Brain Fog, Pesto, and That Darned Cat - Again!

Though it's always a good day when the family is alive and well, there's food on the table, and the rent is paid -- not to mention the husband MOST gainfully employed -- there are those 24-hour periods that come along and challenge the psyche.  Even an uplifting session of worship and pastoring at ye olde local Church at Cross Point can't fully penetrate the dense layer of brain fog and body lethargy.  You know . . . one of those mornings where you realize you haven't just woken up on the wrong side of the bed but the entire wrong side of the universe?

That was me today.  Fortunately, nothing truly regrettable happened.  Though I did lose my one and only homemade batch of fresh pesto to the unyielding surface of our tiled kitchen floor.  I'm still not sure how it happened but happen it did.  And I swear to you it was the absolute tastiest I've made thus far: I think the raw walnuts put it over the top; the garlic to Romano cheese ratio was spot on; and the addition of Thai basil and Italian parsley with the traditional sweet basil -- a stroke of culinary inspiration.  Did I mention how it was a total marriage of savor and flavor when smeared over a thick meaty slice of garden tomato from Saturday's farmers market?  Sadly, I had to also say good-bye to one of my favorite little round-bellied jars in the unfortunate mishap.  Hey, at least I delivered the promised sampling to my across-the-street neighbor before there was none left to fulfill the offer!  That would have been a bit mortifying as the last offer I made, of garden vegetables, rotted in the back of the fridge after my son forgot to run them over. 

Aside from that, I had only to keep my head from exploding while pushing my speedy cart all around the expansive floor plan of the local Super Wal-Mart.  Though no one did a thing to me -- we were all in the same boat, mainly the good ship 'Let's Hurry Up and Get the Heck OUT of This Store!' -- my polite smile had hardened into a grimace by the end of the harried hour.  And I managed to forget the family's allotted weekly chewing gum supply.  There's always, ALWAYS, that one niggling little item on the list that gets overlooked . . . right up until a kid asks, "Mom, did you remember . . . ?"

My mom opened up her comfy couch to her irritable and tired daughter, allowing me to plunk my bare feet right next to her book and heating pad.  We cruised through portions of a few quality programs -- she finds the most interesting documentaries, checked Facebook, and put something light in our bellies.  Stopping in at her place was my sanity check BEFORE Wal-Mart and AFTER church.  A strategic schedule on such days as this.

My writing, as is evident here, suffers greatly on days like this.  Uninspired.  A bit flat.  No real ebb and flow.  A muddy, flat trickle.  But at least I'm here.  And, if you're reading, YOU are here, too. 

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On a different note, I realized my feelings toward our wandering orange kitty have changed since his latest mishap and the resulting confinement/rehabilitation.  I hadn't seen tail-switching hide nor shedding hair of him since arriving home around 6PM.  By 9:30, my alert level had risen to sudden concern for his safety.  In my mind, I saw him flattened out on the road next to our sub-division.  A sad pancake awaiting discovery by me and Panda on our morning walk.  Out the front door I rushed, lungs filled with the air necessary to issue my full-voiced call of "Kitty, kitty, kitty!"  But before I could draw my lips back from my teeth, his sauntering form materialized out of the darkness as he emerged from beneath the redbud tree.  Alive and resembling more a 4-legged breakfast sausage than a pancake with his extra pound of belly swaying lightly beneath him.  My worry dissipated.  I shooshed him through the front door and chastened him for staying out so late.  He expressed no remorse.

All is well in the Valdez home, relatively speaking, as night deepens and the pillows call.  There IS the issue of the clogged upstairs toilet.  But I'm not touching that story.

On Brain Trusts and Not-Quite Birthdays

Well, the second go-round of Cindy's stimulating brain trust, otherwise known as the Writers Workshop, closed out its 12-week run with the customary public reading.  Cindy P. is the fearless and experienced leader of this eclectic mix of talented women, and one bold young man, all burning with the desire to divulge the contents of our burdened hearts and heads onto paper and monitor screen.  Our members met at a local Presbyterian church with family support and snacks in hand.  Not to mention our diverse sampling of reading selections.

The Valdez family attended in part.  My girls were present; the boy was promised to a BIG football game, and his dad was there to cheer him on.  I can't complain.  They were both present in May for the first one.  How many do I expect them to endure?  Sarah managed to convince her non-boyfriend friend to tag along -- he professed to finding the book excerpt I wrote and read quite interesting.  But was it as interesting as Sarah?  Hmmm.

