Happy Patriots’ Day!

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Patriots’ Day isn’t a holiday we celebrate in Texas, but in honor of our friends from Boston who are visiting, we will now. I’m always looking for a reason to celebrate something, and Patriots’ Day works for me.

For my fellow Texans who may not be familiar with this holiday, it commemorates the first battle of the Revolutionary War. This day is celebrated in Massachusetts and Maine every third Monday in April, and curiously enough, it’s observed in Wisconsin as well. If anyone knows why, let me know.

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The celebration gets going bright & early in Boston with a re-enactment of the Redcoats’ arrival at dawn at Lexington Green. Present-day revelers can stake out a spot early (some people even spend the night) to hear the steps of the Redcoats marching in formation along Battle Road to surprise the enemy. After that, there are parades with fife-and-drum bands and ceremonies to mark this important event in American history.

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More importantly, though, Patriots’ Day also brings a day game for our beloved Red Sox. Historically the game has been played early so that its ending coincides with the Boston Marathon runners racing through Kenmore Square, but the timing is hard to synchronize, and I guess the commercials that pay the bills for NESN don’t cotton to anyone else’s schedule. It’s the 115th year for the Boston Marathon, and the Sox have been playing a day game on Patriots’ Day every year since 1959, with the exception of some weather delays and the 1995 players’ strike. Like most things relating to the Sox, this game is steeped in tradition and fans await it with that baseball-heavy mixture of excitement and dread.

The Sox got off to a slow start with the worst record the American League. However, thanks to Jacoby Ellsbury’s 3-run ding-dong against the Blue Jays, we’re officially on a winning streak. And, that give me another reason to post a pic of Ells. bosox.com

And another.

And another.

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And another. He doesn’t bunt very often, preferring to swing away, but when he does bunt, this is what it looks like:

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One more won’t hurt.

You’re welcome.

Ells and catcher Jarrod Saltalamacchia blew the game wide-open yesterday, allowing the Sox to triumph 8-1 over the Blue Jays, and starting the rally for which Sox fans have been desperate already, in this fledgling season. The dynamic duo of Ells and Salty have given Red Sox Nation reason to believe again, and now Salty can be known for something other than having the longest name in MLB history.

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Ells had this to say about his big hit: “I was sitting on a pitch I could drive and got something I could do something with.” When asked if that was as hard as he could hit the ball, the ever-confident Ells said, “I still got a little bit in me.” Bring it, Ells!

Today’s game against Toronto starts at 10 a.m. Texas time, and I’ll be tuned in. In fact, I need to wrap this up and get ready. Dice K is pitching, and he hasn’t had a win at home since August. That’s about the time things started looking up for me in my “cancer journey,” but like in baseball, anything can happen, and in my “cancer journey” it did. But I overcame it, and so will Dice K. He’s 6-1 against the Blue Jays, and I’ve got a good feeling that things are looking up, for both of us.


Saturday in Napa

Yes, I know we’ve been home a week already, but I needed to think about how to best convey the utter perfection of our second day in Napa, and these things take time to percolate. Plus, the hustle & bustle of real life intervened, so there’s been a mountain of laundry, baseball games, homework, and errands aplenty since our return from the Golden State. Then there were some humorous interruptions, like Payton’s poker face (or utter lack thereof) and a couple of doctor appointments forcing themselves to the head of the blogging queue. Couple all of that with the arrival of our dear friends from Boston for their semi-annual visit, and you get a better idea of why this little blog has been neglected. Never fear, it is back to business now.

I’m not quite ready to let go of the Napa trip. So much of what I blog about is yucky stuff–cancer, infection, surgeries, drug therapy, and assorted pain & suffering–so when I have a lovely topic, like a trip to Napa, I’m gonna milk it for all its worth. Then maybe milk it some more.

If I still write about the trip and continue to post pictures, it lives on in the forefront of my memory and isn’t yet consigned to the dusty, slideshow status of trips gone by, and it doesn’t quite get crowded out by the workaday stuff that has to get done around here to keep this household running. Our long weekend in Napa to celebrate one of my BFF’s entries into the “Over 40 Club” was the stuff that legends are made of (at least in my mind). It was a celebration of Yvonne’s 40 years on this Earth, and for me, a smaller celebration of life finally, at long last, returning to some semblance of normal after a long, unpleasant, bumpy ride.

Which brings us to Saturday, Day Two in Napa. Friday, Day One in Napa, had been what I thought was the perfect day in Wine Country, but Saturday was even better.

Before I get into the nitty-gritty details, let me share two of my favorite photos from the preceding days. This one  is from Thursday afternoon at the Franciscan in San Francisco, before we left the Bay City for Wine Country. It’s a fave because The Birthday Girl had arrived to start the party-filled weekend, because we’re surrounded by great wine & yummy food, and because it was a harbinger of all the fun times to come. We were still waiting on the rest of our crew to arrive, but we went ahead and got the party started.

This was at Silver Oak on Friday, where we met the infamous Walter, who will live forever in our memories of Napa. In fact, if I recall correctly, the infamous Walter took this very photo. Just after this photo, we moved on from Silver Oak to Quintessa, and the day just kept getting better and better.

But back to Saturday. The day began with mimosas and a bloody mary to toast The Birthday Girl at breakfast. I mentioned before that this was the best-ever bloody mary, and I stand by that claim. Wish I had one right now. But I’m drying out, so that would be inappropriate.

After breakfast Saturday morning, we grabbed to-go cups and hustled outside to meet our ride and the rest of our merry party. While these aren’t exactly Texas-sized to-go cups (or “roaders” as we like to call a drink on the go), they certainly were tasty and really, who needs a Big Gulp when you’re off to taste a hundred wines in one of the best places on Earth? As delicious and festive as those bloody marys were, I’m glad I wasn’t confronted with the dilemma of having a refill to say no to; that would have been tricky.

We were off to Quixote, my favorite of all the wineries we visited. Suffice to say that if our trip had ended after the visit to Quixote, I would have been satisfied. The fact that it didn’t was icing on the cake. Or an extra olive in the bloody mary. I will write about Quixote soon; need to sort through the photos and do it justice. For now, know that it was phenomenal in every way.

