A Rat in a Cage

It's just a matter of time before I gnaw off a limb.

Sorting through my stuff, I came across my passport.  Just touching it made me smile.  I thought about the places I’ve been:  Paris, Rome, Cardiff, St. John’s, and the places I could go: St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Marrakech.  Drunk with wanderlust, I opened my passport and was yanked into a vortex.  The universe, the borders, the walls closed in on me.

My passport had expired.

I couldn’t breathe.  My heart raced and I started to have a panic attack.  I was trapped, trapped in a 3.79 million square mile cage.

Unbelievable!

How could this have happened?  Why didn’t I know?  This is a catastrophe of epic proportions!

It’s not that my work requires me to travel or that I’m a jet setter, but having a valid passport is that last step to complete freedom.  The first step is learning to run, usually willy-nilly with parents chasing behind.  Next, there’s getting that first bike, where the neighborhood suddenly expands with speed and wind.   And then a driver’s license and an actual car with a full tank of gas.  Pedal to the metal and go!  A passport is the ultimate.  It’s access to the final frontier, across oceans and borders, wherever that may be.  There’s something thrilling about knowing that, given the opportunity, I could go pretty much anywhere in the world.    

But not now. 

Now, I’m stuck.  If Colin Firth showed up at my door and said, “Forget my gorgeous italiana wife, I want to run away with you, my chubby delusional hapa.  I know the perfect spot just north of Reykjavik (hey, it’s my fantasy) where we could raise beautiful Icelandic ponies together” or conversely, if my husband had a business trip and invited me along, I couldn’t go.  I’d be making a sad face through the window as I waved good-bye.

Of course, I’m getting my passport renewed.  It’s easier now with the forms online.  I’ll have to get a new official photo, which is always interesting.  I firmly believe that passport photographers consider moving to the DMV a promotion.  I don’t think I’ve seen any smiling passport pictures, which is strange.  Most people are happy when they travel.  Maybe not so much when they arrive after a long journey.  Nor when customs pulls you aside and a big burly bald guy pulls you into another room and asks you to sit down while he glowers and asks questions in what sounds like French, but not really.  Then you actually do look like the picture.  On the other hand, over ten years there’s been some fashion changes. Looking at the old picture, the hair’s not completely awful, but the lace vest is a little questionable.  And then there’s the wrinkles, grey, and pudge that I’ve acquired since then.

Free Flat Cranky!  Print, cut her out,
 and take her along on your travels! 

Meanwhile, I’ve come up with an idea that I saw in a children’s book, Flat Stanley.  I’ve created Flat Cranky.  I’ve included a copy for your own perusal.  Simply cut it out and take it with you on your trips and then, include it in your photographs of famous landmarks and send them back to me.  It’ll almost be like me actually being there, kind of like going to the Paris or the Venetian hotels in Vegas rather than the actual cities in Europe.  But for now, it’s all I’ve got.

Oh, and while you’re taking pictures of Flat Cranky, feel free to include Flat Colin Firth. That’d be o.k., especially if you’re somewhere north of Reykjavik with some Icelandic ponies.  Hey, Flat Cranky has dreams, too.

Coming up Roses

And good riddance!

At 5 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, I jolted awake and made a mad dash to the bathroom. 

“Not today,” I groaned. 

Not that any day is a good day for a urinary tract infection.  The extreme discomfort of a UTI is immediately identifiable, with the obvious burning in the “nether regions,” and an electrifying, strangely metallic pain that glides simultaneously up from my finger and toes to my arms and legs.  Then there’s the urge to go again and again and again when I’ve just gone.

“Awwww, maaaaaaaan ….” I slammed my head against the wall.

I drank all the water in my glass upstairs, then went downstairs to fill another monster-sized cup and drank as much of that as I could handle.  I refilled it and took it back upstairs with me, already thinking of any larger containers I might have stowed away some place.  I emptied out again, and sat for a while with my head against the wall.  I picture the pain chart with the smiley faces and not so smiley faces and try to think where my expression falls.  Is a 10 the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, or the worst pain I can imagine?  I put a nail through my foot once, and that didn’t really hurt, but then when I used to get stuff caught under my hard contact lenses, that was pretty unpleasant, and a UTI is pretty close to that, but not like being burned alive.  And then there’s different kinds of pain, so how does that figure?  I crawl back into bed.

I’m very familiar with UTIs.  It’s an unfortunate circumstance that with each infection it becomes almost exponentially more likely to get another infection.  To make matters more complicated, I’m allergic to penicillin and over several UTI bouts, I’ve become allergic to sulfa as well, taking the two most common antibiotics off my list of solutions. However, I’ve discovered that drinking copious amounts of water and sugar free cranberry juice can clear up a UTI, verified by the swabs taken once I’ve seen the doctor.  So, that’s the route I’ve adopted, saving my $25 deductible and telling myself I’m also preventing the rise of super-bacteria.  Then again, if the current infection doesn’t run its course in 24 hours, because it’s the beginning of a three day holiday, I’ll have to wait two more days before I can even call my doctor, let alone get an appointment.

Drink, drink, drink.

At 8 am I forced myself into the planned routine, feeding the dogs, hoping that if I pretended all was normal, it would be.  It was New Year’s Eve, dammit.  I have a house to clean.  I can’t start the New Year in a dirty house.  And then I’ve got dinner to make.  My husband was running errands to prepare for his New Year honey-dos.

I gave it the old college try, cycling among cleaning, chugging water, and running to the bathroom.  My legs and fingers swelled.  I felt woozy.  I couldn’t do it. I crapped, or rather peed out.  Water drunk, at 3 pm, I popped a couple aspirin, guzzled a half gallon of water, and literally threw in the (dusting) towel.  I changed into my pity party pjs and crawled into bed, doubling up the comforters, a dog curled up at my side and my feet, the t.v. mumbling in the background.

I don’t think it would have bothered me as much if it were another holiday.  My husband and I go out for our birthdays on the weekend.  We do Valentine’s dinner the weekend after to avoid restaurant hassles.  “Christmas” is scattered among visits with friends and family.  Most of our “holidays” revolve around friendships and family, so it doesn’t matter what actual day it falls upon, as it’s the time we spend with company that counts. 

Except for New Year’s Eve.

New Year’s Eve is a day of closure, an actual chronological cusp.  Whole calendars are changed, not just a page (yes, I do still use an actual paper calendar - with cute dog pictures, I might add.  Like a prisoner, I need something concrete to mark my days).  New Year’s Eve is an event in which I’m forced to participate, whether I’m cleaning house or sick in bed.

I watched Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin ring in the New Year as I lay shivering under the blankets.  Firecrackers blasted outside as one dog ran through the house barking and the other, somewhat stoned, stared at me pleadingly.  I got up to go to the bathroom and drank another giant glass of water.

The Rose Parade on any other day is STILL The  Rose Parade.

I woke up on New Year’s Day feeling considerably better.  I went downstairs, chugged more water, and started the coffee.  Following New Year’s tradition, I turned on the t.v. to watch the Rose Parade.

It wasn’t on.

“What?!”

I flipped to all the channels that usually run it, then caught an ad.  It would run on Monday. 

Monday?

Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s not New Year’s Day without the Rose Parade.  So, I cleaned the house and prepared dinner as planned and felt much better.  I got a reprieve, a mulligan, if you will.

Happy New Year, everyone. 

2012’s going to be a good year after all.