Is it proper to admit that I was rather proud of myself?  But not for the actual reading in front of folks.  I do enjoy that aspect of the gathering; even in high school, presenting before a group stimulated me.  To hold the attention of a room and actually coalesce their focus on a single point of interest while urging them to contemplate what's just around the corner from them is a wonderful thing.  No doubt!  However, the content is what stirred me.  The pages I rustled on the podium this past Thursday night held excerpts of personal letters from both me and my brother, penned one to the other, while he was in state prison.  The edited entries, concentrated as they were, told not only a story but conveyed the importance of one life . . . be it praying mantis, big sister, or convict brother.  Rummaging through these correspondences and rereading the feeling and honesty behind the words made me realize that, as my mother once told me, writing for others is every bit as real as writing for publication.  As usual, she's right.  (Not that writing for others AND for publication can't ever cross paths!)

Oddly enough, one of the best parts of the evening had nothing to do with the reading outside of the fact that this is the reason for Amy -- of Amy Alaska blog fame -- gracing my doorstep with her presence.  And hanging out with me for the entire night.  As we were leaving the house for the church, all of us with arms burdened with miscellany snacks and the like, I casually handed her an envelope as I proclaimed it was her birthday card.

She paused, facing me squarely, and asked, "Is this your way of telling me you won't be seeing me for awhile?"  I looked at her.  Walked over to the calendar  and looked at the small square for Tuesday next with 'Amy #39' in print.  Thinking I was off by a day or two, I queried, "What?  Did I miss it?  Your birthday isn't next Tuesday?"  Smiling, she replied with a tilt of her head, "It's in January.  The 21st.  Remember how we talked of our birthdays both landing on the 21st?  How we had numbers divisible by 3 and you like things done in 3's?"  Someone should have hit me upside the head with an entire CASE of V8!  "Wow!" I laughed, "I thought it had come awfully fast.  I've been thinking of it for two weeks!  And you're turning 41, huh?"  She nodded as I continued, "You went to Gatlinburg last year for your 40th and turned pottery, right?"  Again, she replied in the affirmative.  "I don't MIND going back in time and being 39 though," Amy Alaska conceded as my faux pas registered with her and was found most welcome for entertainment's sake.

"Well, the card is yours AND the gift.  From now on, we'll have to celebrate both your real AND imagined birthday."  I'm adamant on this point.  The card is gorgeous.  Believe you me.  I practically agonized in the selection.  The promise of dinner and a movie, on me, easily kept, and as much a gift to me as to her!  As for the mysterious penciled in '#39 birthday' -- I can't help but wonder who was transcribed out of a card from me.  Guess I'll have to dig out last year's calendar and check it.  Obviously, the loss wasn't too severe as I've received no laments of any kind.

Considering the massive amount of cards I already painstakingly choose, fill with thoughtful sentiment, and slap with postage, I'd best be careful or people everywhere will begin celebrating imaginary birthdays!   

Too Hot To Hand-le

I was on fire all last night and into the late morning on this Tuesday.  But not in any way that would benefit my husband or my blog or the patio pit in our back yard.  No, no, no.  My hands -- and anything they inadvertently touched -- were burning in the throes of healing power created by a popular analgesic creme meant to combat the discomfort of arthritis.

Here's what the packaging label says:  "Capsaicin, a naturally occurring substance derived from hot peppers, is a safe and effective topical analgesic for arthritis pain.  In fact, it is so effective that CAPZASIN is the number one recommended topical analgesic brand."  At this point, I wonder if Anaheim chili and habanero farmers are receiving kickbacks for getting their family and friends out to the headquarters of the 2009 Pharmacy Today Survey!  Due to the nature of capsaicin, a mild, tolerable burning and/or itching sensation may be experienced when the product is applied which may last up to 48 hours.  [It] typically diminishes with continued use, and is not a reason to discontinue using CAPZASIN.  The careful word selection employed with 'typically' should give the user pause; and 48 hours of burning and itching should be thoughtfully considered before investing in the expensive 1.5 ounce tube.  And what would be a good reason for discontinuing use?  When actual flames appear at the fingertips?