None of us really wanted to leave Quixote, and once we were ready to shove off, we were delayed a bit while our driver borrowed a toolbox from Quixote to remove the limo seats to retrieve a fallen iPad. Once that was done and we packed into the car, we headed to Mumm, on the suggestion of Robert, our tour guide at Quixote. He did not lead us astray. Like all of the wineries we visited, Mumm is gorgeous. Stunning views and beautiful flowers everywhere. And the champagne–did I mention that? My favorite drink, being produced in plentitude. Ahhhh. Happy girl.

We hadn’t scheduled an appointment, and Mumm was bustling and busy on that beautiful Saturday, so we each ordered a glass off the tasting menu and strolled the grounds.I’m not sure where I was in this shot, but hopefully I had a glass in my  hand. I might have been in the restroom, checking out the great quotes on the walls, like this one from Bette Davis:

And this one from economist John Maynard Keynes:

Or I might have been mesmerized by this display in the gift shop:

Also in the gift shop was a small shrine to Carlos Santana, who we had seen the previous day at Silver Oak. He’s a regular around there, and Mumm had a signed guitar, a couple pieces of Santana-inspired artwork, and his own vintage of bubbly.

The patio at Mumm was beautiful, overlooking the vista of the vineyard. The weather was perfect, with blue skies, abundant sunshine, and cool breezes. 

There’s also a small art gallery at Mumm, with rotating exhibits. The day we were there it featured black & white photos of “then & now” shots of all sorts of people. Siblings as kids then as grown-ups. Mamas holding babies, then grandmas holding their generation’s next generation. Cool.

After Mumm, we headed back to V Sattui for picnic provisions and ate a quick lunch before our appointment at Stag’s Leap.

The wines at Stag’s Leap were not my favorite. In fact, of the 7 tastings they poured, I didn’t finish any of them. It was still a lot of fun, and being in the tasting room while the rest of the visitors milled around the common area was nice. We had a place to sit while we dissected the wine, and a chance to catch our breath before moving on. 

With our visits to Quixote, Mumm, and Stag’s Leap, we were done with tastings for the day and headed back to our hotels to get ready for dinner at Bottega. Just in case the day hadn’t been perfect enough, we still had a fantastic dinner to look forward to. Rest assured that dinner lived up to its expectations. Being at the chef’s table toasting The Birthday Girl with wines chosen from our tour will forever be one of my all-time favorite things.

The day was indeed perfect. Every bit of it was just plain perfect. Each winery we visited offered something different, and while Quixote was my favorite, by a lot, I enjoyed the others, too. And as if the wine wasn’t good enough, there was the uninterrupted time with great friends, gorgeous scenery and beautiful weather, and for me, freedom from cancer and its messy aftermath. Now that’s a great day.


Oh how my doc amuses me

Yes, I know the continuation of the Napa series is overdue, and I’m going to get to it today, I promise. I used to live & breathe by deadlines, but now that I’m “retired” from the publishing business and don’t really give a hoot about anything else except what’s in the forefront of my brain at this very moment, I can casually toss aside a deadline, even a self-imposed one. I do need to work on crafting shorter sentences, though. Mercy. You’d think I was getting paid by the word for that one.

‘Tis true I needed to think about how to best convey the utter perfection of our second day in Napa, and these things cannot be rushed, not even by me; these things take time. In this case, almost a week. This time last week, we were sleeping peacefully in San Francisco, with the entire Napa weekend spread out before us like the best buffet ever. I need to do that scene justice, and doing justice takes time.  Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll post twice today.

I had every intention of writing that update last night, but I must admit I didn’t feel all that great. Again, me & my stupid assumptions. Because it has been 6 weeks since The Big Dig, I stupidly assumed that on day 42 post-op I would magically be back to normal. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. No, I’m not playing tennis, and I’ve been instructed by both doctors and my trainer to avoid any exercise that utilitzes my core for another 6 weeks. So my atrophying muscles and I will dejectedly comply (at least for now). In case you’re wondering, like I was, why the kibosh on using my core, it has to do with the risk of opening up that 17-inch-long abdominal incision (low); the skin becoming hyphertrophic (medium), and widening that 17-inch-long incision (high). I’d say that damn incision is quite big enough, and the last thing I need is to be widening it, no matter how much I hate being on the DL.

So, I’m back to reality after a most wonderful trip, I can’t exercise, I’m still struggling with post-op fatigue, and the operated-upon areas still bark at me more than I’d like. But alas, I have my doc to brighten my days and lift my spirits. I’m luckier than a dog with 2 tails because I got to see him not once but twice this week. One for an official check-up and again by chance.

My check-up was Wednesday. It’s always an adventure going to see him. He wanted to see for his own eyes that I survived the trip to Napa, and his first question was, “Did you get drunk?” Yes, all day every day. I told him that if  I can’t start exercising yet, then we need to speed up the timeframe for fixing the “dog ears.”

These lovely little things are the globs of fat sitting on my hips that he said we need to “suck right out.” I agree. Dog ears are folds or the bunching-up of the tissues at the border at which the “corrected” tissue meets the “uncorrected” tissue post-surgically. So in my case, on either end of the 17-inch-long abdominal incision, or right on my hips. The main way to minimize dog ears is by making an incision longer, but in my case, my docs were dedicated to keeping the scar as small as possible, and making it longer would have entailed wrapping it around my hips onto my back, which aesthetically isn’t a good option. In a traditional tummy tuck, there’s more wiggle room for scar length, but in my case they were harvesting skin & fat from which to build my new boobs. So, I have dog ears on my hips. Not a real big deal, other than the superficial issue.

I would like to get it corrected sooner rather than later, so my doc and I are negotiating. He wants to wait 6 months from the date of reconstruction, but I think 3 months is ample time for healing. He is not swayed by my complaint that I have to go all summer long with extra fat on my hips. After some back-and-forth, we finally agreed on 5 months, but I’ll keep pushing.

The most entertaining thing about Wednesday’s visit came when I asked my doc if he knew another plastic surgeon, let’s call her Dr X. One of my friends is considering a “mommy make-over” with Dr X, and I wanted to see if me mentioning another surgeon caused him to get his hackles up. Ding! ding! ding! He wanted to know why I would possibly be asking about another doctor, as we all know he is The Best Surgeon In The World. For real. When I told him the real reason I was inquiring about Dr X, he got all googly-eyed at the idea of doing a “fun” procedure, as he described the “mommy make-over” and said that sure would be nice, and he asked me (tongue in cheek) to please try to “bring more fun” next time I come see him. After several deeps breaths to settle myself, I offered to bring a pinata to my next appointment. With a very big stick. We all got a big hee-ha out of that. I’m going to have to make a quick trip to the border, to get a real Mexican pinata, like the one we got for Macy’s 4th birthday. Look at the size of that thing! Now I just need to find a really big stick….

