Twister (or Lucid Dreaming)

Sam and I have different appetites for risk. When we first met he was Captain Cautious, always on the lookout for potential dangers. I, on the other hand, loved adventure and exploration. I loved intensity. Sam loved calm.

Sam worried that Katherine, at age 10, might stick her fingers in a wall outlet next to her bed while she slept. Meanwhile, I was rafting white water and jumping from airplanes.

I teased Sam about his caution. He was aghast at my fearlessness. We were on opposite ends of the “risk taker” spectrum, or so it seemed.

About 6 months into our dating, I came across a magazine article on America’s appetite for risk. The article included a “find your risk quotient” self-quiz. I love taking these types of tests, and I was also eager to validate my superior “risk quotient.”

The first two questions were easy.

Q: If given the opportunity to skydive, would you?
A: Absolutely.

Q: Would you travel to a foreign country alone?
A: Of course.

And then they threw a curve.

Q: Would you use your life savings to start a business?
A: Huh? Um, well, I’d rather not.

Q: When you walk into a crowded room filled with people you don’t know, what is your first instinct?
A: Easy. My instinct is to run and hide in the bathroom.

Q: Would you rush into a burning building to save a stranger?
A: Definitely.

Q: Would you bet a month’s wages at a casino?
A: No way. (not even a day’s wage)

There were 50 or so questions, covering all types of risk, including many (like business and social risk) I had not previously considered. My score was solidly average. Hmmm.

I asked Sam to take the quiz. He also scored a solid average. In fact, our scores turned out to be exactly the same, but as we read through the questions we realized our answers were opposites in nearly every instance.

I embraced physical risk and situational risk, but stayed as far away as possible from social and financial risk. Sam kept a safe distance from physical and situational risk, but was hard pressed to see the risk in the social and financial situations presented. I’m a banker and he’s an entrepreneur. It made sense but it was also fascinating.

Over the years, we’ve adjusted to each other’s sense of risk, but not without some grumbling. More often than not I try to drag Sam along on one of my mini-adventures. The more he resists, the more stubborn I become. Generally he tolerates me and on more than one occasion he has saved my butt.

So the dream I had just before waking Saturday morning in Napa was particularly telling and entertaining. It went something like this…

We are driving down a 2-lane road somewhere in rural America. The skies are dark and menacing as a storm brews. We come to a fork in the road. It is clearly the road less traveled, which means it holds great allure for me.

“Let’s go down this road,” I suggest.

“I’d rather not,” Sam answers dryly.

“Why not!” I demand.

“Because there are tornadoes forming down that road.”

“There are not! Where?”

“Right there,” Sam points.

Sure enough, right there in front of us, but certainly a safe distance away, is a white tornado snaking toward the ground.

“Oh my God!! That is so cool. Let’s try to get closer! Go down that road!” I insist excitedly.

“I would really rather not,” Sam says deliberately and through clenched teeth.

“Come on! Go! Go! Let’s go check it out. It’s not that big of a deal. Hurry!” I am beside myself with eagerness.

Sam turns down the road and the tornado is straight ahead a couple of miles. As I watch, dumbstruck, several more tornadoes begin to drop from the clouds. I suddenly realize there are at least 7 tornadoes on the horizon and they are beginning to encircle us.

“Um, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” I venture.

Without saying a word, but with a distinct look of “I’ve known this all along, and I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out” Sam pulls hard on the steering wheel, whipping the car back around in the opposite direction. He floors it and I can hear the tornadoes close behind us.

“Oh man! I can’t believe all these tornadoes came out of nowhere! Good grief. Drive as fast as you can – ok?” I instruct him.

“I am!” he answers through a still clenched jaw.

We race down the road, just a mile or so ahead of the tornadoes, which seem to be in hot pursuit.

And then the dream morphs into something else.

I love that I had this dream. It was so perfectly lucid, it's hard to believe I was asleep.

With Friends Like These...

Relief! And thank God for it! I finally started feeling better last night. Sam and I went to dinner in Napa (my first meal out since we left Kansas City) and as we were ordering dessert, I realized I had gone nearly an hour and a half without pain. Yahoo! I am so full of antibiotics that my skin actually smells like the pills, but I don’t care. I am just so happy to be pain free.