The tube itself states that, and I love this piece of writing, "a transient burning sensation may occur upon application but generally disappears after SEVERAL days."  Now, I don't know about you, but SEVERAL says at least three 24-hour periods to me!  Not to mention that 'generally' sounds a whole lot like 'typically.'  And 'transient?!'  As if the effect wanders about homeless, needing a place to stay for a time, hoping it could perhaps rest a bit on my skin, where it is further pointed out that "warm or hot water, direct sunlight or exposure to heat may increase the likelihood of burning and itching . . . if you experience blistering, contact your doctor."  I can add that that FRICTION, say where one used exposed achy hands which won't rinse clean after repeated attempts with soap, including the suggested dishwashing liquid and cooking oil at room temperature -- wouldn't want one's fingers becoming jalapeno poppers -- to apply foot lotion where sock and walking shoe meet, most definitely increases the actual transient burning sensation, too.

What is quite striking in its inherent wisdom is that the tube directions state that "if severe burning occurs, discontinue use immediately and read important information printed INSIDE CARTON."  What?  INSIDE the carton?!  You mean, rip the packaging apart and the real information unfolds . . . but only AFTER experiencing severe burning can one be privy to such secret stores?  That's where the user finds out the plant origin of capsaicin, though this user already knew and would have been wise to recall the evening she spent with both five-alarm hands soaking in milk after peeling dozens of roasted chili peppers because she saw her mother-in-law and cousin do so with no ill effects; learns more in-depth about side effects and the rare sensitivities of some individuals; and discovers handy tips which might have saved certain users of the product from a sleepless night!  I'll leave you with one more dose of sagacity from the makers of this deep penetrating, high potency cream: 0.1% to be exact.

"Wear gloves to apply or, if medicine comes into contact with hands, "my hands are the area on my body where I need relief! "wash with water to avoid spreading to the eyes or other sensitive areas of the body  . . . "If you are using CAPZASIN on your hands, allow 30 minutes for it to penetrate before washing."  Now THAT particular nugget of instruction would have been quite handy (no pun intended) last night!  My red palms had me up in an hour after application.  And the hour after that.  And after that.

This morning, I washed and washed.  They still burned.  And my face burned after I applied ProActiv cleanser with my hot little fingers.  In the shower as I was reaching for the Summer's Eve, I suddenly recalled the 'avoid mucous membranes and sensitive areas' and left it on the shelf.  Before I dressed in my Nike shorts uniform of the day, my poor husband had to practically powder his bride of 21 years like a newborn baby!  (Well, can you blame a gal for not wanting to chafe during the course of her hot-weather walk?  And what would be the point of no chafing but plenty of burning?!  And remember that friction and heat intensify the effects.  He had no choice!)

This bit of heated domestic drama has opened my eyes.  As a pretty consistent label reader, I realize I've become a bit slack and don't fully absorb information . . . though it appears I absorb capsaicin just fine.  That was to my detriment this time.  It could be to your detriment next time.  Be careful about allowing me to administer any healing aids on your behalf if ever I am in a position to play nursemaid for you.  And, I send the gentle admonishment to read the container label AND the packaging label before taking or applying any health aids.  Take it from this hottie!

Plus, I'm back to Aspercreme for my achy joints.  Regis Philbin would be so proud.

     
 

Breakin' My Groove Thing

I don't want to talk about the sexy Latina woman attracting unwanted attention in her professional capacity as a sports reporter while on the practice field and in the locker room of the New York Jets.  There's enough people weighing in on that: my perspective isn't all that fresh or unique.  But, I do tell my girls they have a responsibility to themselves concerning their dress and appearance if they want to be taken seriously in the professional world or hope to draw something other than the lascivious looks of most men.  The male of our species are naturally prone to visual stimulation and their arousal is out there for the entire world to see -- often whether they want it to be so or not.  While I don't advocate "she deserves what she got because she asked for it with her behavior or attire," I do believe us women folk should be aware of the often negative impact an overtly sexual facade can have on guys who are not able to fully control their capacity for desire or the verbal and physical expression of that desire.

Looks like I went and talked about it anyway!  I'm done now.

It's been a day of some busyness and length.  Time spent cooking, exercising, dusting, writing, talking with my brother, researching, eating and counting calories, going through the mail, recycling, soaking the roots of our collection of trees in the dry yard, battling the housebound kitty kitty, interacting with the family, washing pots and pans, and . . . dancing.  My daughter is on the hip-hop dance team, The Halftimers, at school; we decided that if I could learn the 'jerk' from Zachary, and could still float MJ's moonwalk -- hours of practice as a teenager in our garage in upstate New York -- I might as well try my skills at memorizing one of her routines.  After a sweaty half hour of popping and locking, throwing out my back and booty, and fast stepping to the left, to the left, I've got it!  Basically.  For the most part.  In slow motion. 

