Die, Car Alarm, Die!

I've decided the time has come to disable my car alarm. I just can't take it anymore. The other night after work, I drove uptown to the library. It had been a long day. I was tired. As I walked away from my car, somehow I once again hit the panic button on the key chain HONK HONK HONK!! Once again, my heart almost flew out of mouth. I decided right then and there that this was the last time. No more panic button.

I've had my car for almost 5 years. Not one single time in that 5 year span have I ever felt the need to hit the panic button. Not even in dark parking lots in Chicago. In fact, it's now such a normal thing to hear car alarms going off that no one looks outside unless it's out of spite, "Whose car is that?! I'm trying to watch TV!!!! GOOD LORD that is annoying!!!" Am I right?

For some reason, the panic button is incredibly easy to hit on my key fob. I do it all the time. Like every other day. My car suddenly begins to panic at my parents' house, in the grocery store parking lot, and most commonly in my own driveway. When my arms are full, I have to drop everything and figure out how to turn it off before my face turns a permanent shade of Embarrassed.

So now I have to figure out how to disengage the panic feature without destroying the key fob or the car alarm itself. I don't mind if the car wants to freak out when someone is actually breaking in (which will never happen--people around these parts aren't mesmerized by Corollas). But if turning off the panic means turning off the alarm altogether, so be it. My nerves just can't take it anymore. I do enough panicking on my own--I don't need my car to do it for me.

Another Whoosher Loses His Whoosh

Holy ear whooshing! One of my dearest whooshers just sent me a link to a Washington Post Article called "That Noise Wasn't Just Tinnitus." While I'm excited to see it and read it, I'm NOT excited to see the ominous subtitle: "What It Turned Out to Be Might Have Killed Him." Greeeeeat.

I've often wondered just how serious my ear whooshing is. After seeing so many doctors and dealing with so many expensive tests--all to be told nothing is wrong, mind you--I just gave up. I pretty much figured I'd be a whooshing lifer. Unless it gets really really loud and then I'll just cut off that side of my head.

It doesn't surprise me at all that Roger Luchs was also told nothing was wrong:

For six months the real estate lawyer who lives in Bethesda had struggled to cope with a problem relieved only by sleep. The emergency room physician who examined him shortly after the problem surfaced in August 2000 had assured him that the noise, inaudible to everyone but Luchs, would probably clear up on its own. Three otolaryngologists had told Luchs he had tinnitus, a harmless but annoying condition typically characterized by a ringing sound, less often by the pulsating noise Luchs heard.

Oh yeah. Been there, done that. Except in my case it's been YEARS. Whoosh whoosh whoosh. I can hear it right now over the sound of my own typing, the fridge whirring, and the relentless growl of my neighbor's mower. My clunker is still clunking. Yep, I'm alive. Super.

Although he had bought a "white noise" machine that enabled him to sleep, Luchs said, he was constantly aware of the whooshing sound while awake. "I could maybe forget it for five minutes if I got involved in work," he said. "It's a horrible thing to have to listen to." He was acutely aware that other people thought he was imagining or exaggerating the noise audible only to him.

Uh huh. And the worst problem is that you can tell people that you have this problem all you want, and they'll remember it right when you mention it. But then they forget. So when you ask people to repeat something, they think you aren't listening. When you ask them to turn up the TV, they ask you if you're deaf. If I was missing an arm, someone might not hand me that extra sack of groceries, but since they can't "see" my whooshing, they'll go ahead and whisper at me, assuming I can hear them. No, I can't. I only hear the whooshing. "You aren't paying attention!" Yes, yes I am. I'm paying attention to the sound of my own heart beating.

So what was it for Luchs?

Sismanis suspected that the cause of the noise was a dissecting left carotid artery. The large vessel that brings blood to the brain had somehow torn, causing the area to fill with blood and resulting in a dangerous narrowing of the artery, which placed Luchs at high risk for stroke.

Now I have to worry about a stroke, too?

Two months after meeting Sismanis, Luchs underwent a cerebral angioplasty at Inova Fairfax Hospital. A neuroradiologist inserted two stents in his carotid artery, which fixed the problem. The noise disappeared.

Wait...ANOTHER WHOOSHER CURED??

