What I Did on My Summer Vacation (Part 1 in a Series of I Don't Know How Many Yet)

Some of this may be redundant, but some of it may be fresh. All of it tells of my experience in Iran visiting Mack's precious family this summer. If parts seem familiar, it might still be worth a re-read, since I can't help but add other snippets when I have unlimited minutes on the internet. Alas...

Originally Written June 16, Embellished July 25

Hello everyone! We've safely arrived in Iran, after roughly 48 hours of intense travel and lots of irritating sleep. On our flight from London to Iran on Iran Air we had the pleasure of sitting right next to the toilet, which, unbeknownst to us, happens to serve the purpose of a cafe car on a train. I swear they were having parties in those stalls that I wasn't invited to. And we had little Iranian boys behind us dancing around and singing "Wild, Wild West" while they kicked and bumped our chairs. I was relieved when we landed... until we got to be picked to go in the little room near the passport window. Everything ended up going fine for us and we made it into the country alright, but the fingerprinted guy next to us who was returning to Iran after 20 years didn't seem as lucky. I heard the guard guy say what I interpreted to mean police followed by an obvious quickening in the other man's breathing. The airport in Tehran was bizarre. Women have separate security entrances, but luckily Mack's uncle Hamid was there to point them out to me or else I would have walked right up to men's. I thought it was a joke. The headscarf wearing is going alright. It's ridiculously hot here, and to think you have to put on a jacket and wrap your head is enough to convince you just to stay home and do Sudoku puzzles. Shahin can't sit still though, so luckily we're being pushed to take some adventures. Today we went to Esfahan, which is about 20 minutes from where we live. It was stunning.

We went to the Bazaar e Bazorg and looked at the coppersmiths making pots and then walked through the Shah's palace and admired the tile work, the view and the paintings of other cultures in the world that Persians encountered before 1600 when the palace was built.



Across from the palace was the Imam Mosque, which has an enormous, echoy dome and some of the most beautiful blue tile work you can imagine. It was pretty incredible to imagine these places in their heyday in the 1500-1600s.



Makes me feel pretty stupid for thinking ours is the most advanced civilization. Sure, we've got cars and computers and air conditioning but when was the last time we laid individual tiles by hand to decorate an enormous dome or put a swimming pool on the top floor of a castle with our bare hands? The palace was pretty cool, I think because of the insulating rocks used in building it and the cross breezes it gets.

We also met a young Iranian guy who is biking across the country for peace. He had pictures of the places he was traveling to and from hanging in the palace and Shahin talked to him about his adventures.

He had these awesome pics of a city that they are excavating that had been buried by sand and dirt. An entire city buried! And they're digging it up! Imagine! We haven't had time to lose anything in our baby country.

After making the rounds at Imam Square we walked along the river and explored the amazing bridges in Esfahan. They're so cool. We stopped for tea in a shop underneath the bridge and watched the local men smoking hookahs. They used to let you walk all the way across the river under the bridge on these little pillars that stuck out of the water, but it was fenced off for some reason. That didn't stop the Iranians though. They kicked off their shoes and waded right on across, climbed over the shoddy barbed wire near the tea house and went on their merry way. So, you can walk under the bridge, on top of the bridge on the street, or through the covered sidewalk on the side of the bridge. At one of the bridges we watched some local fishermen cast nets out and try to catch fish, and at another one, I walked under it and looked to the other end only to see about 40 platforms from one end to the other covered with people in black headscarves. It reminded me of sea lions on a pier, but they were people. I wanted to get a photo so bad, but I felt guilty that they reminded me of animals so I didn't.

It's really different in Iran than in the US, better in some ways and not in others. The people here are really educated and very friendly, but there is serious unemployment and underemployment. People with masters and phd degrees who work as airport security or taxi drivers.

The driving is insane... yeah, that is a two-lane highway, but those lines are just guidelines. If there's an inch to move forward, you can drive into it. And crossing the street is like playing frogger with yourself as the frog. We sleep and eat on the floor. They lay out a big tablecloth and we all sit around it and eat. The food is incredible and we have tea time with fruit a couple times a day. Then at night we lay out thin futon-like mattresses in one of the three rooms with nothing in it but our luggage and some enormous Persian rugs and go to sleep. Some people sleep out in the courtyard since it's so cool at night. After lunch we take naps, so that's been really helpful in helping me dodge jetlag. I was thinking I'd have a tougher go at sleeping on the floor, but I'm actually sleeping better and harder than when I have a bed. Today is Friday so it's like our Sunday and no one works really. We're going to a park to meet the rest of the family and have dinner. Blankets and rugs spread out in the grass, huge pots of food for everyone to eat from.

Marzia, Shahin, Me, The Other Shahin

Donia, Mehdi and Laila Raided the Rosebushes at the Park

Mack's family has been so nice. His grandpa told me all the good and bad things -- khube and khube nist -- to visit in Iran and how other countries can be categorized. For the record, the US and Bush are khele khube (very good) and Tehran is khube nist (not good, but I think he was talking about it in terms of visiting). For a while I thought he was talking about India because he kept saying Inja, but then I learned that that means here and not India, so that really cleared things up. The language has been pretty limiting, but Shahin is a great guide... and affordable too! I keep trying to spend money and no one will let me. They negotiate with the sales person for me, but then they say, this is a birthday present, or a wedding present, or, like today I got a gift for mom and dad, and "that can be a gift from momma bazork and bobba bazork (Shahin's parents... that means Grandma and Grandpa) to your parents. A taxi is 40 cents for 5 people to ride into town, and gas is 32 cents per gallon. Did I mention the food is incredible? I'm having an incredible time and feel so lucky I get to visit here. Better go to dinner now. Love to everyone and you've got to see the pictures when I get home. The don't do the place justice, but they are beautiful!
XOXOXO,
amber

7 Down, 2 To Go

This is way overdue (we're almost at 8 months, but in my defense, the pic was actually taken almost on schedule). Baby Ben is taking over Little Leiah's body. Before we moved to Cali, he was kicking her spleen and living somewhere on top of her stomach. Lots of other interesting things are happening too, but sometimes those are best left among sisters... or at least women. He she is, and somehow she's still managing NOT to explode.