We'll see what I remember come tomorrow's sunrise.  Until then, stay modest with your neckline and hemline while you 'shake that jelly,' as they say.  Or is that an oxymoronic request? 

Of Men, Beasts, and Sheets

I'm watching my husband trip over the doggie gate between our kitchen and the dining room for the umpteenth time.  Of course, this morning he also faces the added challenge of  wrestling the twin bed sheet hanging across the entryway.  The entire contraption exists only because we are suckers who take in random animals when they longingly gaze our way with expressive icy blue eyes set in that distinctive Husky mask or rub up against our legs with full-on orange kitty affection and motorway purrs.  Grrrr, says this human animal.

In the last year, we discovered the hard way that the senior dog sometimes loses control of her bladder or bowels when a fierce storm passes through.  And, the urge to bolt upstairs to the berber-covered floor of the study overtakes her frightened brain!  Thus the two strategically positioned gates which encourage her to remain in the tiled and spacious confines of our kitchen area.  If we have kids who refuse to rise from their slumber or guests in need of a startle, there's nothing to fill those auditory niches like the sudden cacophony which erupts every time one of those gates accidentally breaks loose of their moorings and SLAMS against the unyielding floor!  Talk about your decibel levels.   Grrrr-rufffff, mutters this human animal.

Three old flat sheets, two doubles and a single, span the spaces on either side of the south wall, blocking the open airspace which could encourage a possible leap out of the easily cleaned floor space of said kitchen for the carpeted expanses which exist throughout the rest of our home.  This prophylactic is for our friendly feline.  Yesterday, his lack of appetite -- an almost impossibility -- and the rather sudden and large abscess on his furry right cheek led to an impromptu vet visit.  During the wrestling portion of the program, whereby the young fresh faced assistant attempts to remove our cat from his carrier cage, the contents of his facial wound burst.  On the floor.  All over him.  The visible pit, ringed in blood and pus as it was, incited a strange jumping and fluttering within my gut, effectively dampening MY appetite for the next hour or two -- another almost impossibility.  A shave and squeeze later, along with oral antibiotics to be administered twice daily after the necessary irrigation treatments, with my $127 receipt in tow, me and my Fabio (yes, that's his name) were on our way to what is now his forced imprisonment for the next seven days.  His face continues to ooze, thus the sheets now make sense to you, the reader, yes?  Me-e-e-O-O-O-W, says this human animal!

One would think the source of minor stress would be obvious here.  But fighting a clawed cat wrapped in an old blue towel to force cold pink liquid down his gullet rather allows me to channel of my childhood heroes, the famous English country veterinarian and author, James Herriott, for a few minutes.  And catching sight of my dog actually licking the post-trauma site on her brother-pet's cheek strikes me as grossly touching (wonder why I have yet to want breakfast?) because I am, after all, a lover of animals.

 No, what's got me scratching my head and feeling a bit perplexed are the sounds of stumbling and frightened exclamations coming from the human sector of our mixed family as they make their way from one room to the other.  Over and over.  And over.  Why? oh, why? is it that my kids and my man can't figure out how to LIFT their feet all the way over the gate and AWAY from the side where the sheet is firmly attached to the frame?  It's not as if they must deal with a gaping nasty pit on the side of their faces or face friendly exile in the kitchen because of their weak urinary tracts!

The Laboriousness of Non-Labor

Happy Labor Day weekend to you all as it draws to a sunset finale of a close this year.  I hope some measure of enjoyment with family, friends, sleep, eating, and the like, took place whether you were on the work schedule or not today.  These days, employment that requires actual work on Labor Day is NOT a thing at which to shake your tail feathers!  Better to curse your attendance at your 9 to 5 than to bemoan your lack of a regular paycheck. 

As our next month of Saturday and Sundays are shaded in with activities requiring us to remain on the homestead, I had high hopes of filling this holiday weekend with fun and relaxation away from Marilyn Court.  Either a nice two days of hotel amenities and exploration in Chattanooga, or a segmented series of outings to places within a 60-mile radius -- waterfalls, paths, coffee shops, restaurants, parks -- both of which would provide us with a bit of escapism and time together as a family.

Well, we got the 'time together as a family' part right!  Leave it to mom's uterus to describe the circumference of 48 hours on the clock for the Valdez Bunch.  Grrrr.  Extreme fatigue on Sunday ruled out wandering the streets of downtown Nashville, but resulted in an afternoon stay in the living room suite of the Jamison Place brown brick B&B.  Our worn leather couch keeps the WELCOME sign on throughout the year in anticipation of my monthly bookings.  The familiar mock-labor associated with aforesaid internal organ put the kibosh on our anticipated Labor Day adventure to the home of UTC and the world's longest pedestrian bridge.