I'm afraid. I'm afraid to get my hopes up that this problem could actually be resolved. I'm also absolutely terrified of having surgery to put a stent in my skull. Methinks that would NOT be fun. But then again, a stent is less frightening than a stroke. And I'm getting older now, so I realize I'm not superhuman. My health will only continue to decline as I age. So maybe, just maybe, I'll think about going to have yet another test.

I'll think about it.

For all posts related to ear whooshing/pulsitile tinnitus, click here.

Relationship Rattles

I recently spoke with an old friend who is having some marital woes. They might be headed for the Big D. I'm not sure. It's hard to gauge these things from afar and really know what's going on. One thing that is for sure? It's never just one person's fault. You're either being the evil one or the wimp that is taking it. Right? Kinda.

Dr. Phil is not my favorite person in the world. I watch his show sometimes because it gives me a break from my world (which is the same reason why I'm now watching a gazillion episodes of Desperate Landscapes and find an odd fascination with Big Brother 11). But one thing that Dr. Phil said many years ago (and likes to often repeat) has stayed with me because I find it to be rather wise. He said that each day you are either contributing to or contaminating your relationship.

When you are contributing, you're trying to make the other person's life a little better in whatever way you can. Saying nice things. Offering a pat on the back. Taking over the dish washing--something like that. It doesn't have to be a dozen roses every day. Just the little things. When you are contaminating, you're playing mind games, ignoring your partner, being selfish, being absent, stuck in your own little world, etc. So each day, you are supposed to make a choice on which way you want to be.

It took me a couple of years of mulling over this to really figure out what Dr. Phil meant by contributing. On the surface of things, it sounds like a lot of work. And you can also find yourself asking: Why do I have to do all of the contributing?? But the thing is, we always think we are the ones doing it all. Right? I'm not sure I know anyone who could honestly say, "Oh, my partner does it all. I do nothing." It's always, "I do everything! He/she does nothing!" Really? Are you sure about that? If you're truly in that situation, it's time to walk away. But I find that those types of relationships are few and far in between. Usually, people just don't know how to vocalize how they are contributing. They are just thinking about it and stewing. With steam coming out of their ears.

I am by no means a relationship expert, but having a lot of therapy has helped me. Watching someone I care for go through a relationship implosion is difficult. I remember how much it hurts. It's carpet-ripping earth-shattering stuff. Especially when there are children involved, which there are in my friend's case--3 of them. But it's true that whatever is leading to the demise of the marriage is coming from inside of both parties. You just have to have the courage to look at yourself--really look in there--and find out what you're made of.

Gardening Boo Boos

I have been a bad gardener. I realized that last summer, I spent like every single day working on my plants in some way. Not so much this year. Mostly it's because it's been POURING RAIN. All the time. But also, I seem to have a raging weed problem that I don't entirely understand. A few things are growing, such as the above sunflower (which is supposed to be a dark cherry red...). But mostly? Weeds. Everywhere. The major problem is that since I grew everything from seed, I can't tell what is a baby plant and what is a baby weed. Of course, now they are more like grownups. Large, weedy grownups.

In just a few short weeks, my blue hydrangea has lost all of its color because I don't have the right kind of soil and I haven't bought the special chemical I'm supposed to put in the soil yet. All of my precious dahlias are completely covered by the trees that grew back over top of them after Marshall kindly hacked them down early in the season. There are also some impatien seedlings going to town here, but they're completely covering the 3 dahlia plants:


I really don't want to show you this photo because I'm ashamed, but LOOK AT THIS:


Not only do I really need to mow, I really need to weed.

Moving on to the next Hot Mess. I planted seedlings all over in here. Oddly, the flowers I got them from were HUGE last year. Now they are small and weak-looking. Cause of the rain? Lack of sunshine? Weeds? Dunno. I'm not even going to try and point out the small real plants because you can't really see them anyway:


There are a few plants that are doing OK. Such as the lantanas. I'm glad I pulled them out of a mixed container gardening container because they are now huge and would have taken over the whole thing. I love watching these change color from orange to yellow:


And Auntie's one remaining lotus is kicking up lovely leaves, despite that fact that one pad got completely shredded by hail a few days ago:


And then we have last year's fuchsia, which I brought in and overwintered in my home office. I had hacked it all the way back to almost nothing, so I'm quite surprised it survived at all. Now the first buds are appearing:


Lessons learned about gardening:

1. Next year, buy more established plants instead of seeds.
2. Listen to your mother when she tells you to treat the soil with that weed killer stuff BEFORE you plant anything.
3. If a seed did really good in one location, don't move it to a different location next year.
4. No matter what you do, your rose bush will look like sh*t. Give up and move on.
5. The hostas will always look fantastic even though you hate them.
6. No matter how many unflowering iris bulbs you pull, there will always be more.
7. Don't touch the poison ivy vines. Ever:

We Have Curtains...And Bacon

In the spirit of being my own anchor, I decided to buy curtains for Marshall's bedroom. And a small lamp. Ma and I went to Walmart and scoured their lovely (cheap) collection. I thought I was buying single panels, but it turns out I was actually buying complete sets for the average smallish standard windows (which I don't think I've ever had since my childhood bedroom because I always live in odd, old houses that have "special" windows). Score. That means I could put them in The Boy's room, too. I was happy that I had mistakenly bought two full sets when The Boy walked in this morning and said, "Where are mine?" Exactly.

So last night Marshall and I hung the curtains. We had to cut the cords from the pre-existing curtain rods in his bedroom. The smell of poop filled the air. It turns out if you leave a curtain rod with a cord in it next to a fluorescent light long enough and let it get really, really dusty, it will smell like poop when you take it apart. Since the previous homeowner put wood shelving-type units over the tops of the bedroom windows, the dust went completely unnoticed until now. Nice. Love home improvement.

With the new curtains in place and the dreaded buzzing fluorescent light turned off, I turned on the small lamp, and snuggled up on the new pillow I also bought for myself since Marshall's pillows are so flat you might as well be sleeping without them. Men. Left to their own devices, they will sleep on a plank of wood in a curtainless home for decades. As I opened my book and snuggled under the covers, I noticed the Moosecat sniffing my Shack Pack (my Blogher bag from 2 years ago that I brought for my book and clothes and stuff). I thought everything was fine because we got him fixed. He wouldn't be spraying my stuff anymore, right?

Wrong.

Sniff, sniff, SQUAT.

Before I could stop him, he peed all over my Shack Pack. "Marshall!" I yelled. He was out on the couch watching TV. Bless his heart, he got some paper towels and tried to clean up the pee. Then I emptied the bag and hung in it on the door where Gizmo couldn't get to it anymore. (This all begs the question--what would happen if we ever moved in together? Would he pee on my cats?) Anyway, with the pee incident behind me, I drifted off to la la land while the Moosecat pranced all over my head and meowed his whiny little meow at me all night long until I finally shut the door and locked him out of the bedroom. Marshall, who fell asleep on the couch, didn't hear a thing. Again--Men. Whatevs.

So then The Boy comes over and I hear his grandpa mention that he hasn't had food yet. Ah, breakfast! Marshall started digging around in the kitchen. Bacon. We have bacon. "Yes!" Yells the boy. Bacon? That's it, seriously? Eggs? Expired. Hmmm. What else...PIZZA ROLLS! "Yes!" Yells the boy. Bacon and pizza rolls? (shudders) So I suggest that I go to town and get eggs and make french toast or something. Then a light bulb goes on. Turns out Marshall had some pre-made french toast in the freezer. And syrup. "Yes!" Yells Blondie.

So Marshall made the french toast in the actual oven and fried up the bacon in a pan. Yes, my non-curtain owning man stood there and fried an entire giant package of hickory smoked bacon. I took a picture with my camera phone and texted Dorothy: "Marshall cooking breakfast!" She texted back: "That is awesome!" Yes, yes it is. And the breakfast was to die for. The bacon was like heaven. The french toast was delicious. Watching Marshall burn himself with grease every few moments was hilarious. "Can I blog about this?" I asked. "Yes." Although he might regret that now...

Then I installed the curtains in The Boy's room (he hollered, "What is that SMELL??") and put nails in both rooms to hold them back with the little material swatches that come with curtain sets. They are truly lovely. One problem? Since they are a set, there's about a 2 inch gap in the middle of them where they don't touch, so the streetlight can still peek in at me a bit. But since they're dark green and there is a piece of wood going down the center of the windows, it's basically all blocked out. My secret plan to decorate his house (hereby known as Mission M-38) has gone into effect. The morning was wonderful. I was happy and full.

And then Marshall pulled out the stud-finder and insisted it was alerting to him as he held it up to his chest. As I laughed and rolled my eyes, The Boy asked, "What's a stud-finder?" Exactly.

