Rainstick in my Ear

I feel like I have a rainstick in my left ear. Rainsticks are hollow sticks full of seeds that make pleasant, cascading raindrop sounds when turned from end to end. The pleasantness, I'm finding, is relative to one's having a choice about hearing it. I'm getting over a cold that seems to want its last hurrah to be in my ears. I have intermittent pain, I can't tell where noises are coming from, and my left ear keeps telling me someone's following me around with a rainstick . I don't mind the sound too much, but I do wish they'd quit following me around with that thing!


My doctor recommended using a "neti pot," a little device for washing out the sinuses. I'm bemused (as usual.) What could be helpful about pouring salt water up my nose with a tiny teapot? A lot, apparently. Gets stuff moving, keeps pressure from forming and prevents rivers of sediment from flowing down the throat. I reluctantly agreed to try this new torment because the alternative was the firehose method--forcing salt water up the nasal passages with a plastic spray bottle. "I've tried that before", I told her, "The water winds up somewhere behind my eyebrows and never comes out". She appeared to be listening--but was probably using all her energy to keep from rolling her eyes--and suggested the neti pot as a less-effective but gentler alternative.

It's too soon to tell if this is working. At least the pain isn't getting worse. I still hear the rainstick following me around, making my world very surreal. I hope the ears are about ready to heal, because tonight half of a filling fell out of my mouth, assuring my presence in the dentist chair first thing Monday morning. I can't face the prospect of dragging my broken teeth and malfunctioning ears to two different doctors on the first day of the week. Maybe I'll just stay in bed with the covers over my head. Yeah, that would work. At least until I got hungry and needed to chew, or heard a noise in the room that could be marauding racoons--or just that darn rainstick following me around.

"Remove Bay Leaf"

I made a pot of chicken soup today because it's ostensibly better for you than tequila--my next choice--when you have a stoopid cold. The mixture did some good before it was even finished; it turns out that standing over an enormous cauldron of steaming soup is great for the sinuses. (See? It's better already. Tequila definitely has to enter the bloodstream to do anything.)

I added ingredient after ingredient, hoping I would actually be able to taste something, but it didn't work. The hot liquid on the sore throat worked well, and soft, overcooked vegetables were easier to swallow than anything except chocolate (which, I found out, is wasted on a tongue that can't taste. Even with great mouth feel.)

When I got to the part where the recipe says, "remove bay leaf,"I stopped in befuddlement. Why do all the recipes say that, without giving us a clue how to do that without risking life and limb? Armed with only a slotted spoon, I stared at the volcanic crater on my stove. A gallon of roiling soup, about a hundred cut vegetables and chicken chunks, grains of rice scuttling about like brine shrimp, and I'm supposed to find a bay leaf? There are specialized gadgets for every other function in the kitchen, why isn't there one for this? I sure could have used some high-tech, bay-leaf-sniffing tongs right about then.

Alas, no such device lives in the Utensil Drawer of Mystery--even if I was foolish enough to risk losing a digit or two by rummaging through it with my bare hands. Like a Neanderthal with a stick chasing a mastadon, I hunted down the bay leaf with my slotted spoon. Not a very clever bay leaf, this one. I've chased bay leaves in the past that would have done the Loch Ness Sea Monster proud on the elusiveness front. This one gave in after only a few minutes of sifting and cursing and only one splash burn on my hand.

This can't be right. A food industry that plies us with tiny mesh bags for our lemon slices surely has something for this recurring danger to cooks all over the world. Am I missing something here? My second choice is starting to look better every minute. Even if you have to fish out a worm from the tequila bottle (eww!), you won't burn your hand doing it.

Early Worms not too Smart

It's the day before Easter, a day before we are all reminded of new life and new beginnings.

It's been a long, long gray winter, and we won't really be reliably done with the overcast until about, umm... July. However, we were graced with enough sunshine today to make us think spring might actually happen (we begin to doubt around the end of February.) The real ray of hope for me, though, was the mass of robins in the park this morning. They fled to the trees when tots bearing Easter baskets searched for Easter eggs hidden either by a large furry bunny or some well-meaning adult human, but not for long.

After the tiny horde left, the robins floated back down to the grass. They looked like an army of field workers, harvesting a crop. Businesslike and busy, eyeing me in between bobs of their heads, they harvested all the worms who were foolish enough to come out that early. Which brings to mind the saying, "The early bird gets the worm." It's too bad worms don't learn from experience and communicate. If they did, wouldn't they tell each other that being a slug-abed is the way to live to see another day?

But worms will be worms, and robins will be robins, thank God. Spring really is around the corner and all is well in my little world.

Good-bye, Codey

Life is full of absurdities, but sometimes it delivers profound, inexplicable sadness. I can make jokes about absurdities because that seems to be the best way to deal with them. I'm a little lacking in coping skills for the sadness quotient, though.

A little red-haired boy and his dad sat next to me in the airplane on my way back from Arizona a few weeks ago. The boy told me his name was Codey and he and his dad were on
their way back to Everett from Hawaii. We looked at a map and couldn't figure out how it made sense to have a connection in Phoenix to get from Hawaii to Seattle. He wore glasses that looked like little goggles and spoke with conviction about mountains and sea turtles, and played his hand-held electronic game. He turned his face toward me after removing his glasses and I was struck by what an angelic little face this delightful, imaginative character had.