Homeless to Home Free

Well, we made it back to the States 21 days ago, lingered at my mom and dad's and leigh and nash's so we didn't have to feel too homeless, said our goodbyes, collected our betsy and seth and, after 48 non-stop hours of driving across this enormous country, made it to Los Angeles, and more specifically Santa Monica. Our apartment was a little boughaz when we first came in, but a couple cans of paint and some window boxes and one art hanging session later, it's home. It's hot in the afternoons everywhere but in our bedroom, where we have a window a/c, but I'm finding I like the layer of sweaty grime that acts as a cooling agent. It makes me feel like I've worked out when all I've done is folded clothes and it makes me go outside and take walks when I'd otherwise favor the cooler inside. Apparently Santa Monica has had some blackouts (we've been oblivious to those) and LA is in the midst of one of the worst heatwaves ever (global warming, anyone?... the hottest we've gotten is 85 with an ocean breeze, but it's like 120 in the valley... stupid valley). We've been having fun getting to know our alley weirdos -- we've got the alley mayor, who leaves notes about venus' incessant (never) barking (she really hasn't barked once since we got here, and i'm not just saying that to brag) on our door every night we're gone for more than two hours, and the alley trash patrol, who moves trash from different bins into others and tries to take trash out of people's cars and out from under their projects. Oddly enough, she doesn't do a thing about the decaying body smell coming from a couple of the bins, so every now and then we get a sample from the air coming through the window. One day when she's not looking I'm going to dump bleach into those bins and try to kill the smell at least a little. Mack watched her try to throw someone's hat away that was sitting inside their car, when she was caught red handed and stopped with, "We like to throw our own hats away, thanks." Now those are the neighbors we need to meet. In addition to claiming our territory, I've been applying for jobs, so if any of you get a call, remember, I'm exceptional to work with, dependable, capable, delightful, talented, highly motivated, incredibly organized, and, if you're feeling generous, inspiring. I've got tons of stuff to blog, including pics from our amazing trip, so, to make up for the homeless and internetless absence, you will be inundated with a blog a day until i run out of things to say. in the meantime, here's where i go in the evenings. you can come too.

The Lap of Luxury

I'm vacationed out. Hopefully everyone I've been emailing about my trip isn't, because when I get home the blog is getting some of the email stuff repeated, but it''ll still be good to look at because I'll have pictures. Yes, visual proof. Since it's not time to go home for two more days, I'm just going to think about it.

These are the things I miss the most, in no particular order.

My mom and dad and seeing my dad in his new recliner having problem-solving thoughts, my pregnant sister and feeling my nephew in the making kick and swim, hearing Mack play piano in our house, Venus wagging her tail until she collapses when we walk in the door, Miss Kitty's hairy paws, Liz checking out my trash pile when she comes to visit in case I threw out something she doesn't need but will still take, long, hot walks with Leigh at the Arboretum while Avo refuses to pick up the pace, riding my scooter, making jokes about how much Betsy and Seth sleep, waiting tables at the Ketch and watching the drunk regulars think they are on a boat and are some special breed of pirate, reading books in the hammock, farrmers markets, MTV's Real World marathons on Sundays, doing laundry, updating the blog, calling people whose numbers I only know beacause they are programmed in my cell phone, playing volleyball, getting hour-long voicemails from Jen that are entire conversations and calling her back to leave her one, El Toro and afternoon margaritas, going out for a beer and some really garlicy appetizer with Ruble, hot chips, my Silky, my hair-straightener, my laptop, looking for a job and an apartment in LA, being able to drive somewhere if I want to, baby showers, weddings, pool parties, trips to Atlanta, birthdays.

Things I don't miss...

Local news, national news, news in the local newspaper, the fear that they infuse the news with, fashion magazines, our absurd, scandalous government, hearing about marines raping women and then killing their families, the "war"on drugs, the "war"on terrorism, beautiful people who never need a day in their sweats, working at the Ketch and watching the drunk regulars think they are on a boat and are some special breed of pirate, not having a job or a place to live, moving and packing, traffic, the unending tempatation to eat, fat people at Wal-mart in wheelchairs, enormous and ridiculous SUVs, parking lots that are too big and treeless to navigate by foot, that there's no where to take a walk without waging war with an automobile, never seeing any animals except cats and dogs, not getting a paycheck, junk mail for me, Mack, Shannon, Charles, Niki and Kelly Whitt (the woman I bought my house from) overflowing from the mailbnox, mowing the yard in the oppressive Kentucky summer heat, not being able to walk down brick alleys and admire the view at every turn, the excessive brightness at gas stations, buyin gas, the shameful architecture we pride ourselves on, how cheap America looks when you return to it after seeing countries that take pride in their aesthetic, complaining about America all the time.

I can't wait to get home, wherever that might be when I get there.

The Mid-West Heads to the Mid-East

On Monday I leave for Iran. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. I've got basically 24 hours of flying to get there, and in packing I have had the extra challenge of remembering to put a headscarf and jacket in my carry-on luggage so I can leave the plane when we finally arrive. I've packed my kaopectate and toilet paper (they don't use tp over there... more of a water hose to wash your butt and then dripping dry), finagled my wardrobe to accommodate both Islamic dress requirements and Amsterdam dress requirements, bought the perfect travel bag so I can carry my camera without looking too much like a tourist, thumbed through my travel books enough to know I don't think I'll ever be able to read their writing, and listened to Pimsler's Farsi cds up to lesson five. I can now say, I am American (or I am not American, whichever the situation calls for), I don't understand, Thank you (both formally and informally), Excuse me, Yes and No. Mack's dad let me use his Rosetta Stone CD (which I keep thinking is called Rosetta Parks, but click here to know why that is so wrong), and I was able to guess which words meant car, yellow, red, white, blue, ball, woman, girl, boy, man, plane, young and old, but I can't remember how to say those words so I don't think they count. Anyway, I am going to try to blog while I'm there but am not sure if I'll be able to add photos, so you might just have to wait for those. Also, if I can't access the blog from there, which Mack thinks shouldn't be a problem, but just in case, I'm going to email my travelogues through my gmail address, like I did last year.

Thanks to everyone who's watching our furry friends while we're gone. And to anyone who's worried, please don't be. I'm blessed with common sense and a healthy sense of mortality, and even if something awful were to happen and I died, well, at least I'd die seeing something I've never seen before and doing something I've never done before. I can't believe I'm literally going to the other side of the world. It makes me want to cry I'm so lucky. Who knew 12 Mile, Indiana, would be the starting point for a life of so many adventures!