My stellar cast of company included Mockingjay and Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson, along with Ashley, Sarah, Zachary, and Jimmy in a rotation which would let up briefly before commencing in the extreme on Monday . . . with the addition of the infamous heating pad.  Picture drenched PJ's and a sweat-beaded forehead in trade off for little or no pain -- as long as I remained relatively supine.  There was a mild spurt of energy yesterday evening which allowed me to walk the dog for her 'newspaper' mile, enjoy a cup of hot tea with my hubby at Starbucks, and moodily hang out around the fire pit on our patio with the family and a couple of friendly neighbors.  Supporting roles were played by half a canister of light Original Pringles, Duos Cheese Nips, and several full-on S'mores with dark chocolate.  Multiple ibuprofen chasers every four hours.  You get the picture?

So, though we went nowhere, we did wander the crime ridden streets of LA with a Georgia peach of an investigator, gaze upon the oasis of my backyard by firelight, and fought side by side with rebels in Panem (Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games series for those not in the literary know).  My kids were reliable companions, distracting me as needed; and my husband, he was quite wonderful in his capacity as nurse to a grumpy gal of vacillating emotions -- even returning with a slice of strawberry birthday cake from Julia's bakery via a neighbor's celebration earlier tonight.  So, though I can't guarantee plans made every 23 days, I think it's safe to assume we'll rebound, regroup, and rely on our little family's propensity for closeness no matter the disruption.

And how was YOUR labor day, folks?

Death of A Beloved Car

It was a good day in the Valdez Household over all.  Baby Valdez and his freshman football team had their first home game of the season against their longtime main rival . . . and tromped all over them.  (Baby Valdez is the affectionate moniker one of our senior daughter's friends assigned our son, Zachary, as the incoming youngest representative of our household.)  The game was quite entertaining, what I actually saw of it as I visited with other animated parents to my left and our kids' youth pastor and his delightful wife with their active baby son to our right.

My stash of air-popped corn and raisins kept my stomach company and amused one of our favorite mom's to no end.  She's waiting for a fish taco to come out of my purse at some point; I told her the weather is much too hot for safe fish storage right now.  Our boy executed a fantastic last-minute tackle early in the game and held his corner, forcing a foul at one point, each time he marched out on the field.  Oh, and I was surprised to discover that he is also the ball-handler during the extra point kick after a goal is scored.  What's that position anyway?  His good friend, Harrison, is in the starring role as kicker -- he went three for three.  Most impressive! 

On a personal note of interest, three different but equally important friends of good character, each with wildly divergent historical and emotional roles in my life, brought to my attention points regarding my writing and my basic nature which I needed to hear.  One of those cases where you didn't realize you needed something until it came about.  Though I personally solicited perspective in two cases, one instance arose from my writing itself.   While I experienced growing pains with regards to what I soaked in, the net result will yield a more conscientious author of the written word.  And one with a reinforced resolve to soldier on.  Specifics are not necessary, but it boils down to friendship and an open mind willing to expand in the right directions. 

While I chose yellow cake with chocolate frosting for my sugar fix yesterday, today I self-medicated with a small 150 calorie bag of my surprising new sugar go-to -- Pretzel M&M's.  One by precious one, the salty and the sweet of the package soothed my inner craving monster.

Thanks to Soehee at Tangerine Salon, I'm officially back on brunette turf.  But the locks need more growth before a sassy new cut can be had.  Bummer!  The unassuming and quite intelligent young lady at the counter has not yet heard if she'll be hired at the Nashville Public Library, thus fulfilling both of our life dreams, but I feel the chances are good for her.  I also passed out my blog address to them both.  If ever they needed to pass a bit of time with a few written online words.

My sister, Rebekah, and I are working on our own version of a treatment plan to help our baby brother, Gary, manage his anger and frustrations at ye olde mental hospital in lovely Napa Valley.  Since there aren't enough doctors and social workers to go around over there, and paperwork often ends up taking priority over clients due to state demands, we have to take matters into our own hands.  Between the two of us, we can garner his trust and attention, draw upon Rebekah's own therapy and experiences, and encourage brother dear to walk upright on his own.  My hopes are high.  My prayers . . . unceasing.

