and Scenes to go with it—but it is now on a really solid footing, at least from my perspective, with a focus on managing the animals and the business rather than anyone's hurt feelings. At least, that's how it seems to me as a student; there isn't much turnover among the boarders either, though since it's the only barn within the city limits, their options may be more limited.

Here's to Doc's continued good health! Bumpers, gentlefolk, and no heel taps.

Covering the topic

I've been rereading Francis Spufford's excellent, illuminating The Child That Books Built: A Life in Reading. It's one of those rare books that keeps making me want to yell, "Testify! Sing it! Yes, brother, yes, you are so right!"

On learning to read: "By the time I reached The Hobbit's last page, though, writing had softened, and lost the outlines of the printed alphabet, and become a transparent liquid, first viscous and sluggish, like a jelly of meaning, then ever thinner and more mobile, flowing faster and faster, until it reached me at the speed of thinking and I could not entirely distinguish the suggestions it was making from my own thoughts."

On reading horror and having it get under your skin (or not): "You lay down the Stephen King, give a comfortable shrug, and never think about it again unless you want to, you lucky bastard."

On the nature of addiction: "I don't quite read a novel a day, but I certainly read some of a novel every day, and usually some of several. There is always a heap of opened paperbacks facedown near the bed, always something current on the kitchen table to reach for over coffee when I wake up. Colonies of prose have formed in the bathroom and in the dimness of the upstairs landing, so that I don't go without text even in the leftover spaces of the house where I spend least time. When I'm tired and therefor indecisive, last thing at night, it can take half an hour to choose the book I am doing to have with me while I brush my teeth." By this point I'm hooting with laughter, the pleasure of recognition joined to the knowledge that this is a ridiculous way to live.

I need to hunt up Spufford's book on exploring the Antarctic, but niggling suspicion says that it won't elicit the same desire to shriek amen.

Sadness grows

Seesterperson and I decamped for parts Jersey Shore early this morning, and what with the constant nomming and occasional breaks to go stare at the waves, I hadn't logged in until late tonight. Things you don't want to read: "You need to check in on Doc - he's not long for this world. Very sorry."

Sigh.

ETA: I went to visit him on this (Tuesday) evening and got a slightly clearer story. Doc has been displaying signs of pain and listlessness, and the vet has finally determined that he's probably got a liver tumor. Shortly after that discussion, Doc's heart rate spiked so much that the barn didn't think he would survive the ride to the reserve barn where the horses go for their regular vacations. He's stabilized now and is eating like a...well, he's eating, and he doesn't appear to be in pain.

I got the okay from barn staff to treat him like fragile royalty, so we walked just across the street to a small field on Glover for some grazing in ordinarily verboten territory. It was a beautiful evening, warm but not hot, and the light everywhere was rich and buttery. I noticed that Doc's right foreleg spasmed a bit unless he had much of his weight on it, but it didn't seem to bother him; he munched away with abandon. What distressed me came about 30 minutes into his grazing: Midchew, he lifted his head about a foot off the ground and opened his mouth as though he was trying to yawn, but his tongue seemed frozen and his entire head shook. It didn't look voluntary. Alarmed, I walked him back to the barn; he wheezed a little and needed a rest break to cover the few hundred feet. Once he was home, he went back to his hay and grain and apples (love you, buddy) as though nothing was wrong, but it's clear that his time is limited.

The barn's concern is keeping him comfortable. As his blood chemistry deteriorates, he is at risk of progressively more serious neurological symptoms, and now they're trying to balance his quality of life against the grief that putting him down will cause. I am glad to have made the time tonight; I don't know much about end-stage diseases in horses, but my guess is that he won't see the end of the week, and he deserves a clean death.

Doc will always be, in my memory, the stoic, calm, unflappable—apart from his suspicions about deer—hard-working creature who taught me to manage a canter bareback, to see an honest heart inside an unbeautiful exterior, and to accept progress when it came and to otherwise savor whatever I got. I hope that he knows, somehow, how many people he's taught and how well he has been loved.

Another buzzer to the joy center

Whilst in Chicago, I stayed in a very nice hotel near the lake and was 100% determined to get in a C25K run along Lake Shore Drive. I brung my shoes and workout gears, and I publicized my determination just to make it harder for me to back out.