I Sewed Myself to Another Person

An artist friend of mine, who doubles as a professor at Transylvania, asked me last week to participate in a lashing video for a project he's working on. I thought lashing meant, well, whipping, but it turns out said artist friend, who we'll call Kurt Gohde, learned that lashing means going through or around something many times. At least that's what the boy scouts taught him.

Why me, I wondered.

I remember you having a lot of non-traditional piercings, he offered.

Turns out I'm more exciting in people's imaginations than in real life, but in an attempt to keep up appearances, I let him down with an upswing.

Well, actually, only my ears are pierced, but they are pierced all the way up them. Oh, and I'm related to a girl who had her tongue pierced and two of my sisters sported belly button rings. So, yeah, I'll help you out.

A quick call to Leiah to see if she was still hosting a gem on her budding belly led me to Matt's brother Mike. Matt is Leiah's baby daddy, and Mike is the smaller, younger, hippier version of Matt. (Mack, Matt, Mike... what are you trying to do to me people!) Turns out, Mike is also adventurously pierced, with a delightful hoop wrapping around the side of his bottom lip. He also has earrings, but since I had that covered, he offered up some lip. That's when things got really weird.

We used black fishing line, which kept reminding me of the thread they use for stitches, to sew my ear to his mouth, with a respectable distance between the two, mind you (I am an engaged woman now you know). The tip of the fishing line kept getting bendy, so at one point I threaded a needle and drove it through my ear. None of this was painful in the least since the holes were already there, but I have never felt something so weird as thread going through your body without pain. And then I have never felt so weird as being sewn to another human being, like we were in the very initial stages of become leather. And then I have never felt so afraid that my leather counterpart might sneeze and take my left ear right along with him. Fortunately Mike wasn't allergic to my fears and held it together for the entire shoot. We then cut ourselves apart and our bonding experience was over.

Never in my life did I think I would use my earring holes for something other than earrings. How delicious that they took on another role to create a piece of art, that in seeing them become distorted by the thread I realized how I am just another piece of material roaming this predictable little planet.

Kurt's exhibit goes up at the Lexington Art League in September and then at Transy in October. You should check it out. See more of Kurt's work here, here and here.

Six Down, Three to Go

Leiah did it again. She grew. This time her belly button is crying out for help and her body from the front looks like a boob tower. Nowhere but her belly and her boobs scream baby, but those two spots are yelling loud enough to leave you speechless. She didn't, for the record, outgrow the old bikini... it's just lost somewhere. We're not actually scientists, so it's okay if one of our controls is, well, not controlled.
It's been funny adjusting to Leiah being pregnant. In the last couple weeks I've noticed I've been weirdly protective of her stomach. Like today when we rode in the truck to get lunch I was nervous that the airbag was on. And I'm scared cars will hit us and I've got a baby on board. Or if people don't hold the door open for her, I get pissed at them. And she is not allowed to carry anything. I don't even like it when she walks around. It worries me and it looks like such a heavy thing to do. Her name also seems have shifted from Leiah to Pragnet, with occasional spurts of Momma.

Pragnet comes from the Hustonville Haunted House. One of the rules suggests that the following people skip the trip: those with heart conditions, those with a tendency for seizures and "pragnet women." Hee. I love a good spelling error.

Go West Young Woman

Good news. The house has an offer, a full price one with no contingencies, so we're packing up, giving Leiah power of attorney so she can close on the house sale in our absence, and leaving our house the day we head for Iran. I will officially be homeless, which is kind of depressing, and have no place to come home to, which is kind of exciting. Hopefully I can exploit Phil and Leigh's generosity so Venus won't have to be homeless just because I am. We leave for Iran in less than two weeks, which is hard to believe, but not quite as hard to believe that we've got to get all our crap out of here in that amount of time. Yard sale on Saturday for anyone needing home gear (lawn stuff, kitchen stuff, bathroom stuff, tons of stuff), so come on out and buy our crap. Thank God we got a truck last week... just in time. Sorry for the boring post, but I didn't want to pull a "Lisa" and go MIA for weeks at a time. Until inspiration strikes again...

That's A Wrap

My 28th birthday week can officially go down as the best ever. Against everyone's will but my own, I managed to stretch a birth day into an entire seven-day span, Sunday to Sunday, all in honor of aging. Mother's Day launched it, Leiah's baby shower capped it, every day in between was perfecto. After my excellent massage with Alli on Tuesday, I had my last-ever board meeting as president of the Lexington Art League on Wednesday. I've been volunteering with the LAL since Jen and I went to the Nude exhibit about six years ago and have been on the board for the last four years. I've made some incredible friends and accidentally acquired a phenomenal mentor at the LAL, but more than that, I've been blessed with feeling first-hand how art enhances life. If you haven't discovered the heightened existence that art can bring to your days on this planet, use the LAL as your portal -- www.lexingtonartleague.org.

On Thursday I spent the rainy day at work and then came home, crawled into bed and watched Amandla, a beautiful movie about how song helped stop the Apartheid in South Africa. I slipped into a rainy day nap and woke up to warm snuggles from a boyfriend I had been really mean to earlier in the day. Birthdays are great for milking forgiveness.

Finally Friday came, and that meant putting on some roller skates and seeing how much more vulnerable my bones had become in the last five years. I spent my 23rd birthday at the skating rink, when it was $2 to get in and $1 to rent skates. I guess since allowance is up to like $20 a week, the rink can raise its entry fee to $7 (skate rental is still $1, but brace yourself for the smelliest skates in the world). As Ruble so adequately observed, there are 12-year-olds with more sex appeal than I've ever had skating around that rink... girls making up skate dances and flittering by in glitter and sequins, boys with puffed up afros bouncing around the outer edge at 35 miles per hour. I didn't fall down this time, so I must be getting better with age. It probably didn't hurt that my skates were so cool even the sexy 12-year-olds jocked me. Loser babies.
Mai Thai was delicious as expected, and even though Liz, Mel and Paxon couldn't come to the dinner part, I got to have a great dinner with the rest of my skating posse -- Mack, Shannon, Charles, Jamie (some of you may know Jamie as Tracy Taylor from the Halloween party), Leigh, Phil, Jon and Ruble -- and Leiah and Allie met up with us. Ten good fortunes later, we split up, me and Mack, seeing as how we were carless, with Shannon and Charles to go to John Rose's birthday party. John and Charles have been buds since high school, and I've known John as the drummer for the Mecca belly dancers and through S&C's wedding. We had a great time drinking beer once Shannon got rid of the sour milk smell that emanated from some cream sauce on the coffee table. Teresa Tomb, one of Mecca's mothers, brought back an interesting liquor called Das Komet from the local liquor store, where the clerk actually said to her, "I could dance around you all night." The bottle was dusty, but the liquid was vanilla and smooth. The fun part was really in the name... saying Das Komet just forces you into a German accent that gets harder to shake the more Das Komet you have. Charles, ever responsible, carted the drunk wagon home, and I slept deep and good until Mack started pushing a vitamin on me at 8 a.m. to stave off any possible hangover... when the water ran out and he had to get a refill "cause it's my birthday week."