Before I start ranting again about how not fun all this has been F O R  H I M!!, let’s move on. The other interesting thing that occurred in our tete-a-tete was him telling me about the tummy tuck he did that morning that looked fantastic. Better than mine?I asked? Oh, yes–much better, he said. No dog ears, I asked? Oh, no, he replied, certainly not. Big sigh. Well, at least he’s off to a conference in New Orleans about fat transfer, so he can have the latest & greatest technique when it comes to sucking the giant dog ears off my hips and giving me a fighting chance of fitting into my clothes again sometime in the near future. Meanwhile, I’m thinking of officially changing my ethnicity to Basset Hound.

photo: googleimages.com

Dr S’s sweet nurse Brenda was sick, sick, sick with a sinus infection and looked like she felt beyond miserable. I told her she needed some homemade soup, and if that didn’t cure her, forget about it. So yesterday I took her some soup. Lo and behold, there’s Dr S. I told him I thought he was going out of town. He told me he is indeed but he has to see patients first, he has to work, he can’t just fly off to Napa like me, and oh how he wished he had my life. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. So funny. He looked quite stylish in his jeans and lime green shirt under his white coat, tanned and ready to take on the world, one fat glob at a time.

I mentioned that I happened to exchange some emails with Jenn, Dr Spiegel’s PA, and she happened to mention that they typically do revision surgeries 4 months after reconstruction. Just coincidence, that conversation, seriously. Yeah.

He told me no, absolutely not, he was putting his foot down in the sand. I asked if he was also drawing a line in the sand, and he said if I want my revision in 4 months, I can go to Dr Spiegel.

As if.

We also re-hashed a couple of long-dead conversations about subjects on which he was right and I was wrong, and we were done with the latest round of verbal sparring. He was going to check on a patient in the hospital adjacent to his office, and I was going to visit with Brenda and Marcie a bit. Next thing I know, he’s telling me to come on, and he’s waiting by the elevator for me. Now that’s some good service. Him waiting for me to finish my chat with his ladies, so that we could ride down in the elevator together–nice. And, as I recall, last time he asked me to pull down my pants so he could take a gander at my dog ears, he did say please. Quietly and under his breath, but still. We’re making progress. What a great day.

In the elevator, I took the opportunity to tell him ever so sweetly that I think it’s not so nice for him to tell me about surgeries performed on other patients who end up with a better result than me. I can’t remember if he laughed at me or promised to do better in the future, but I’m think it was the latter.

Oh, I love that man. He gives me blog fodder for days.


2 small heart attacks

The viewer mail is pouring in about this post and this one, in which I inadvertently gave y’all some reason to think you might be suffering a small heart attack. Many apologies. I didn’t mean to scare anyone or cause anyone to stroke out. I promise to be much more boring and much less dramatic in future.

Yeah, right.

I will get to coverage of Day 2 in Napa, really I will. It’s in the works. The trip was so fantastic, I want to do it justice, and sometimes that means ruminating, and you know I have very little patience.

thank you, AA Milne

As Winnie the Pooh referred to himself as “a bear of very little brain,” I am the blogger of very little patience. Working on it, people, working on it.

Thinking about Winnie the Pooh reminded me of how much I loved that bear as a little girl, and I’m sure somewhere in the deep recesses of my parents’ attic, there are photos of me surrounded by Winnie; my sweet mama never threw anything away. I had the Pooh treehouse with all the little figures: Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Kanga, and Roo. Oh, and Tigger. Don’t forget him. He’s c-razy! I had some Pooh pajamas that I wore nonstop, although not out in public like my little girl does in her jammies. I had a stuffed pooh, the original AA Milne version before Disney got its hands on him, and that bear went everywhere with me. I loved him so much I even gave him open heart surgery with my mom’s seam ripper from her sewing kit. I must have left the closing to my surgical assistant, because Pooh had a hole in his chest for the rest of time.

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Now that I’m all grown up, I appreciate Winnie the Pooh on a whole ‘nother level, and find the depth and meaning contained in his quotes so moving.

We’ve all seen this one, on a greeting card perhaps or a t-shirt: ““If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you.” So endearing when said by a cartoon bear, but if a human said that I’d want to barf. Those of you who know what a non-romantic I am will be shaking your heads right now. Go ahead, it’s all right.

This quote from Pooh’s endless wisdom does not make me want to barf, however:

AA Milne

This one is all right with me. Don’t know why, but I suspect it’s because it reminds me of my sweet mama, and how very much I miss her. It also reminds me of my favorite ee cummings poem “i carry your heart with me,” which I had planned to read at my mom’s funeral but I just couldn’t get the words out. The words are always in my head, though, and I especially like this part:

“i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it… you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)”

I’ve always loved ee cummings’s disregard for capitalization and punctuation. To me it means the words themselves and the ideas they express are way more important than conventions. It’s as if he was in such a hurry to get these thoughts out of his head and his heart and onto the page that he couldn’t be bothered stopping for things that typically  make it easier for the reader to understand what’s been written. None of that mattered. He liked to present new ways to look at reality.

His romantic transcendentalism was not popular, however, and although he was the son of a well-known Cambridge family (his dad taught at Harvard and later was minister of Boston’s Old South Church), he struggled to get his poems published. His mom, Rebecca, had encouraged his love of writing, and lucky for the rest of the world, he persevered. It’s shocking to think that for some 20 years, he had to pay someone to publish his poems.

His poem reminds me to carry my sweet mama in my heart, just like Pooh suggests. But the root of the root and the bud of the bud is that it’s not the same as having her here. And as sweet as the words of cummings and Pooh are, they also lead me to the uncomfortable thought process through which every young cancer patient goes, whether we want to or not. The one in which we wonder about our mortality, as rates of recurrence, treatment pros & cons, and survival statistics tumble through our heads. For every success story we hear, we know there is someone who lost their battle, and we’re acutely aware of the new diagnoses that crash into ordinary people’s well-ordered lives every single day.