A Writing Project Begins

The problem with writing for a living is that when you come up with a really fun writing project that you want to do in your own time, suddenly it seems like a lot of work. Seriously? Sitting here typing manuscript all day? Again? Oof.

I came up with this idea back in January. I'm going to spare you the details just in case you think it's a dumb idea because I think it's a GREAT idea and I don't want to deal with any naysayers. Also, if I never do it, I don't have to feel bad that you know about it. (smiles) But I would like to get it going.

Back in high school and college, I wrote endlessly. I have actual bound manuscripts of poetry, old computers loaded with Word documents, and characters that still live in my head from story ideas 10 years old. Personally, I've published a short story, 3 poems, and an article. Professionally, I've written stories, poems and articles for kiddos PreK-12 in Reading programs that are used all over the country. I've also written over 60 articles for the Internet using a false name assigned by a vendor. Once you get enough of your writing out there in the world, the magic and fascination of publishing begins to vanish. It's no big thang. But I still have this little itch to make this project of mine come to life. With my real name.

So for now, I'm going to commit to writing the first 3 "parts." There are more than that, but I think it's good to start with small goals, so one doesn't become overwhelmed. Baby steps. Then I can get the idea out of my head, and it will stop haunting me.

Back in the day, if someone rejected my writing, it was a personal blow to my ego. Now that I've worked as an editor for so long, I know there are good reasons why writing doesn't work--it doesn't quite match, it's too long or too short, it doesn't flow with other pieces, something just isn't quite "right." As an editor, it's waaaay easier to deal with the punches that come from other editors. It's not personal--it's their job. And I've worked with so many b*tchy, I AM GOD writers over the years that I know not to take my own work too seriously. There is always someone else's work to use. If you really want me to pay you $10,000 for that tiny story, you've got another thing coming. Just sayin'.

So I will begin. Slow and easy wins the race. This is no marathon writing session. I have my whole life to work on my project. But I would like to be held accountable for it. So, if you're interested, please check in on my status every so often. Not like every day. But it helps to have someone know that you are working on something. It keeps you from getting too lax and procrastinating. And if there is one thing I'm rather good at, it's procrastinating. Just ask my mother.

The Lost City of Z: A Book Review

I don't even know how I found this one, but when I read the description of The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon by David Grann, I immediately went over to the library Web site and searched. Of course, it was checked out. So I put my name on a waiting list and then rocked back and forth on my chair like an antsy kindergartner who has to pee. For like two weeks. It was awful. The anticipation. I wanted to read it NOW!

I love books about adventure. Shipwrecks? Yes. The Age of Discovery? Yes. Arctic expeditions? Yes. Everest? Yes. The Amazon jungle back before it was mapped? Hell yes.

It takes a certain kind of person to trudge into the middle of nowhere and try to survive. I think that's why I'm so enamored by the space program. It's dangerous, unknown territory. These days, there aren't many grand adventures left to be had. Now, you would never hear of an expedition to somewhere where you don't hear from the party for a couple of years and consider that OK. Now it's all about GPS and water purifiers and waterproof boots.

Not so for Percy Fawcett.

In 1925, Fawcett disappeared into the Amazon and was never seen again. But this was strange because he had spent his entire career going into the Amazon, befriending local tribes, and escaping horrifying "adventures." He was a tried and true explorer--the real good old-fashioned kind. He probably could have chopped off his own leg, eaten it for dinner, and kept going. So what happened to him?

Many, many, many (are you getting this?), many people have tried to solve the Fawcett mystery. Most of them died. In the jungle. And before he knew what was happening, David Grann found himself caught up in the magic and mystery of the whole Fawcett story as well. It's a very alluring story, so I understand. When I read the inside cover to Ma and Pa one night, Ma started drooling out of the side of her mouth and snatched the book out of my hands. I yelled, "DON'T TELL ME ANYTHING!" as she flipped to the pictures in the middle. Pa's eyebrows went up and I saw his engineer brain light snap on. They were curious, too. But I pried the book out of Ma's hands and greedily devoured it myself.

I won't tell you anything about it--the mystery is part of the fun. I blazed through that whole book in like 2 days because I couldn't put it down. It's a story for the ages--just like Amelia Earhart. And the grassy knoll. And who killed Marilyn. Except it has waaaay more mosquitoes.