Saturday took me back to the Ketch to work, but it wasn't too bad. Shannon and Charles came in for bloody marys and Liz met up with them later. Once my patio section slowed down I sat with them, drinking Red Stripe and laughing at the rednecks on their wedding anniversary sitting at the next table over. It was a quiet laugh until after they left, when I went to clear their table and Shannon informed me that the woman had shoved four placemats up her shirt and stolen them. I guess she needed an anniversary gift, and the Ketch's stripy Big Lots placemats were what she really wanted. After work, I collected Mack from Marikka's, where he was wowing girls with his awesome new magic tricks, and played Taboo until Liz said she was tired and the rest of us finally admitted to it.

Sunday I slept in a little bit and then woke up to read the paper with Liz before getting ready for the shower. About 2:30, people that I love started coming over, by 3:15 I was laughing so hard I was crying, and by 6:30, it was like nothing ever happened. We had a co-ed shower, which got to be my dad's first-ever baby shower, and played some of my favorite shower games -- Guess the Poo, Who Sucks the Best and Feeding Frenzy.
Feeding Frenzy is lodged in my memory forever from Kate's baby shower, when Jeremy picked spinach-flavored baby food and had it fed to him by Jennifer. His face was priceless, but he was such a good sport. I was relieved when he got mango this time, but I think he still has a baby food curse. His food was gelatinous and came out in huge clumps, but he delivered yet another memorable performance. David and Lisa also gave a strong performance, but this time Heidi and Nick were the most fun to watch. Heidi made out with the apple blueberry baby food jar while Nick tried to spoon it into her mouth. Somehow between drinking it and having it shoveled in, Heidi managed to address the crowd to let them know "This stuff is good." That almost made me pee my pants.

Who Sucks the Best came down to a heated finish between Phil and Rachel. Rachel ended up winning, but only by about 1/2 a teaspoon. Basically it was a race to suck 5 oz. of juice from a baby bottle. This is an awful game to participate in, because all the sucking wears out your mouth and gives you a headache that shows up a couple hours later, but it is a great game to watch. Grown-ups acting like babies.
It was great to meet Matt's family and see some of Leiah and Matt's friends, and they made out with some loot. Thanks to everybody who came to the shower and to my birthday party. You made it more special than I hoped it would be. Now, just 298 days until my 29th birthday week!!

The Endorsement Series: Part 3 in however many merit it

Allison "Alli" Reschke, one of Leiah's best friends who I have known since Leiah and she were 12 or 13, has always been sweeter than honey, even when she is puking peppermint schnapps on the back deck or letting me douse her with fake blood to complete her Carrie costume for Halloween. See, Alli shows us up at Thanksgiving by bringing our Mom flowers. She brightens our Christmas by popping over with some thoughtful gift. And on birthdays, she tries to give us free massages, even though her massages are already cheap and even though we go out of town when it's her birthday.

Alli has been through some of the most insane and unfair reality god has bestowed upon one human and that she still lights up a room with her smile is all the more incredible considering what she has endured. Alli has been there for Leiah through everything - through her move to Louisville from Lexington, from Louisville to Lexington, through college, and college, and college, through boyfriend, and boyfriend, and boyfriend, and through baby time. Where other friends have ebbed and flowed, Alli has been steady and strong and supportive. And our family has come to love her and claim her as one of our own.

Today I personally experienced the Alli touch. I needed to get these old stress wads out of my back and neck, so I called the masseuse I adore for other reasons... Ms. Alli. I'd never had more than a sampling of her magic touch before today. She fit me in in no time, rubbed out all the ouches, and left me feeling like I had a new back. It feels like a single unit now, whereas before it felt like a neck, shoulders, upper back, bra-strap back, lower back and side back. Each part had its own complaints, but now they are singing in harmony.

And at $40 an hour, she adds "most affordable" to her title of Best Masseuse in Lexington. Go, see her, be touched by her, claim her as your own.

(Alli can be found at Southland Medical Center, at 137 Cherrybark off of Southland. Her number is 539-6155. She is not one of those weird, "I'm gonna touch you all over," "That hurts but I'm embarassed to tell her" masseuses either. She does just what you want, just hard enough to work.)

Birthday Week Begins

The World's Greatest Mom, with her Little bodyguard

What better way to celebrate your birth than to wrap it up in Mother's Day. Well, since I'm pretty close to perfect, I got to start my birthday week the perfect way. Not only did I get my mom, but I got my dad, my Betsy, my Leiah, my Shannon, my Charles, my Mack, my mostly-mother-in-law, my mostly-father-in-law, my mostly-new-little-sister-in-law and my still-in-the-belly nephew Ben all under one roof for strawberry cake and presents.The Littlest Sisters

Leiah's First Mother's Day

The Whole Fam Damily, the Originals

The Original Male and His Imposters Clamor for Power

It was one of the best days of my almost-28-year-old life, made even better today, when, after acting like Cinderella all day and scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees until I got blisters on my knees (which I didn't realize until many hours after I was finished with said scrubbing), Leigh came over with a brown sequined scarf and some gold Chinese Laundry heels as my birthday present (okay, she then proceeded to help me wear them so I wouldn't look completely dorky, which was the best gift). Then, I got to go for pizza, specialty Guiness drinks and bowling with two of my favorite people to hang with. I missed volleyball, which I didn't realize until many hours after its scheduled time, but I had a fabulous birthday week Monday nonetheless. I even got two strikes in the tenth frame for a bonus bowl.

My Patented "White-Girl-Arms-in-the-Air-Excited" Dance

And to think, tomorrow I've got a massage at 1pm with Allie to work the knots out of my neck and back. At this rate, by my skate party on Friday I should be positively floating. Life is good.