Having cancer sucks, but having cancer while you still have young kids at home really sucks. There’s the day-to-day junk that still needs to be dealt with, despite the gravity of disease, treatment, hospital stays, and ongoing drug therapy. I guess it’s not surprising that I find myself not really caring about whether I sign Macy’s daily folder, or wanting to punch the teachers who think another parent-driven school project is in order. Simmer down, teachers; I won’t really punch you but when you assign projects that my child cannot reasonably complete on her own, I do think about it, briefly, because it’s hard to muster the emotional energy needed to guide my child in her education, and I sure don’t want to have to make a trip to Hobby Lobby for supplies.

There’s a never-ending juggling act that comes with the cancer territory when young kids are involved. Like the fact that most of my doctor’s appointments are with surgeons, who tend to do surgery in the mornings and see patients in the afternoon. Sometimes that means I’m cutting it close when seeing the doctor and taking care of business while still making it in time to pick up the kids from school.

Like the fact that I never know when this beast will rear its ugly head again and interfere with our daily life, plans, and schedules. Payton’s Little League season is halfway over, maybe more, and I’ve yet to make it to a single game. For the first time in his Little League “career,” he’s played games for which neither of his parents was in the stands. Not the end of the world, by any stretch, and he’s a pretty resilient kid, but it still bugs me.

Like the fact that sometimes when my kids are venting to me about whatever problem is foremost in their minds, and all I can think is, “It’s not so bad…at least you aren’t dealing with the aftermath of cancer.”

But then I smarten up and realize that yes, they are dealing with the aftermath of cancer. It’s there for them, too, even though they don’t talk about it much or worry about it like I do. It comes out sideways, sometimes, like in Macy’s “getting to know you” questionnaire from the first day of school this year, and her answer to the question “What scares you the most?” Her answer: That my mom will get another infection. Geez, what happened to monsters under the bed? We’ve eclipsed that childhood fear and have sped headlong into unchartered territory here. Like Payton asking us about the annual summer trip to Boston and Salisbury Beach, and wondering if all of us will be going this year. Since I missed it last year, I want to be there even more this year, but part of me hesitates in promising him that, because with this damn disease and this damn infection, I just don’t know. I’m operating under the assumption that the answer is yes, we’re all going this year. But I shy away from promising it.


Oncology report

My latest visit to Dr Darcourt was uneventful, which is my favorite kind of doctor visit. Despite the fact that I have to get stuck for blood work and step on the scale every time I go see him, I still like going. As much as you can like going to an oncology visit.

In the beginning of this “cancer journey,” it freaked me out to say “my” and “oncologist” in the same sentence. Not something one usually wishes for, to say the least. But if I have to have an oncologist, my guy is pretty great. Not just because he’s young and Peruvian, either. Although that doesn’t hurt.

Since you’re probably going to google him now, I’ll make it easy on you: 

There ya go.

Just a disclaimer: he was the third oncologist I consulted, and didn’t choose him based on the fact that he’s young and Peruvian. Not just.

Ok, so the appointment was uneventful, and he said the words I love to hear: “I have no reason to think your cancer will come back.” Music to my ears. We talked about Tamoxifen, the chemo pill I take every day and will stay on for 5 years, and the artificially-induced menopause brought on by it and the Lupron shot I get every three months for hormone suppression. In a nutshell, since my cancer was fed by estrogen, it’s easy to control it by depriving it of estrogen. It means I go through menopause a bit early, but that’s a small trade-off for ensuring the cancer doesn’t come back.

The trick is to determine if I’m really in menopause or if once we stop the Lupron shots, we also stop the ‘pause. This is important because it affects the chemo pill I take. Tamoxifen is for pre-menopausal women, i.e., if you weren’t in menopause at the time of diagnosis, you take it. If you’re post-menopausal, you take a different drug, mainly Femara or Arimidex. Either way, I will be on one of these drugs for 5 years. I’m ok with that, because I’m pretty reliable at remembering to take it every day, and it’s another weapon in my arsenal against my cancer.

And taking a pill every day is much easier than getting that Lupron shot. Even though Ionly get it once every 3 months, it’s dreadful. The needle is really big: 20 gauge.

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The 20 gauge needle is what is used for port access. It has to be big enough in diameter to not only pierce the skin and the membrane of the port, but also allow for blood to be drawn back out through it.

That’s a big needle.

If you don’t like needles, like me, you may get a little squirmy right about now. That’s ok. Don’t worry if your palms start to sweat, if your heart races, and you feel a little nauseated. All normal reactions to seeing a wonking big needle. But if I have to see it, so do you. I’m good at sharing.

The drug itself is very thick, and has to be warmed before being injected. You know it’s going to hurt. Because it’s thick, it takes several seconds to push the drug through the needle into the body. So the pain lasts. Then once the drug is in, it burns. On the skin and inside. I literally can feel the drug trailing into my body. And yet, I do it willingly. Because I want to starve any cancer cells that may be entertaining thoughts of reforming. I don’t want any uprisings on my watch.

I may take that shot willingly, but I still complain about it. I get it in my left arm, and the bruise from the previous shot, 3 months ago, is always still visible. For several weeks, I will have a hard little knot at the injection site. My arm will be sore for the rest of the day after I get the shot, but then life goes on and it’s business as usual, for the next 3 months.

But yesterday, I made a BIG mistake when getting the shot. I glanced over my shoulder as the nurse was getting ready to inject it. I saw that big-ass needle, glinting in the florescent lights, looking as menacing as an inaninate object can.

Oh, I wish I hadn’t seen that. Somehow the visual reality makes it so much worse. I had to grit my teeth and concentrate on not yelling.

I usually console myself with a beer or a glass of wine on shot days. But yesterday, I was trying to dry out from our Napa trip, so I tried to refrain. I didn’t get very far, and ended up with a Pinot Noir in my glass. But now I’m back to drying out, because I was reading one of my favorite blogs today, and misread one of the lines. It describes waking up and “waiting for the new day to open like a spring margarita.” Oh, wait–it’s
“spring magnolia.” Oops. Guess I’d better get on the wagon, sore arm and all.


P-P-P-Poker face

This is what Payton looked like getting off the bus yesterday after school. 

Yikes, right?

Isn’t it every parent’s nightmare to see their child hurt? And bleeding? And in pain? And knowing we weren’t there to prevent it from happening? And why do these things always seem to happen when I’m flying solo, with Trevor out of town?

He limped in the house and as I glanced up from my perch at the computer, I saw a big gash on his sweet face and blood dripping down the length of a giant wound. My first thought was WHAT HAPPENED??? Then I thought, man, that is so close to his eye. Luckily he has the longest eyelashes in the world, which practically wrap around his head and offer unparalleled protection from menacing things.