Finally, in other news we have the story of the unsuccessful suicide attempt in New York City's Upper West Side.  An obviously desperate and disturbed man plunged 400 feet before landing on a fire engine red Dodge Charger owned by a woman in New Jersey.  The now trashed car most likely saved his life.  I don't know if he's happy about that.  But I know the owner of the damaged-beyond-repair automobile is experiencing less than sympathetic feelings toward the death-defying victim to his own depression.  In a newspaper interview, she lamented the loss of the her sporty chariot, wondering why, oh why, out of all the vehicles in the big dark city, did he have to choose hers?  This mother of four mourned the loss of the car, calling it her 'baby.' 

Now, while the politically correct response here is she's due her feelings on this, am I wrong to arrive at the conclusion that she's a bit self-centered, apathetic, and warped?  Is the answer here too obvious, and therefore not the foregone ending one would think?  I'm wondering if the courts would allow her to sue this man if she decided to venture into that arena.  It all seems ludicrous to contemplate, but it is the present nature of our litigious and egocentric society.  Are these feelings of this Jersey housewife legitimate?  Has a lawyer already called her?

And this we call 'progress.'  The evolution of a society.

Amore di Espresso

A funny thing happens when I drink a cup of coffee, be it black or latte incarnation, hot or iced. Within fifteen minutes of the first few hefty sips, I am imbued with a sense of well-being that causes me to love the entire world. Yes, you read right, the ENTIRE world. ALL of it. There ain't no mountain high enough that I can't scale it with ardor; no valley low enough, including the deepest unknown crevasses under the oceans, that I won't rappel with affection. There's no person ugly enough that I would be unable to dig out at least a mote of humanity left at even the rottenest of cores.


As for those individuals already held in high-esteem, my estimation of their fine qualities soars beyond the capabilities of 20/20 vision enhanced by telescope. I want to ring everyone in my contact list and pepper them with wireless hugs and kisses. Or, board a jet and and show up on their front porch with biscotti and garden flowers. Or, run a full find-a-cure-for-what-ails-them marathon, make their house and car payments over the summer, offer free 'anytime' babysitting for a year, scrub every square inch of their bathroom with a toothbrush until it sparkles . . . even pluck their wiry misplaced ear and nose hairs! It's probably best that I'm usually in the cab of the Yukon or Chevy Truck driving down a local road to somewhere when this era of good feeling hits me, or I'd have my time promised out to generations beyond my eventual demise.

This caffeinated cause and effect amuses my husband. He alternates between laughing and encouraging it to last until he can get home and advising me that the very fact of the phenomenon points at my innate and perpetual weirdness. It's kind of a running joke between us now. I'll text him before taking off from Starbuck's or JoZoara's and inform him that I'm on the brink of loving the world. Again. Or, if I deign to pour myself the dregs he leaves in the coffee pot each morning, I'll call him as I'm whizzing about the house, performing chores at engaging high speeds -- and oh, so happy to do so -- or when my feet are rhythmically pounding the pavement in earnest, extra sweat exuding from my pores, one of the more undesirable side effects of my infant java habit.

To be sure, this isn't the way that most regular imbibers of the brewed bean react. My brother and neighbor point out that it sounds like a high of sorts. Probably is. I don't have a basis for comparison. I've never inhaled or snorted, much less popped a few pills. And, while drunkenness had its early onset of sensory benefits, it was still very much a heady enhancement of which I was aware. Any initial sense of sharpness quickly gave way to the three stooges of alcohol -- mumbling, stumbling, and bumbling. It couldn't be evenly sustained; wasn't beneficial to my mind or body; and there was always an aggravating hangover for company later. My coffee super power feels more like an extension of my core: that part of me forever wishing all could exist as pure agape love, one for the other. Oh, and did I mention that caught in the height of the fever, I am gripped with a surety that if I just sat down and focused, I could pound out my first novel before the setting of the sun?

Maybe it was my late in life introduction. Perhaps it's an extension of my body's atypical response to a good many medications. It could be, as my spouse points out, merely another example of the differences between me and the general population. Who knows? As long as there is no harm to me or others, and no odd mind- or body-altering recovery to follow, I rather enjoy the intensity of positive emotion. For a few hours, everything comes up aces and roses and cherry pies. It's not that beauty, love, and goodness are absent from my everyday experience, but they are often tightly wedged between venti portions of reality and regularity. Ordering up a grande double shot of irregular benevolence is just fine by me.

Next time you hear I'm halfway through my soy latte, you might want to call me for that BIG favor.