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.

The Walls Came Tumbling Down

1811 Walnut will never be the same.

We picked up the keys this past Thursday and tomorrow demolition begins. We got a head start this evening though. We invited our families, our closest friends and all those people who have been working along side us to make this building dream of ours a reality to join us at the building. Then we gave them sledge hammers. Golden sledge hammers to be exact. And boys being boys (and girls being girls it turns out), walls came tumbling down. Well, they didn’t actually tumble, but there were a few gaping holes.

We had help from some little people as well. My niece and nephew Chloe’ and Garrett, and my friend Michelle’s son Tanner took turns at the wall with a golden hammer. They made surprising progress.

We billed it a demolition party but really we just wanted to give every one a chance to see the “before.” The after becomes so much more meaningful when you can see where it all began.

It was also a thank you. We have been so lucky to work with such an amazing team of people. A quick shout out to:

Suzie Aron –Nicholson Real Estate - our realtor
Elizabeth Rosin – Rosin Historic Preservation – our historic buildings consultant
Jay Tomlison, Brad Kingsley, Joe Jimenez – Helix – our architects
Brett Gordon & Tab White – McCown Gordon – our contractors
Mark Westerfelt – our owners rep
Bob Long – Economic Development Corp - our tax abatement consultant
Mike Marsh – CPA – our historic tax credits accountant
Kathy Hauser – Lathrop & Gage - our attorney
John Geiger – United Bank of Kansas – our banker
David Long – Heartland Business Capital – our other banker
Mark Lowe – Contract Furnishings - our furniture contractor
Kathy Luetkenhoelter – our bookkeeper & business manager

We could not have gotten this far without the talent and generosity of these amazing folks!

So it all begins tomorrow and if it goes as planned the shootin’ match should be over by June 1st. I am not holding my breath. I’ve yet to be involved in a construction project that finished on time although we’d like to be the first. Still, a lot will be happening at 1811 Walnut over the next 3 months. And soon, Meers Marketing will have a new home.

Hold onto your hats! We’re off!