But the wrap-around eyelashes had met their match with this injury. Before I could get the words out to ask WHAT HAPPENED??? and WHO DO I NEED TO BEAT UP??? he came into my office and tried to tell me he got in a fight.

I say “tried to tell me” because that boy has absolutely no poker face. None. Not even a little bit. Like George Washington as a boy, he cannot tell a lie. It’s a great thing for a parent to have a kid so devoid of poker-faceing. We’ve told Pay from day one that he can’t lie to us without us knowing he’s lying. At first, he thought it had to do with some omniscient parenting skills, but later learned it’s his mug. He gives himself away every time. I love it. He literally can’t keep a straight face — the corners of his mouth move on their own and his eyes dart all over the place. If he’s ever under investigation for anything, he will crack like an egg.

So he was trying to tell me that he got into a fight, and while the words were indeed coming out of  his mouth, his mouth was also doing its jitterbug, giving him away before he could even get the story out into the ether.

The real story: his speech teacher used him as a model for stage make-up techniques. Ms Pointer at First Colony Middle School knows her stuff. He was the only one in his class who raised his hand as a volunteer, and she did it up right. If only his acting skills were as good as her make-up skills, he might have convinced me.

Never a dull moment around here.


Breaking news

We interrupt the “All Napa, All the Time” marathon with breaking news. Imagine the tornado sirens going off right now (or maybe that’s just in my head). If you’re looking for news of Day 2 of our recent Napa adventure, you’re gonna have to wait.

Yesterday I did something I haven’t been able to do since The Big Dig. I’m very excited about it. It’s been 5 weeks since the excavation that gutted me like a fish in an effort to restore my post-mastectomy sunken chest. 5 long weeks. There are lots of things I’ve been unable to do, and y’all know I’m a very impatient patient. I tend to rush things and push the envelope, and sometimes that results in a set-back, or at the very least, a lot of frustration for my handlers. I’ve been trying, really trying, to be patient, to not rush things, and to avoid any potential set-backs. I’m not much of a people-pleaser by nature, but I do try to keep my handlers happy. They make a lot of noise when they’re unhappy with me.

I rode my bike.

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Yes, that’s the breaking news.

Hope you were sitting down, because it’s really big news.

See, I’m one of those weirdos who loves to exercise. I’m restless and have a strong “productivity” drive. Like how some dogs have a high food drive, or our crazy dog Harry has a high “must have something to carry in my mouth” drive, I have a high “productivity” drive. I also like to eat. And drink. But don’t like when my clothes don’t fit, a wonky equation to say the least. Some people don’t care much about food, and I don’t understand them. I’m usually planning my next meal as I’m eating the current one. Different strokes, people.

I’ve mentioned before in this space that I’m not good at lying around, being lazy, and doing that thing called relaxing. What is this practice of which people speak? Apparently I missed the memo, because I’m no good at it.

All this to say that being grounded for the last 5 weeks has been hard for me. I’ve really missed my daily exercise. Whether it’s tennis, the gym, or riding my bike, I miss it. And yesterday, I rode my bike.

Glory be!

Macy and I have a routine of riding to the pet store every day after school to buy crickets for Cincko, her leopard gecko. He’s got a big appetite, and I’m always afraid he’ll start banging on the sides of his tank if he doesn’t get fed. He eyeballs Pedey, our little dog, and puffs himself up as if he’s going to attack that dog the way he pummels the crickets who are dropped into his tank. Thus, the need to procure crickets is a big one, and I haven’t been able to ride with her since my surgery.

Yesterday after dinner, she wanted to go for a ride. Not to the pet store, but just around the neighborhood. After proving to myself and my handlers that I could keep up in Napa last weekend, I felt good about giving it a try. I told Macy I’d do a lap down the driveway and see how it felt. A test run, of sorts. If it didn’t feel good, I’d concede. She reminded me not to push it, that we could wait until I was more healed. That child knows her mama well.

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The test run down the driveway felt fine. Felt better than fine: it felt awesome. Other than a little tightness across my abdominal incision, it felt like old times. It’s true that you never forget how to ride a bike, and my muscles remembered how to fire their pistons to propel me forward. I wanted to get down on my knees right there in the driveway to thank the great gods of healing for bestowing their kindness upon my beleagured and battered body. But that would have caused Macy to roll her eyes at me and say that I’m embarrassing her, again, so I refrained.

Instead, we made a 2-mile circle around our neighborhood, dodging pedestrians, watching for bumps in the road, and intentionally riding through sprinklers. We enjoyed the drier-than-normal Houston air and rejoiced in the birdsong. We admired the neighbors’ yard work and  noticed how lush and green everything is in our part of the world.

It was a very good ride.

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Ok, this is the part that my handlers should skip over. Y’all don’t want to read this; I worry about your blood pressure.

As I reflected this morning on yesterday’s ride and conducted my mental inventory of how much my various hotspots hurt, I realized that they didn’t really hurt. Not any more than usual. Maybe I really am healing after all. Finally!

Satisfied, I ran through my workout options for today: I could ride my bike again, I could take Harry for a long walk, I could go to the gym for cardio or for strength training. Then I realized that it’s Tuesday. It’s tennis drill day. I haven’t drilled with my team in 5 weeks. I could go to drill! Yes, I could go to drill. I may have to dust off my racquet, but I could go to drill.

Ok,  handlers, you can start reading again.

Then I realized that I’d better settle down. I’d better take it easy. I’d better ease into it and not go head-long, full-speed into resuming my normal life.

Maybe next Tuesday.


My 5K, my way

WordPress hosts my little blog site, and while I don’t understand all the ins & outs of what WP does, I do know that they do it well. Visiting other blogs on other hosts proves it: WP kicks ass.

I often read the updates that come to me from WP, whether it’s to showcase a new theme (the physical look of a blog), or to update users on a new feature, like the new iPad feature that provides those who read blogs via iPad a cool experience. From the gurus at WP: “Our iPad-optimized view is app-like in its functionality, but pure HTML5 goodness on the backend: it supports touch interactions, swiping, rotation, and many other features of the iPad.”

I don’t know exactly what HTML5 is but like the way they refer to its pure goodness.