This morning I woke up feeling fine and we have celebrated by spending the entire morning lying in bed watching the Food Network on the flat screen tv at the end of our bed. This is a special treat for Sam. Because I am an ornery and cheap curmudgeon, even when I am feeling well, I have drawn the line at spending $100 a month for cable so we can watch mindless drivel in the free time we don’t have. But on vacation, well that’s a different story! This morning we learned how to cook all kinds of tasty dishes just as soon as we get home. My favorite show of all was “Ham on the Street.” This guy was hilarious and proved that you can make a grilled cheese & jelly sandwich with any kind of bread, cheese and jelly and have it turn our deliciously. I think I’ll try it.

Anyway, I don’t have much time to post but I did want to thank a couple of friends for their supportive and loving comments over the last several days.

First – an email from my best buds Julie & Aaron upon learning that I was in such a bad state.

“Wish we could be there with you. Of course we’d be drinking wine. But we would be holding your hand with our free hand.”

And then a phone conversation Sam had with his friend Jeff Mott who, learning about my state of health, and also knowing about the “deal” Sam and I had made, quipped,

“Oh that is just awful, especially for you Sam. Do you think you’ll be able to get a rain check?”

Really, with friends like these, who needs enemies? Hee! Hee! Seriously, thanks guys, for making me laugh.

Well, I am off to enjoy wine country.

Living Large in San Francisco

I am so miserable. I have spent the last 2 days of our vacation lying in bed in the very pretty room of our swank hotel just off Union Square in San Francisco. There is plenty to do just outside my window and the weather has been beautiful. But I am afraid to venture more than 10 feet from the room, and even when I ‘ve been willing to risk it, I haven’t had the energy to walk more than a block or so.

Late Tuesday afternoon, I realized I was getting a bladder infection. This is the third one I’ve had; the last was nearly 15 years ago. It’s not hard to know you have a bladder infection. For those who have yet to experience this little bit of hell on earth, imagine a hundred fire ants crawling around inside your bladder, producing a constant and intense urge to pee, coupled with a burning pain that lasts several long seconds every time you try to go.

As soon as I recognized my symptoms I headed for CVS to buy some AZO Standard. These little red pills have, in the past, done wonders to stop the pain until I could get started on antibiotics. I popped a couple and felt pretty good for the rest of the evening.

Wednesday morning, Sam and I got up early to catch our plane. I didn’t feel great, but assumed my morning dose of AZO would help. I was wrong. I spent the next 4 hours in the air, in misery. There was a lot of turbulence, which meant the pilot kept the “fasten seat belts” sign on for long stretches of time. A woman a few rows ahead of me got up to use the restroom and the kind (not!) stewardess used the woman’s daring dash to remind us over the loud speaker to please respect the pilot’s opinion and stay in our seats. (I know Sam just posted about his enduring love for Southwest. For the record, I was feeling all kinds of things on that flight and none of them could be classified as love!)

Anyway, although I certainly respected the pilot’s opinion, I was pretty sure that staying in my seat was going to result in much embarrassment so I screwed up my courage and made a run for it. The stewardess who had used the loudspeaker to demand respect got up from her jump seat as I neared the restroom door. For the love of God, could this woman not see that I was in a serious hurry? She started to tell me that the pilot… blah, blah, blah…but I slid around her and into the bathroom, tossing a sharp, “If I could have waited, I would have!” over my shoulder.

The problem with a bladder infection is that it tricks you into thinking that if you could just reach a restroom you will be ok. But, oh no, that is simply not true. Instead you are met with this unbelievably ridiculous amount of pain, and typically, very little urine. You feel better for about 60 seconds before the entire thing starts over again.

I climbed over my seat-mate several times before deciding I might as well just stand in the back next to the bathroom door. This was not a popular decision with Stewardess Ratchet, but she tolerated me.

Four long, miserable hours later we made it to San Francisco. We hired a cab to take us to a Walgreen’s near our hotel, where my doctor had called in an antibiotic prescription. I was nearly in tears by the time I reached the pharmacist. I ripped open the package and swallowed a pill, then begged to use their non-public restroom. I think I scared the young Asian boy who was waiting on me as he knocked over a display stand of pamphlets in an effort to get me into the restroom.