People touch our lives every day, and we touch theirs. We may never know who we make an impression on. Codey impressed me; I was sure he would grow up to be an engineer or a designer or a leader of some sort.

But he didn't get the chance. I've been hearing on the news this week about a little boy who died two days after a tragic backyard accident in Everett; it was not until tonight I saw his picture on TV. I felt a horror of recognition and a deep sadness when it finally sank in. My reaction is, "But how can he be gone--I just saw him! And he has so much more to do in this life!"

He did do something profoundly amazing. He told his parents to donate his organs and his body parts so other people could have a chance. At the time of the news story I saw, five people had been saved by the power of his conviction and imagination. More may be touched that way. I don't think anyone who met him could have missed seeing that he was a pretty special kid. But even for a special person, that's quite an accomplishment.

Good-bye, Codey. You did good.

Hey, it works for Greyhounds--why not Grannies?

Newsweek is running a story about a new kind of nursing home in China for empty nesters whose grown kids live in different parts of the world. The facility has web cams in various locations so the residents' families can see them living their daily lives via computer.

My friend has a greyhound who stays at home--mostly on the couch--while she is at work. She installed a doggie cam when he started chewing on the couch and dragging cushions out into the garden. She keeps an image window open at the bottom of her computer screen to keep an eye on him. Her co-workers love it, though greyhounds really are couch potatoes (who knew?) and he doesn't do much in the way of entertainment for his unseen audience. When he starts to chew or drag, my friend calls the home phone and commands him, on the answering machine, to stop. She can see his head whip up, and he stops (well, usually.)

When it's time for me to go to the group retirement home, I'm not sure I want web cams giving away my secrets ("Oh, look--she's stealing chocolate from the kitchen again!") The only thing that would be worse is having someone holler at me on a speaker. It works great for Greyhounds, but Hell, what's the use of getting old and cantankerous if you can't do whatever you want? I hope this Chinese thing doesn't catch on and turn into Remote Granny Control over here!

Why Belly Dancers Dance

My friend Cinderelly is smart and beautiful--and shy. So, I was amazed when she took up belly dancing. What is it about belly dancing that gets people so hooked? I know Cinderelly loves Halloween; she decorates her house inside and out and makes herself and her grown daughters amazing costumes. I've never been to a belly dancing competition, so I went to see her group perform today.

Large silken hangings transformed a hotel conference room into a place of mystery. Sinuous music played on the PA system. Vendors displayed coin-encrusted bodices, chains to wrap around necks and waists, and diaphonous skirts and veils. The most enchanting thing to see, however, was the women and girls in their costumes. Even just walking through the room, they jingled, their hair floated around their heads, and their eyes sparkled. They loved the way they looked and felt, and it showed.

"Do you know why these women dance?" Mistress of Ceremonies asked, "They do it for love of the art form." Someone murmured to her, and she added, "...and for the costumes," then she said, "...and for the bling!"

I greeted Cinderelly after her performance. "Now I know why you do this," I said, "It's 'dress up day' for grown-ups!" She was still kind of shell-shocked from being on stage , but she said, "Yes, it's like Halloween every day!" Snap! The woman is definitely on to something. If we could all find something that makes us feel as joyous as when we were kids who dressed like princesses and as powerful as when we thought we could do anything, we could stay young forever. At least in our hearts.

Bravo, Princess Cinderelly. You're my hero!

U.S.Army Seeks and Destroys...Pigs?

It seems that Fort Benning, Georgia, has a pig problem. Ugly, destructive wild pigs--6,000 of them--are tearing up the woods and scavenging pretty much anywhere they want to (at 300 pounds with big curved tusks, they don't run into many folks who "just say no.") Obviously, the boorish boars gotta go.

The base checked with civilian contractors about getting rid of the pigs, but it cost too much. Then, someone had a flash of inspiration and decided to use one of Ft. Benning’s most plentiful resources—people with guns. Military folks, retired military folks, and civilians who work on base will soon be roaming about, special permits in hand, shooting wild boars at will.

On the one hand, you gotta feel for the pigs. They're probably descended from pigs left to breed in the New World 500 years ago to provide fresh meat for itinerant Spanish explorers. I wish there was another way to deal with this problem. On the other hand, there are a lot more people and a lot less space in the New World now. Wild boars crashing through your yard could give you nightmares, at the very least.

In times of yore, Europeans fought these these pigs' ancestors with bows and arrows and war axes. The boars often won, taking out even the strongest hunters . Today's Ft. Benning hunters have the advantage of modern weaponry, but still, it's gonna be ugly.

This story makes me grateful for my Northwestern suburb where nothing much happens. If I lived on Ft. Benning, I’d wear a bright orange vest day and night, even when taking out the trash (which wild pigs think is a big lunch bucket just for them.) Oh, and I'd take an armed guard every time I went outside, to deal with fleeing, angry wild pigs. Heck, maybe I'd just stay indoors!