The Automattic side of WP recently announced a cool idea: let’s have a virtual 5K. This group of 80 hipsters with job titles like “code ninja,” “systems wrangler” and “happiness engineer” are scattered in 62 cities around the globe, but they share a love of fitness, so they knew that getting all the co-workers together on the same day in the same city was crazy talk. Instead, they settled on the idea of having everyone do their own 5K in their own way but on the same day. And then, because they are totally kick-ass, they opened this idea up to WP bloggers, and gave us a week in which to complete this mission.

I’m well-versed in 5Ks from my running days, but with breast cancer and post-mastectomy infection as my sidekicks, my racing days are over. I may be down but not out, and I am definitely on the mend after a long, complicated and downright icky span of nearly a year. I’m officially deeming myself over that mess, however, and ready to tackle the Automattic 5K. Lucky for me, there’s an loophole in this 5K that says it can be “in your own way,” meaning it doesn’t have to be an organized point-to-point or up-and-back race. In fact, the invitation went out to “walk, run, or skip” just do 3.1 miles worth, and it counts. Those Automatticians are so nice.

photo: lonelyplanet.com

Walking through the lush and beautiful Wine Country in Napa Valley counts, right? I didn’t use a pedometer, but I’m pretty sure we walked at least 3 miles over 2 days of wine touring. We walked through lots of wineries, traversing the valley from its  southern end, near Downtown Napa, to Yountsville in the middle, and northward into Rutherford.

No matter where we were, the scenery was spectacular. I never got tired of looking out over the rows of tidy grapevines and seeing the rolling green hills and the majestic mountains rising up toward the azure of the sky. 

Our first stop on my 5K was Chandon in Yountville, where they’ve been making sparkling wines long enough to be household name. Chandon’s wine makers have experimented a lot but settled on Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, and Pinot Meunier grapes in the tradition of French champagne. Works for me.

After an hour-long limo ride from San Francisco to Napa, our group of 10 was ready to stretch our collective legs and get our drink on. Chandon was a great place to start.

As we disembarked at the threshold of all things Chandon, the first thing I noticed was this sweet little tableau, at the base of the winery’s entrance. The fountain was bubbling and the calla lilies were blooming. The only way the setting could have been more perfect would be if I had a glass of bubbly in hand. While we were in a rush to get inside and get that bubbly, we did pause at the entrance

to get a group shot of the ladies before we hit the ground running (or strolling, because this is a have-it-your-way 5K). Chandon was the first of at least 4 wineries we were planning to hit that day, so we had our work cut out for us. We needed to get busy.

 

The magnum was sublime. Our group of 10 found a table on the patio and and settled in for our first official taste of Napa. No one had any complaints.

Next stop was V Sattui in St Helena, north of Chandon, for picnic supplies. It was so perfect, we went back the next day, too. Grabbing a variety of picnic items from edamame salad to fancy-pants potato chips suited everyone in our group of hungry travelers. We served up our picnic family-style, passing and sampling our bounty of yummy morsels. 

Doesn’t the sign alone make you want to spend a lazy afternoon there, eating delicious foods and drinking wine in the sunshine?

Yeah, we did too, but we had miles to go before we slept, to quote Robert Frost.

 

Luckily we weren’t stopping by woods on a snowy evening, but instead zipping along southward to Silver Oak in Oakville. Yet another breathtaking view out the vineyard’s doorway made us stop and take it all in. Then we hurried inside in pursuit of some of Silver Oak’s finest.

We found it. We had a lovely chat with Walter, our tastings meister, who got a nice, big dose of our personal brand of Texas revelry. He was great sport, and we enjoyed him and the Silver Oak atmosphere as much as their wines. We could have stayed all day, but alas, we had an appointment with Quintessa, so we moved onward.

Quintessa, in Rutherford, was amazing. It’s a short distance from Oakville to Rutherford, and coming from the wide open spaces of Texas, it struck me how all these little towns seem practically on top of each other, and they certainly blend into each other. You can’t really tell where one ends and the next begins. Rutherford, in fact, is only 6 square miles — for the whole town. Between Oakville and St Helena, this tiny little area bangs out some killer Cabernets. It’s said that in order to make a great Cab, you “must have Rutherford dust.” They are most definitely doing it right at Quintessa

Our first cave tour did not disappoint.

After a tour of the machinery and vats, our delightful guide Lori led us into the cave. The mood in the cave was serene and somber, not in a sad way but more contemplative. Very zen. Until we figured out the cave had terrific echoing acoustics and all started cawing out various animal sounds. Classy.

This fountain stands in the middle of the cave, bubbling away as its water tumbles over jet-black river rocks that appear smooth as glass. It’s a beautiful and peaceful structure in and of itself, but it’s also functional, as it provides humidity in the cave, which is integral in crafting wine. The rooms flanking the fountain are full of barrels of aging wine, which put off a distinctive aroma that I can’t quite capture. I can still smell it in my olfactory memory, but can’t describe it. You’ll just have to go there.

We were intrigued by the reddish stain around the middle of each barrel. We wondered if the wine had leaked and stained the barrels, but then noticed that the stain was contained to just the middle. Lori cleared up the mystery by telling us that Quintessa colors them on purpose, to enhance the aesthetic beauty of their barrels. I had to strike a pose next to these beauties.

We came out of the cave and through these doors into the tasting room, thinking nothing could top the coolness of the cave tour. Then we saw the table that had been laid for us. 

A gorgeous wooden table in a secluded room lit by candles awaited us. Each of us had a place setting, complete with a personalized card surrounded by 3 lovely wines lovingly arranged in order. 

No, I wasn’t too drunk to take a decent photo, but the candlelight and the iPhone camera didn’t think too much of each other, so yes, it’s quite blurry. Next trip to Napa, I will take better photos, I promise.

But I won’t share my Quintessa artisanal cheese plate. Yum. Three cheeses from the region married with the wines so well we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. I’m a fan of cheese, especially with my wine, and these three were outstanding. We could have stayed in that peaceful tasting room for the rest of the day, but we only had it reserved until 5 pm, so we regretfully shuffled out of there, basking in the deliciousness of all things Quintessa.

Our first afternoon of tasting the bounty of Napa Valley’s wines drew to a close, and we headed from Rutherford south to Yountsville, to our hotel, immensely satisfied with the splendor of our first day. I was so happy I didn’t even realize until later that my feet kinda hurt, from my 5K, my way.


Pics, as promised

I really missed my easy access to photos and images while posting from the road. Even though I had several tech-savvy traveling companions, there wasn’t time to set up a functional blogging station (or at least, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice wine-drinking time to getting techy). I had to make do with the cranky iPad, but now that I’m home and plugged in, I no longer have to rely solely on my words to portray the utter fabulousness of our trip to Napa.