I spent the rest of Wednesday in bed, and in the bathroom, while Sam attended the advertising conference that brought us here. The only bright spot in the day was the NY strip steak with French fries I had sent up to my room for dinner. It was staggeringly expensive, but I was feeling so sorry for myself that I could hardly muster up the energy to care. And I’ll tell you, that was one damn fine steak! And the French fries? Those who know me know I like a little food on my salt. Those fries were so hot and salty and crispy! Mmmmm..

Thursday I expected to feel better, and for the first hour I did. But as the morning passed I felt worse and worse. I tried to venture out, but found I had no energy. I took a walk around the block and then came back and recovered with a 2-hour nap. The entire time those fire ants were gnawing away at my bladder. At times, the pain was so intense that I could feel the pulse of my heart in my bladder.

I read all the magazines I had and even turned on the TV for a bit, (my disdain for television programming was quickly reconfirmed).
I napped and watched the clock, waiting for Sam to come back to the room between meetings. I started writing this post, but the pain was so intense that the only way I could get comfortable was to lie flat on my back. Finally, I took an ativan and went to bed, hoping I would wake up feeling better.

This morning I awoke to more of the same. I called my Dr. in Kansas City. He is not working today and the nurse suggested I go to an urgent care facility.

I checked the internet and found an Urgent Care office just 2 blocks from our hotel. The office opened at 9am and I was there waiting when they unlocked the doors. You know, I have never had this feeling before when visiting a doctor, but this was the coolest doctors office I have ever visited. The office was painted ocean blue with black trim and all of the furniture was retro stainless steel. The staff wore fashionable clothes instead of scrubs, even the docs had traded their white coats for regular, trendy wear.

I was seen within 10 minutes of arriving by Dr. Jessie Davis, who took a urine sample and then loaded me up with drugs. I got an injection of antibiotic (because it works faster) and another prescription of antibiotics to start taking as soon as I could get it filled. He also gave me Norco to knock me out for the flight home in case I still wasn’t better. And a prescription for Diflucan. I had the sense he would give me whatever I asked for (this is California after all) and I briefly thought about all the other drugs I would like to have, but stayed focused on the problem at hand.

Dr. Davis said I should be feeling better by tonight and sent me on my way. I was so happy that relief was on its way I practically skipped down the street to the pharmacy.

Which brings us to the present. Three hours have passed since a healthy dose of drug was injected into my hindquarter, and I don’t yet feel one bit better. In fact, I hurt as bad as I did last night. But I am hopeful. Apparently the particular strain of bacteria that I am growing is resistant to the first drug I took. Dr. Davis thinks this one should do the trick, but I realize that the bacteria could be resistant to this variety of antibiotic as well.

Sam will be back from his meetings within the hour and then we are driving to Wine Country for a couple of days. I really hope I am feeling well enough to enjoy it. And I hope there are lots of places to use the restroom along the way.

A Thousand Birds...

When I was 26 and newly divorced, I moved from my grown-up “married” house in Brookside, to a tiny apartment in the upstairs of a house at 48th & Holly. It was like living in a tree house. The rooms were small and the ceiling in the bathroom was so low I had to duck my head to step in to the shower. But I could lie in bed and look out my window and see nothing but trees. The branches tickled my window in the evenings and the rustling of the leaves soothed me to sleep on many lonely, anxious nights.

I have many memories of that apartment, but the one that stands before all the others was the way those tiny rooms allowed me to fall in love with music. I had always loved music, but my exposure was limited and my tastes ran mostly to top 40 hits.

I had a lot of time alone in the year after I moved and I began spending my Saturday afternoons at Penny Lane Records in Westport. I bought a “serious” CD player, tuner and speakers and spent any extra money I had on books and music. I lived alone and spent hours lying in bed reading and listening to music.

Because my apartment was so small, I could hear my music from any room. I turned it on as soon as woke up and fell asleep listening. There were times when I felt I might die from the intensity of emotion the music stirred up in me. The songs I loved, played like a soundtrack to that part of my life.

I eventually moved and bought a home not far from the tree house. It too was small, an airplane bungalow, and I could listen to my favorite songs from any room in the house. And again, I (mostly) lived alone so the music that played was always my favorite music.

I remember meeting a guy I liked and after several dates and an evening of feeling particularly connected, I invited him home to listen to my music. I am sure he had something else in mind, but I remember sitting on the floor, my CDs surrounding me, as I played one favorite song after another. I was sharing one of the most intimate parts of myself.

My music collection grew, as did my sense of connection to life through the songs I loved.