Boy Oh Boy

I called my friend Heather last Monday to see how her belly was feeling. She was due to have her second son, Cole Henderson Wall, any day now, and I had a couple of meetings and didn't want to miss the call if she suddenly went into labor. She was ready to be done being pregnant, but assured me that I had a couple of hours to live a normal life. I had plans to be with Heather for this birth, mainly because she's a fellow photography worshipper and wanted to capture some of the special moments associated with having a baby. My mom promised me it would change my life, and as usual, Mom was right.

Relying on what must have been some subconscious awareness I brought my cell phone to bed with me Monday night. I read a little of Us Weekly and finally went to sleep around 1 a.m. A few minutes later, say 120 of them, I got a call from Heather Cell. It must be time.

In my surprisingly alert 3 a.m. state, I packed a bag, grabbed my camera, and drove to Louisville. The drive was pretty uneventful until I got to the Jefferson County line and the heavens decided to open up and show off the lightning and thunder they'd been brewing. I arrived at the hospital at 5:10 a.m. and walked into a labor and delivery room to find my best friend of 18 years gritting her teeth and contorting her body trying to get comfortable. She was three centimeters dialated and, between contractions, was as lucid as a person can be expected to be at 5:15 a.m. Just don't touch her.
She breathed and squirmed and told her mom to tell the nurses to get her something for the pain. They said she couldn't have her epideral since she wasn't far enough along so she settled on chewing ice and smelling alcohol swabs to control her nausea. I tried to make her comfortable or make her laugh, but she was somewhere else. Something was taking over her body, distracting her mind from realities outside of herself. The nurses gave John, her husband, an ID bracelet, and he casually watched television and made some phone calls. Her mom came back in the room, and Heather scooted up the bed. "My water just broke."

Are you sure? her mom asked. She left to tell the nurse, who brought in a strip of green paper that reminded me of the litmus paper from 9th grade science and dipped it into what I have come to call a puppy pad, which Heather sat on. The color changed in confirmation, and when the nurse said a little too softly for comfort, "You're really moving. You're at seven," the entire atmosphere of the room changed.

Seconds turned into hours, heartrates increased both in and out of the womb, and breathing became the most important thing in the room. When the nurse said, in that too soft and too calm tone that make nurses professionals, that Heather might not get an epideral, the room hushed. What are you talking about, no epideral? No way. That is not how this was supposed to go. She's not ready for a natural birth. I'm not ready for a natural birth.
The nurses called for the doctor and started setting up the room to receive Cole. Two tables and several pairs of clamps found a place in the room. Heather breathed and twisted her face into expressions of pain that I had never seen before. I wanted to reach in and take some of her pain from her. John was scared at how fast it was all moving and began to sob in a way not ever expected from a man as tall as he is. He rubbed her head and heaved his body up and down. Her mom moved in and held her hand, reminding her to breathe, trying to bring John back to her. Prayers, pleas, groans and fear came from Heather's mouth. She said she couldn't do this, but at that point she had no choice. Her body was just a tool that nature was using to further its own agenda. She almost cried when she said, "It burns so bad," and then whispered to God to get her through this.

I was stunned. John was sobbing. Jan was coaxing. Heather was breathing and had retreated to someplace deep inside herself that the rest of us couldn't even imagine. I think it's where you go if you're ever assaulted or shot or kidnapped or in a car accident or have a really violent parent, that place where your body keeps you from fully understanding what is happening to you. Just then, something screamed.
Cole was bloody and small with blue hands and feet. He kicked his legs and splayed out his fingers. His nose and eyes and lips were too big for his tiny face. He was like a raging loaf of bread. His cries expanded his little chest and puffs of air came out with them. John cut the cord, and the baby was placed on his mommy's chest. Heather, who is one of the most modest people I know except when it comes to gas, sat accessible and courageous in the bed, color rushing back to her face as quickly as it dripped from her body. Cole blinked his milky blue eyes and the nurses cleaned him up, took his footprints, and gave him the Wall family ID bracelet. His six-pound body was the most active it will be for the next two months in its first two hours.
I still can't imagine what it is like for him. Leaving the warm fluid world inside his mother's body and coming into ours, rotten with gravity and changing temperatures and oxygen. How does he know to breathe? How can he transition from an aquatic environment to an atmospheric one without any knowledge? How amazing is his little body? How amazing is his mother's that it was able to grow him?
Seeing Cole come to life changed mine. It wasn't beautiful or romantic or meaningful in the way they want you to think it is. It was rugged, awful, scary, thrilling and dangerous. It was a miracle -- that people can survive the process is a miracle, that people repeatedly go through childbirth is a miracle, that children never fully have to understand what their mothers went through to bring them into this world is a miracle.
Thank you for sharing this part of motherhood with me, Heather and John. And thank you, Mom, for keeping it from me.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

It Turns Out I'm a Major Nerd

Shannon said to me once, "Maybe I'm not as attractive as I think I am." She wasn't saying it as in, "My god I think I am so incredibly fantastically beautiful and people should know this," but more like, "Jesus, I might be worse off than I thought. How mortifying that I've been walking around thinking I'm a 7 and here I am a 4." That is how I feel after making a video for a travel show casting call.

Maybe I'm even more of a nerd than I thought I was.

I've never really meshed with the total dorks, well, because I liked to party and was able to make conversation. And I never really meshed with the cool kids, well, because I find them annoying and I didn't understand hair and makeup until a year ago. I happily existed in the not-quite-a-dork-not-all-the-way-cool realm for my entire life. It let me merge with losers and winners, the pretties and the uglies, the smart and the dumb. I always thought I was a good, strong, unmoveable 5. I was great with that. Until this video thing.

I've always hated my voice on video, mainly because I sound like a man trying to be a woman or a woman in a transgender pre-op state. I growl and squeal at the same time, and it's just not natural. I've always hated the way I look on video because I have a big ass. Usually I can keep my dorkiness from being the only thing that comes across by having gigantic expressions or licking the lens. For this video, no such tricks could be enacted. And now, I'm left with a greater self-awareness, this time not for the better.

See, Mack and I are applying, most likely fruitlessly, for a show on the travel channel based on the book 1,000 Things to See Before You Die. I lack the video creativity that Phil has and Mack lacks the patience that I have, so together we made the most embarassing video ever created. No, it's not funny. It's not endearing. It's just bad. And we are nerds.

We are majorly nerds. I talk out of the side of a curled up mouth like I just had a stroke. He gets an Al Bundy persona on film. I become some sort of perky cheerleader optimist. He unsuccessfully channels James Dean. The end result is obvious to me, so to all of my friends and family who spend time with me, sorry and thank you and what's wrong with you?