The trip got off to a great start with an upgrade and Vueve Cliquot while awaiting our flight out of Houston. I love, love, love my seat assignment of row 1. And if there’s anything I love more than drinking Vueve at 8:00 in the morning at the airport, I can’t think what it is. Some of you who know me well have asked if both of those glasses were for me, and sadly, no one was Trevor’s but he was taking the picture so I didn’t try to steal his glass. Thought about it, though.

Before we got to Napa, we spent some time in San Francisco. Trevor and I arrived before the group gathered at the hotel, so after we checked in we explored the wharf area. A very reliable foodie couple recommended we eat at the Tadich Grill in the Financial District. It’s the oldest restaurant in all of San Francisco, which has no shortage of eateries.

Been in business since 1849, when it started as a coffeeshop. A Croatian immigrant named John Tadich worked at the coffeeshop after coming to San Fran in 1872, and he bought the place in 1887 and renamed it. It’s said to be the first restaurant to grill seafood over mesquite wood, starting that yummy tradition in the 1920s. So glad they thought of it, and that the practice made its way to The Lone Star State.

We walked to Tadich Grill, which I mentioned in a post last week, to find out if they truly do have the best cioppino in the city. The answer: yes. 

Hell, yes.

I could devote an entire blog to this bowl of stew. But I won’t.

This was by far the best ever. Especially after a long plane ride that started early. Especially after a 1.5 mile walk in cold, windy weather. Especially with some hot, fresh, crusty sourdough bread. San Francisco is known for its sourdough, and I tried it everywhere we went. Never had a bad piece, but this was some of the best. So good it didn’t even need butter. 

This scallop and its twin were floating in the tomato-based broth, minding their own business and likely oblivious to the fact that scallops are perhaps my all-time favorite food. I spied the two beauties and saved them for last. After the shrimps big & small, the whitefish, the mussels, the clams, and the crabs. Saved the best for last. And they did not disappoint. I’ve eaten a bunch of their friends over the years, and I can easily say they were the cream of the crop. I miss them. A lot.

Trevor had another yummy dish: shrimp and avocado mixed with rice and covered in a creamy sauce then broiled to a cheesy, bubbly state of bliss. The shrimp and avocado combined with the creaminess of the sauce made for one scrumptious combination. It didn’t sound all the special on the menu, but it came together to be pretty spectacular. Too bad the photo isn’t all that spectacular. It’s probably blurry because I couldn’t wait to tuck back into my cioppino.

On the walk to Tadich, we passed many restaurants, including one that claims to be the best Indian food in San Francisco (a ballsy claim, I’d say), and lots of shops. It’s always interesting to get to know a bustling, pedestrian-friendly urban area, since it’s very different from the life we lead in our SUV-driven suburbs. Pun intended. One shop we passed caught our attention because of the smell wafting out of its doors: buttery, brown-sugary, and mouthwatering. Ahh, a candy shop. Trevor vowed to hit it after lunch, and I’m glad he did. He chose some handmade fudge and we picked up some stuff for the kids, then noticed the source of the amazing smell: homemade caramel corn.

In an old-fashioned popcorn popper. Popcorn is one of the few snacks I can take or leave, but this stuff was of a whole different order. We weren’t going to buy any because we’d already ordered the fudge and were stuffed from lunch, but the heavily-inked salesman threw in a gratis bag, probably because I asked him a lot of questions about his tattoos and he assumed they were of the admiring sort of inquiry. I was really just curious to learn if the tattoo on his lip hurt when he got it. Yes, in fact, it did.

Candy in hand, we said adios to the tattooed candy man and headed back to the wharf. The caramel corn made it a few blocks.

After a short respite, The Birthday Girl arrived, so we hoofed it down to the wharf to meet her and Thad at The Franciscan, a huge, white boat-shaped restaurant overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf and sporting the best view of the water.  

We arrived before the crowds so were able to get a table with a view, and we soaked it in. Diana and Celeste, two more of our group, were already there enjoying the view and a snack. It was time for wine! We ordered a yummy bottle of Sauvginon Blanc and toasted our safe arrival and our good fortune to be in the Bay City, drinking wine and watching the maritime world go by.

Trevor and I were the only ones who had eaten, so the other 4 ordered some good stuff: a sizzling plate of crab legs, mussels and shrimp all perfectly seasoned on their cast-iron platter. It was similar to the sizzling fajitas platter that we all know & love in Texas — the sizzle gets the other diners’ attention, and the smell makes them think they ordered the wrong thing.

Once Lisa & Larry arrived, our group was almost complete, but since Jill & Keith weren’t landing until 10 pm, we went on to dinner without them. We needed 2 cabs to get from the wharf to the restaurant, and the girls all piled in the first cab to stop. That poor cabby was overwhelmed. At first he said he could only take 4, but we had 5 and didn’t want to split up, so we talked him into it. We “buddy buckled” 4 of us in the back, with Celeste in front to keep the driver company. We crested some of the city’s highest hills and squealed all the way down as if we were on a roller coaster. Our driver did not regret picking us up one bit, I’m sure; probably the wildest ride of his night. Sushi at the hip & happening Ryoko was delicious, and the place itself was unusual. Kind of a cross between a bedouin palace and a Japanese tea house, with funky music and chill people. We sat on cushions and ate at a low table. They serve sushi and beer until 2 a.m. but we had to get back to the hotel and drink champagne and await the arrival of Team Cremer.

The Birthday Girl had a conference room adjoining her hotel room, so with sushi-filled bellies we gathered there, ready to party. The bubbly was chilled and the music was loud. I’m sure the neighboring guests smiled happily at our raucous celebration. If anyone called to complain, we didn’t hear them. Once Team Cremer arrived, the party was complete. Because we had an early start to Napa in the morning, we shut it down around midnight.

Saying good-bye to San Francisco wasn’t too hard because we were on to bigger & better. Well, smaller & better. Or maybe equally good but different.

We checked into our Napa hotel and were greeted with the most friendly of things: a champagne cocktail. They must have heard I was coming. Yum! Normally, I like my champagne straight, and will even ask for my mimosas without the OJ. But this was delicious. A hint of lime syrup to complement, not overwhelm, the bubbly and a flower-shaped lime-peel garnish made for a perfect start to our visit to Napa. I meant to ask the bartender to tell me exactly how it is made, but we got busy heading to our first winery, and then I realized that even if I had the recipe, it wouldn’t be the same at home so I need to leave it where it is: in the rolodex section of my brain reserved for the fondest memories.