Then I met, and fell in love with, Sam and Katherine. And everything changed. I spent a lot of time with them in their house up north. It was a big house, a ranch with rooms the size of tennis courts, or so it seemed. Sam had a stereo, but you couldn’t hear the music in other rooms of the house, and if you wanted to, you had to turn the volume way up. Which was ok when I was listening to the Cowboy Junkies or Lisa Loeb, but not so ok when Katherine was listening to Britney Spears or Sam was listening to classic rock.

Then we moved into my house and although the acoustics were right again, I realized I couldn’t start their morning with Marilyn Manson, just because I was in the mood for it. And I found that after 6 years of listening to the music I loved most, it was very hard to listen to music that didn’t move me, even when it was the music that Sam or Katherine loved.

Gradually, I stopped listening. And the music that had been such an important part of that part of my life grew dusty and old. I still pulled out my old CDs from time to time, but when I listened, it was different. That sense of knowing - that sense of the song being so connected to my life, that sense that the song was my life and my life was that song – that feeling was gone.

Several months ago I saw the Leonard Cohen Movie "I'm Your Man" and I was reminded of how powerful a force music could be in my life. A friend gave me a copy of Cohen’s “10 New Songs” and another friend gave me a copy of Antony’s “You are a Bird Now” and I listened in my car to nothing else for weeks.

The music had a powerful effect on me, but it wasn’t until tonight that I remembered the brute physical force of connecting with a song. I had forgotten that feeling of being crushed and exploded into a million pieces all at the same time – all because of a piece of music.

But tonight I found a band called ShearWater. And I listened to this song, and this one, and this one. And I felt my chest rip open and a thousand white birds flew out.

You scratch my back and I'll... well, you know.

So, a couple of months ago Sam and I made this deal. If he gives me this thing I want, then I'll give him this thing he wants. (wink, wink) I set the bar pretty high in terms of what I wanted and I'll be damned if he didn't go and pull it off! Guess I'm not going to have much free time this month. :-)

The Color of Money... the Same as Lost Dreams

Sam’s words hit me hard. An expense I wasn’t expecting. A big one. That’s all it took and within minutes I was trembling with anxiety and the old argument, the one we’ve had 100 times since we’ve been married, the one about money, was in full swing. I said all the same things I always say and paused long enough for him to say all the same things he always says and for the 100th time we found ourselves spent and exhausted and frustrated and once again at an impasse.

We played our assigned parts and followed the script we’d carefully worked out for this particular argument, except at some point, after we’d moved from the kitchen to the living room and refilled our glasses, and thrown our early rounds of punches, Sam said something off script.

“What did you mean by that?” I asked, caught off guard by his comment. He didn’t know what he’d meant. I didn’t either, but we both realized it was significant, and the room regained some oxygen.

Not ready to let the argument go so easily, I held on with my teeth and shook my head, but the fight had already gone out of Sam and it just wasn't fun to argue by myself. So we switched gears and starting talking about this random comment he’d made. And we dug and talked and questioned and dug some more, and suddenly there were tears. The sort of tears that come when something deep, deep down is brought to the surface. The sort of tears that remind you of when you were a kid. The sort of tears that are primal and kind of scary because you know you are experiencing something sacred.

And we realized, through those tears, that although our stories are very different, we'd both made a similar sacrifice. Our sacrifices had been made grudgingly, and we’d been harboring anger and regret ever since. Neither of us felt safe talking about it, and it had felt too selfish to imagine the opportunities we’d lost. And in nearly nine years of being together, this was a conversation we had never had.

It was late and we’d already drunk a lot of wine so we went to bed and I woke the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. Had it been too much? Had we gone too far? Sometimes it’s better to leave things well enough alone.

As soon as we were both awake we starting talking again. And my worry soon faded. We talked and we talked and we talked. I understood him in a way I had never before. And for the first time he understood what I had been trying to say all these years. And we both realized it had really very little to do with money, although that’s what we’d always called it.

I love that after 8.5 years of being together we are still learning about one other. And I love that what we’re learning brings us closer together and reinforces what we’ve long believed, which is that we are twin souls. I especially love that we aren’t going to have to argue about money any more. We’ll still be subject to the same triggers I am sure, but now we’ll know what it’s really all about. And that’s a good thing.

All That Shimmers Is Gold

I absolutely love Claire Kramer's photography.