Hopefully this video will stay under wraps at the Travel Channel. In the meantime, I'm sticking with still photography. It captures our nerdiness in a much more flattering light.

7-Day Warning (with a Bonus 3-Day Window)!!!

Dear Beloved Friends and Family,

Just seven days from today I will be celebrating the successful completion of 27 years on this planet and welcoming the 28th year of my existence. To celebrate my continued mobility and because it's just about the most fun thing to do ever, I am having a roller skating party followed by a Thai dinner on Friday, May 19. Plan to join me at Champs on Palumbo at 7pm, roll around a bit, and then head to Mai Thai on Limestone at 9pm for some yummy Thai food, which is very good if you haven't ever tried it. Originally we had planned to skate on my actual birthday, but since Lexington is worthless, the rink is only open from 1-4pm on my actual birthday, and that just doesn't work with my lifestyle or with the lifestyles of my amigos with real jobs. So, there you have it. Friday, May 19, 7pm. Kids can come too, and maybe, just maybe, if I'm really sweet and dress like Princess Leia, Jonah will do a couple skate with me!

And, that same weekend, on Sunday from 3-5 at my house, Leiah's baby shower!! Don't forget! Hope to see you all at both fun things! I LOVE MAY!

Love,
Amber

I Made Chokes! (Well, not me exactly...)

Last week, inspired by a warm afternoon and a long walk, I decided to have a little cookout. I called my peeps, Leigh and Ruble, to see if they were hungry and scanned my tastebuds to see what might satisfy my charcoal cravings. In popped the Carribean Chicken with Avocado Relish that we made last year at my mom's Bon Voyage/Mother's Day party. It was just what I wanted, so after our workout, me and Leigh and Ruble headed to Kroger to load up on some groceries. I'm all for new food experiences, but sadly, my cooking knowledge base is restricted to what's in the cookbooks my mom gives me or the old standby Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook that I have lost somewhere along the line. So when Leigh, the mistress of the kitchen, suggested we make an artichoke, I was all for it. Well, all for watching her do it.

A pot of water set to boil was flavored with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette, as best as I could see, and a spikey, weird artichoke was placed on top in its grated bowl to steam for 45 minutes. It came out looking more sage green than avocade green, but it still was a mystery to me. How do you get to the goodness that is the artichoke? Leigh whipped up a creamy dressing from mayo and worchesteshire sauce and did a little demo for us. Take a "leaf" from the outside edges, dip the bottom half in the dressing (you could also use melted butter) and then scrape it into your mouth using your teeth. It's weird at first, but it's how I've been eating bananas for a few years now, so I warmed up to the teeth scrape pretty quickly.
We ate around the core until a weird last layer was left, sitting in a wad on top of a round base.
Leigh pulled it up and offered it to me. It was just like the leaves I'd eaten before, hearty like a meat but still vegetablish, except this was a lot less work for a lot more reward. Underneath this wad was a prickly little sheild, something that I would have thought meant the end of the artichoke if it were just me.
But I would have missed out on the heart... The heart is the richest, thickest, heartiest part of the artichoke and is just beneath the prickle. It's worth the effort, and is even better when you've got three pals on a warm spring evening helping you seek it out.
Here's the delicious, fresh Carribean Chicken w/ Avocado Relish in case you're inspired to cook out (and maybe if you ask really nicely, Leigh will give more extensive tips for the artichoke):

Caribbean Chicken With Avocado Relish

Ingredients:

3-1/2 pounds boneless -- skinless chicken
breasts - split and trimmed
(12 small pieces or 6 large pieces)
-----marinade-----
3 medium clo garlic
3 medium oranges
1 cup peanut oil
1 can chipotle peppers in -- (7oz)
adobo sauce
1 cup loosely packed cilantro
leaves
-----avocado relish-----
1 large tomato concasee
2 medium avocados; peeled and pitted
cut into 1/4" dice
1/2 small lime
1/2 small orange
1 small onion - minced
1 small cl garlic - minced
3 medium scallions - thinly sliced
1 small jalapeno chile - seeded and
minced
2 tablespoon minced cilantro
1/8 teaspoon hot red-pepper sauce
1/8 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
salt & freshly ground black
pepper to taste
3 small plantains or bananas
2 tablespoon vegetable oil

Instructions:

For the marinade: peel the garlic and put in processor work bow l fitted with metal blade; squeeze in 1 cup orange juice and remaining marinade ingredients; process until pureed; transfer to a non-reactive bowl; rinse chicken, pat dry and add to marinade insuring chicken is covered completely; cover and refrigerate 12 hours or up to 2 days. (I'm never prepare long enough in advance to fully marinade the chicken and it's still delicious... I usually marinade for 45 minutes to an hour)

For the relish: put tomato and avocado in medium bowl; squeeze in 1 tbsp lime and 2 tbsp orange juice; add remaining ingredients; mix well and set aside. (May be covered and refrigerated up to 2 hours). (I never buy plantains, but instead use banana in the relish. You can also use bananas or omit them below. If you don't like something, leave it out. I usually use 1/4 the amount of onions.)

Remove breasts from marinade and let drain; grill turning once during cooking until juices run clear when chicken is pierced with a skewer, about 6 minutes. Peel plantains and halve lengthwise; oil lightly and grill, turning once, until marked by grill surface, about 2 minutes. Transfer 2 pieces of chicken and 1/2 plantain to serving plate; spoon 1/4 cup relish along side chicken. Serve immediately.

Five Down, Four To Go

Leiah has turned the corner on the half way point of her preggers session. We found out last week she's having a baby boy, to be named Benjamin Ace Messer (BAM!), but the poll is still going from the previous post if you want to make a guess as to birthday and dimensions (weight, length, etc). Congrats to Leiah and Matt!

We'll be having a shower for them on May 21, Sunday, from 3-5 pm, so plan on being there. It's a party for boys and girls, and everyone will be expected to fight for prizes by competing in exciting baby contests. Jeremy, start growing that affinity for spinach that you had at Kate's shower! Look for your invites in the mail this week. In the meantime, here's the progress update and the first glimpse of the thing that makes Ben a boy (the last on the right) as well as his hands and feet and manly little profile.
Which reminds me of the totally parasitic question mom posed to Leiah after her last visit: "Do you realize you've got ten toes inside your body? And ten fingers? And a penis?!" In effect, Leiah has a penis right now. That's just gross. And weird. Good one, Mom.