The flower-shaped lime-peel garnish was a harbinger of things to come: there were flowers everywhere in Napa. As we drove into town, I noticed huge hanging baskets of flowers on the streetlamps. I always love seeing that as it lends such beauty and serene feelings to a city street.

Our hotel had gorgeous gardens, from perfectly composed splashes of colorful perennials to lush greenery and everything in between. The poppies were my favorite. I’ve tried to grow them in my garden, but they don’t like the Texas heat as much as the Napa dappled sunshine. The Villagio had poppies in the most beautiful colors: yolky yellow, coral, delicate pink, and bold red.

I’m a sucker for flowers.

The wisteria-covered walkways were gorgeous, too. Walking underneath a canopy of green and smelling the unique scent of those fun purple flowers never got old. Reminded Trevor and me of the old Schlumberger building in Austin.

Most of the wineries had beautiful arrangements inside, too. This was my favorite, from Quintessa. The size was impressive, and the colors spoke to me. The forsythia was the best, though, because it reminds me of Big Ed, who loved that flowering shrub, because it screams “springtime!” and because of a funny story.

My Aunt Sophia’s sister Polly, may she rest in peace, was at our house a few years ago when we had received a gorgeous cut flower arrangement. It had tall branches of blooming forsythia and Polly told me that once the cut flowers were dead, I could stick the forsythia branches in the ground and they would grow. I thought that sounded kinda dubious, but decided to try it. What’s the worst that could happen — they didn’t take and I had a dead plant in the ground? 

Well, Polly was right. Here’s what those few ornamental branches look like now.

If she were here now, she would have every right to say “I told you so!”

That handful of branches turned into a full-blown tree. It anchors the far right corner of our back fence, near where the pool floats are stored. That tree provides some shade in our little backyard oasis, and its delicate foliage sways gracefully in the breezes. We have to hack it back every year, as it grows quite forcefully. I guess it likes its new home.

But back to the flowers of Napa. This was our first view of our hotel and its beautiful grounds. The fountain out front is ringed with colorful flowers: the poppies I love, tulips, daffodils, dianthus, and primrose in every color.

Such a lovely site, and I never got tired of seeing it. We were sometimes rushing to and from the hotel, to hop in the limo to start the day, or staggering out of it at the end of our tastings, but I savored the site of those flowers nonetheless.

The rest of the hotel grounds were equally stunning, and not just the flowers; there were some cool sculpture pieces. This was my favorite. She looks likes she found just the right spot in the soft grass just off the beaten path between rooms. She was about halfway between our room and Thad & Yvonne’s room, so we passed her several times and she was peaceful yet full of presence every time. I can really understand why she likes hanging around this place so much.


Bye-bye, Napa

“Jeffrey Schlossanoggle, please return to United Airlines gate 32.” That’s what I’m overhearing at the San Francisco airport, awaiting our flight home to Houston. I’m ready to taxi away from the gate of wonderfulness that was our weekend in CA, but am guessing it’s gonna be a bumpy ride back to reality. What do you mean I have to pour my own wine tonight? What, no high tea & finger sandwiches from 3:00 to 5:00 every day? No happy hour from 5:00 to 7:00 each evening, followed by fantastic dinners at the hottest hotspots? I’ve gotten pretty used to the different bottles of bubbly that preceded the multitude of interesting wines that graced our tables each night. And are you really telling me that the Russian limo drivers have shuttered our fine rides in the garage? Who’s gonna drive the kids’ carpool??? I’m going to miss the fresh figs & creamy cheeses that I ate at practically every meal. Something tells me they just taste better in Napa.

Last night’s dinner at the chef’s table at Bottega was one of the most memorable meals ever. And not just because the food was amazing, which it was. The staff was interesting and full of amusement, and being amid the hustle & bustle of one of the most popular eateries carried a certain excitement in and of itself, and being at the only marble-topped table in the place lent a nice cache to our festivities. The chef himself uses that same table to make his signature gnocci, so we were in the presence of culinary greatness, for sure. Our waiter, Murph, has worked with owner Michael Ciarello for nearly 2 decades and had lots of stories to tell. The ladies in our party kept a sharp eye out for the chef, and I can tell you for certain that he’s even better-looking in person. He greeted our table and spent a few minutes with the Birthday Girl, signing her copy of his latest cookbook and posing for photos. Which I can’t load right now on the cranky iPad, and certainly not within the short window of free wifi offered at this airport. No matter, I will regale you with tales accompanied by photos in the very near future. Nape Valley is also more good-looking in person, but we can still enjoy the photos. Later.

Highlights of dinner at Bottega: punched tin water glasses; the very best wines handpicked from our tours; toasting the Birthday Girl with champagne; deciphering the more unusual terms on the expansive menu; verbal sparring with the waiters; my roasted beet salad and the sublime seafood stew; and keeping pace with Team Cremer in the glass-lifting marathon. Our chef’s table gave us a bird’s-eye view of the revelers last night.

But the very best thing in a night full of wonderful things was being there. Just being there. Because my presence on this momentous trip was very much in question even up to the departure date, the fact that my body cooperated–for the first time in a long time–was such a luxury. If I’d had to stay home, missing yet another trip because of the stupid cancer or the even stupider infection(s), I would have been one unhappy girl. I bet I would have consumed even more wine at home than we did on this trip, because I’m a big believer in drowning one’s sorrows. So glad that wasn’t an issue.

A weekend in Wine Country might not be grand enough or elaborate enough in most people’s book to qualify as the trip of a lifetime. That designation seems to be applied more to multiple-week sojourns to faraway tropical beaches or European cities in centuries-old castles or super posh B&Bs. But this weekend in Wine Country was a trip of a lifetime for me because of the uncertainty that surrounded it and because the medical-disasters-from-Hell that preceded it qualify it as such. There will likely be more exotic destinations in the future, and hopefully I’ll have the opportunity to go on more trips in this life of mine. But the future isn’t something that cancer patients like to think about. And cancer patients whose path contains some serious twists & turns certainly don’t look too far down the road because the here & now is so fraught with all-consuming and messy things. For the weekend in Wine Country, though, I was just an ordinary tourist who happened to be celebrating just being there.