Unfortunately only from the perspective of my goals, the folks and I managed to fit in drinks at Naha and dinner at Frontera Grill the night before. Now, Naha's specialty cocktails are something to behold and even more to bedrink, and to apologize for receiving my credit card with a hasty, "Thank you, sir," the bartender and his manager distributed a wealth of house-made truffles, and Frontera more than lived up to its billing, to the tune of two appetizer plates, some agua de jamaica, and a shared strawberry agave-shortcake plus hot chocolate. I got back to the hotel feeling calorically overendowed, and thus it was that I made a great mistake the next morning.

I ran without breakfast. Without coffee, even. And it was raining.

So boring story short, it sucked rat. I was puny. My legs felt even more like cement than usual, and I felt as though my engine was running on fumes. I kept moving for about 40 minutes, but very little of it was even at a jog. Fail. FAIL. I sogged back toward the hotel and resigned myself to sorrow.

As I squelched toward the lobby, the doorman at the hotel ("Tony," said his badge, though I'd usually call someone of his age Mister LastName rather than by his first name) hailed me: "Miss. Miss! Someone left something for you!"

The folks being at another hotel and La Mère a fearsomely early riser, it was possible. I altered course.

"Can I get your name, just to make sure?"

I told him.

"Yup," he said, nodding. "Doorman named Tony said this was for you." And he reached into the valet stand to pull out a bottle of water.

I burst out laughing, taken off guard and charmed out of my shoes. "Bless your heart!" (I get Southern when I'm surprised.) "Do I look that bad?"

"Nope. Look good. But like you need this."

I went upstairs grinning my face off. That's probably not the classic runner's high, but I'll take it.

A warning letter to my Exilim, and then wedding stuff

Dear camera,

We're learning to make peace with one another, you and I. I no longer leave you in a jacket pocket before taking a nap on the beach; you no longer attempt to take pictures of my purse's interior when a stray housekey gets frisky with your on button. I figured out how to white-balance some of my pictures; you've given me some good low-light shots despite my fumbling. I thought we were cool, little camera. But we have to talk: flashing a picture of a full battery two seconds before you give up the powerly ghost does not constitute advance warning. And doing it right before I have the chance to get some unglaubich shots at a pan-Slavic wedding reception? Well, you can see why I felt hurt. But I'm trying to move past it, little buddy. We've had such good times, and if you can just communicate your needs more clearly, I'm sure we'll have some more and that I won't have to take a crab mallet and do anything regrettable to your autofocus.

With conditional affection,
3pennyjane

Per Orthodox tradition, the choir lurks on high and discusses everyone's outfits while the guests assemble; once the groom shows up, the director usually insists that they work for a living. I had a cute dress and my most fabulous pink shoes, which I can wear only about once a year, because they hurt like fire and sin.
We suffer for the occasional "daaaaamn, girrrl," even if it's only in our own heads and mirrors.

You want pomp and circumstance at your wedding, I'm telling you, go Orthodox or go home. Rings, crowns, handfasting, candles, you name it. The crowns are for glory and martyrdom and making the couple turn their heads verrry verrry slooowly.

Drinking from a common cup. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, and there are probably few prayers like those of a woman in a white dress drinking red wine from a cup she's not holding herself.

The groom's side at this wedding instituted a whole pageant-sash thing that I haven't seen before, but it helped those of us who didn't know who was doing what, because it meant each member of the party was labeled by role and national affiliation. "Ah, you're the best man! And Serbian! So you're supposed to know where we get our shots of slivovitz after the ceremony!"

"Oh, the slivo's being poured by the inhospitable dingus who won't share it with anyone he doesn't know? You'll be hearing about this again."

And then there was accordion music and flinging of coins and great being-radiant on the parts of the bride and groom.

"May you see your children's children, like olive shoots around your table."

No fluff today

I had a silly post lined up for this evening, including some shots from the wedding I was at last weekend, but getting a stream of phone calls from people worried that I was dead in a horrible Red Line wreck means I'm not in the mood. For the record, although that's my regular commuting route, I wasn't on the trains and I have a reliable way home. Be well, you guys; not everyone is okay.

Red Cross DC, should it move you.