They're BAAAACK... almost

The love birds flew south for the winter, and are now on the grey isle of England, soon to be hopping the ocean to springtime Kentucky. Charles sent us this pictures to tempt us, and since they're beautiful -- both the pictures and the people in them that I love -- I wanted to share. Shan and Chaz get home in 6 days!!! I have not seen their faces in eight months, have only heard her voice once in that time, and have happened to catch her on Google chat twice since she left. Finally, that space in my heart will get filled again!

What a Long, Strange Week It's Been

I guess in honor of the full moon's shift to a half moon, this week has decided to be one of the strangest in my life. Not bad strange, just weird, kind of how every week of Shannon's life is. First, it's the incredible, intense, inspiring Women Writers Conference weekend, so since Thursday I've been nurturing the words in my brain and trying to coax them out in some way that leaves them with the meaning that they had in my head. Trouble is, well, there's not much time for it. Good news is that I've got lists of blog topics, so stay tuned as I detox from inspired to mundane.

On to the real action. As some of you know, my house at 411 Picadome Park is a couple of stone's throws from Bob-O-Link, which, as some of you know, is where at some point or another Leiah, Amy, Phil, Elizabeth, Justin, Phil and Tracy (unofficially) lived with me and David, the original dwellers. Dave stayed til the end, and when I moved out, Venus and I took a few walks over to the old homestead for some visits. Venus loves David, probably more than she loves me, but I will never fully accept or believe that, even though it's probably true. When we all lived together, she slept in his bed. When she got in trouble, she'd go to his room to sulk. I think she thinks they are married (sorry Lisa!), which is why, one afternoon when Phil called to let me know Venus had stopped by unannounced for a visit, I was suprised but not in disbelief. We'd made that walk together sooo many times before, since I walked in the neighborhood I live in now even when I lived at the Link. That stretch was a beaten path for me and my canine companion, and that she felt competent to do it on her own on that one occasion really made me proud. See, to get to Bob-O-Link, you only have to cross neighborhood streets and negotiate Lafayette High School's grounds. No immenent threats there, unless you count the teenagers.

The other day, after frantically driving to Frankfort to apply for a temporary liquor license it turns out I didn't need to get and wondering why I know Kentucky has Unbridled Spirit at the expense of having street signs near government buildings, I came home and felt that weird, scary, vacant feeling that comes when Venus doesn't run up to me when I pull in. Where did she go?

I rode the bike around the block to see if I could find her. Nothing. Hopped in the car and drove over to Bob-O-Link to see if she'd braved that journey again. Nothing. At this point it was time for work, and Mack had asked 25 times, "Do you think she went to Dave's?" and I had answered, "She wouldn't go there. She doesn't know where it is," I decided to swing by just in case. We've only walked to Dave's house once, we've only driven there four times, and she's only stayed with him on a couple of occasions for no more than two days. There was no way she would know how to get there, how to safely cross both Rosemont Garden and Clays Mill, how to figure out which house was Dave and Lisa's.

Imagine my surprise as she ran up to my scooter to greet me then.

I was so excited to see her stupid, bad face that is too smart for my own good that I forgot about the tears I'd shed earlier while on the phone with the Humane Society. I put her in the back yard at Dave's and went to get the car to bring her home (I was on my scooter, see). By the time Mack and I got back, David was home, understandably confused to see Venus in his backyard. I explained the situation, which he still probably doesn't believe, and on our way to the car he says, "I get off around 5, Venus."

Venus and Her Lover, Reunited at Long Last, if Only for the Afternoon

Venus heads home as I go to work, where the weird Ketch people contributed to the weirdness of the week in their special way, and when I got home I noticed the moped we have for some stupid reason which recently sold on ebay wasn't in the carport. "Hey," I say to Mack as I come in the door. "Where's the moped?"

"It's not out there?"

After some speculation we had several scenarios of possibilities, but nothing that left us feeling vindicated. Mack wanted to show me the car Bubba had just bought at the auction, a golden 4-door Ford Escort all clean and posh inside, for $1800. (ASIDE: If you need a car, set your ego and class aside and go to the KASP auction. They're cheaper there than anywhere else, and the auction experience is worth a blog itself. I mean, they sell nachos at the auction, it's such a big event!) We hopped in the car and set off around the block, where, about half way up the hill, we spotted our abandoned moped laying on its side, unharmed and still a piece of crap. This newfound evidence led us to believe that either our theives were lazy and got tired of pushing the scooter up the hill or reconsiderate and realized they wouldn't be able to ride it around the neighborhood without us spotting them. Whatever the reason, we got the stupid moped back and are again waiting for the ebay winner to claim his prize.

So the next day...

Dave calls me around 6, while I'm in the midst of the Dinner & A Movie event with the WWC, to ask if I'm missing anything. I didn't know, so I called Mack, who couldn't locate the dog. She did it again, this time in the pouring rain! Dave let her spend the night and I picked her up the next day. Hopefully she's had her refill of Dave and will stick around for a while. If not, Lisa, I'm afraid you might have some smelly, biting, angelic competition on your hands.

Ice, Ice Baby

He asked.
I said yes.

And so begins
happily ever after.





Boo. Ya. Ka. Sha. Respek.
Seriously, the ring is a little too pretty for my manly hands, but I guess I'll wear it if I have to.

Something I Discovered

This was the quote of the day courtesy of google's personalized home page. I loved it. Realize it.

Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.
- WH Auden

Heroes & Sickos

Just finished watching a documentary called Sick about S&M expert Robert Flanagan, who also suffered from cystic fibrosis , and would like to officially proclaim him a hero. Yes, the film is disgusting and painful, both watching him suffer through every breath and watching him hammer a nail through his penis, but his courage and his strength is one of the most inspiring things I've watched since beginning my subscription to Netflix. Flanagan and his partner-in-crime Sheree Rose shied away from nothing ugly and left a picture of raw human, flesh and bone made beautiful through its honesty and realism. Before he died in 1997, at the ripe old, record-breaking age of 43 (most CF sufferers die before their 20s, and two of his sisters died from the disease -- one as an infant, one at the age of 21), he kept a pain journal, which you can read here, and exhibited several performance pieces from New York to Los Angeles. In the documentary he talks about an exhibit he wanted to do post-humously called The Viewing, where a video camera would be placed in the coffin with him and subscribers/collectors could subscribe and watch his evolution beyond death. I don't think this happened, and although I think it's cryptic and sad and somewhat mocking that he would do that, I can't help but admire his bravery at showing even the most disgusting parts of his life/death in real time and without any fancy make-up or lighting tricks. Bob Flanagan, self-proclaimed SuperMasochist. Just goes to show you never know where you'll find a hero.

This is the poem that wraps up the documentary. It's difficult, brutal, pure and bare. I loved it.

"Why"

by Bob Flanagan

Because it feels good;
because it gives me an erection;
because it makes me come;
because I'm sick;
because there was so much sickness;
because I say FUCK THE SICKNESS;
because I like the attention;
because I was alone a lot;
because I was different;
because kids beat me up on the way to school;
because I was humiliated by nuns;
because of Christ and the Crucifixion;
because of Porky Pig in bondage, force-fed by some sinister creep in a black cape;
because of stories of children hung by their wrists,
burned on the stove, scalded in tubs;
because of Mutiny on the Bounty;
because of cowboys and Indians;
because of Houdini;
because of my cousin Cliff;
because of the forts we built and the things we did inside them;
because of what's inside me;
because of my genes;
because of my parents;
because of doctors and nurses;
because they tied me to the crib so I wouldn't hurt myself;
because I had time to think;
because I had time to hold my penis;
because I had awful stomachaches and holding my penis made it feel better;
because I felt like I was going to die;
because it makes me feel invincible;
because it makes me feel triumphant;
because I'm a Catholic;
because I still love Lent, and I still love my penis, and in spite of it all I have no guilt;
because my parents said BE WHAT YOU WANT TO BE, and this is what I want to be;
because I'm nothing but a big baby and I want to stay that way, and I want a mommy forever, even a mean one, especially a mean one;
because of all the fairy tale witches, and the wicked stepmother, and the stepsisters, and how sexy Cinderella was, smudged with soot, doomed to a life of servitude;
because of Hansel, locked in the witch's cage until he was fat enough to eat;
because of "O" and how desperately I wanted to be her;
because of my dreams;
because of the games we played;
because I've got an active imagination;
because my mother bought me Tinker Toys;
because hardware stores give me hard-ons;
because of hammers, nails, clothespins, wood, padlocks, pullies, eyebolts, thumbtacks, staple-guns, sewing needles, wooden spoons, fishing tackle, chains, metal rulers, rubber tubing, spatulas, rope, twine, C-clamps, S-hooks, razor blades, scissors, tweezers, knives, pushpins, two-by-fours, Ping-Pong paddles, alligator clips, duct tape, broomsticks, barbecue skewers, bungie cords, sawhorses, soldering irons;
because of tool sheds;
because of garages;
because of basements;
because of dungeons;
because of The Pit and the Pendulum;
because of the Tower of London;
because of the Inquisition;
because of the rack;
because of the cross;
because of the Addams Family playroom;
because of Morticia Addams and her black dress with its octopus legs;
because of motherhood;
because of Amazons;
because of the Goddess;
because of the moon;
because it's in my nature;
because it's against nature;
because it's nasty;
because it's fun;
because it flies in the face of all that's normal (whatever that is);
because I'm not normal;
because I used to think that I was part of some vast experiment and that there was this implant in my penis that made me do these things and that allowed THEM (whoever THEY were) to monitor my activities;
because I had to take my clothes off and lie inside this plastic bag so the doctors could collect my sweat;
because once upon a time I had such a high fever that my parents had to strip me naked and wrap me in wet sheets to stop the convulsions;
because my parents loved me even more when I was suffering;
because surrender is sweet;
because I was born into a world of suffering;
because I'm attracted to it;
because I'm addicted to it;
because endorphins in the brain are like a natural kind of heroin;
because I learned to take my medicine;
because I was a big boy for taking it;
because I can take it like a man;
because, as somebody once said, HE'S GOT MORE BALLS THAN I DO;
because it is an act of courage;
because it does take guts;
because I'm proud of it;
because I can't climb mountains;
because I'm terrible at sports;
because NO PAIN, NO GAIN;
because SPARE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD;
because YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE.

photos by Sheree Rose

A Learning Journey

Took a journey down the Bluegrass Parkway, which I hereby rename Most Boring Stretch of Highway on the Planet, on Tuesday. Mack had a HIS 109 exam and I wanted to come along so I could give his history teacher, Ms. Plummer, a piece of my mind. The class is a whopping three credit hours, and she releases hour-long lectures about 20 times a week. Then she has required reading. Then she has required discussion boards. Someone needs to remind this woman that it's HIS 109, that it's offered over the internet, and that the information contained therein does not need to be so specific as to trace the lineage of every Roman emperor, especially if they attained that status by being the fastest runner. The thing is, I'm not in Ms. Plummer's class, but because Mack is, I, by default of us living together, have to listen to her monotone drone word vomit academia swollen head babble without end, and frankly, I want to kill her. Well, maybe not kill her, but a serious curling iron accident or toenail loss might even the score.

Turns out Ms. Plummer was in Germany reading dusty old books, as Mack likes to say, this semester, so I used my campus journey to learn a couple new things.

1) No college campus is immune to the short, yellow Oxford donning, Jesus-freak sidewalk preacher with bumper stickers stuck on his briefcase that applaud abstinence without acknowledging human nature, regardless of the college's geography.

2) Jesus-freaks will never learn.

3) There are no fewer than 18 semi trucks per mile on the interstate anymore (I took several random samples).

4) Americans need, desperately, to resurrect the train.

A tad bit of explanation. The Jesus-freak was surrounded by so many people, about half of them black and a third of them with cameras, that I actually thought I had walked up to a real live battle, the kind Eminem does in 8 Mile. Not so. The group started to disperse right after we walked up, and then we were in the middle of all these cameras. That's when we spotted the briefcase and its attached weirdo.

The train/semi lesson came from this:
and this:
and this:
and this: While I was driving home from Louisville one night, I called Eli only to have my cellular reception interrupted by the semi I was passing. A few select words and a compressed gas pedal on mom's Celica convertible later, and that over-sized truck was a thing of the past... until I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the headlights make a 90-degree, counterclockwise turn toward the lane I was just in, saw a billow of smoke rise up behind it, and watched, horrified and feeling grateful, as the semi skid on its side in my direction. I never slowed down, and with my newfound reception, called 911 and hoped that the cars behind the trucker were able to stop in time. If we had trains, I'd have been on it reading a book and sipping a glass of wine, that cargo would have been on it getting transported safely and efficiently, and that driver would have been getting the rest he obviously needed instead of living what had to be a nightmare.