Late Night Latte

Kind of cool to actually be in CA the day the state supreme court issues a positive gay marriage ruling. No one in our party is planning a ceremony at the moment, but we’ve had an evening’s worth of good conversation as a result.

In celebration — two of my favorite views from Sonoma/Napa — the tasting room at Stryker and the gardens at Prager Port Works. (Stryker wines okay; port, I’m not a fan, hence the outdoor pictures while others tasted.)

Welcome to Day 1 of our vacation. Trust me. You’ll want to keep reading.

So far, the tally is two wounded, two still standing.

I arrived with the worst migraine I’ve ever had in my entire life. I thought I was going to die. So much for a nice stroll through Golden Gate park and a picture taking on our way north to Sonoma.

Luckily, J is a nurse. Despite my lack of logic in packing — I get a migraine monthly — I chose to leave the Excedrine at home. Bad choice. So we made our first stop at a Target spotted just off the highway in Marin. 30 minutes later, the seven hours of pain I’d just endured across country was a memory. Had I been able to open the door and jump from 34,000 feet I would have.

So we wake at some ungodly hour this morning and set out for our Calistoga spa day. Mud baths. Yes. Mud.

We were up to our ears, with mud creeping into all sorts of crevices. Disgusting. Yes. Relaxing. Yes. Hot as hell when you touched the side of the mud tub — yes.

One of our party had a massage afterward. So we left her at the spa and strolled through Calistoga. She calls us to retrieve her a bit later. And sounds just a bit ‘concerned’ on the phone.

She had a rash.

Her partner is a nurse.

We went to the lovely St. Helena Adventist hospital emergency closet, er, I mean room. Cellulitis, necrotizing fasciitis — who knew.

Five hours and god knows how many thousands of non-network emergency room visit dollars later, she was diagnosed with hives.

I’d now been in Sonoma/Napa for 24 hours. And had no wine.

Luckily, the views from the waiting room were phenomenal. I got a bit of sun in the garden. And we stopped for a downright tasty bottle of Menage a Trois cab on our way back to the resort. Oh, and are enjoying bottle number two as I type.

Tomorrow, wineries. Really.

Surviving the final work days/hours before two weeks off is exhausting.

I should be packing. And I am — the lap top is coming along.

This time tomorrow, barring bad weather over the SE U.S., we should be closing in on SF. And my next post, if we’re lucky, will be written with a glass of vino in hand.

Since I’m taking the lap top I won’t be entirely news free — and that’s in some ways a bad thing. I’ve been on CNN overload since the primary season started. By yesterday morning, I was not only disheartened, but seriously questioning what exactly the story is they’re covering minute by minute.

Obama is mathematically ahead. Hillary is not a quitter. The super delegates are flipping to his side.

24-hour news cycles may not be a good thing; in my case, there’s a bit of an addiction. Though it’s comforting white noise, I’m kind of yearning for the ritual of 6:30 post-dinner 1/2 hour and it’s over…

…to quit my job two days before I leave for a two-week vacation?

Today I was actually asked to make a PowerPoint presentation ‘pretty’.

Urrgh.

I’m guessing it’s against blog etiquette to post my resume here? How about a spiffy post extolling on my vast project management experience? My ability to say yes even when I mean wtf? My supreme skill at negotiating deadlines since no one in my office knows what one is? Visualizing and concepting things others can then go execute in some off-strategy / off message approach?

Oh, and if that’s not enough, tomorrow I start my day as the only glbtq or otherwise-oriented person participating in a diversity assessment. They clearly read my survey responses — I got a special invite.

Snow cone stand. On the beach. I swear. Any day now. 

I have allergies. Okay, I also have asthma. I’ve been inhaling various noxious things from tiny canisters for years.

About three months or a year ago (really, I have no idea) I quit using my daily inhaler. And nothing changed. Didn’t use the ‘as needed’ inhaler any more — in fact, possibly less. Occasionally slept with a cat or two — a sure fire trigger. Granted, I’m usually in a antihistamine haze any time a cat is within shedding distance, but seriously, no wheezing, no sign of respiratory distress.

So today I truck into to see the fine Dr. E for my annual battery of breathing tests and a slightly overdue allergy shot. After stressing about it all night, I decided to confess my lackadaisical approach to maintenance medications. Bad move.

I took three breathing tests instead of the usual one. I passed them all — just not as well as I passed them last year. That’s when the scolding started. Was I aware that my lung capacity this year is 20% less than last year at this time? Did I want to guess what caused this? Why did I just quit taking the meds? What if I ‘over-exerted’ and my rescue inhaler hadn’t worked? That could have led to full-on respiratory distress… blah, blah, blah.

Alright already. I am a bad patient. I am a patient in denial.

I blame all of this on cats. That’s the only reason I ever found out I had asthma — come out as a lesbian, discover that 80% of lesbians have cats that sleep with them… well, figure it out. What other choice did I have?

I just mailed the stupid prescriptions off. They’ll arrive when I’m in CA next week — and the tiny little metal canisters will be sitting in a metal mailbox, baking, expanding, hopefully not exploding, until I get back.

I flunked macro economics my sophomore year in college. I’m not proud of that fact, and feel I should say I only took the stupid course on the advice of my advisor in the English Department. Exactly. I had REAL reading to do.

On the truly micro side, where my own finances are concerned I’m typically on top of things. I’ve never bought more house than I can afford, try to save what I can, and invest what I can for the future — on a non-profit salary I’m clearly not retiring to Palm Springs.

But I’m also not willing to let go of certain comforts… yet. Am I the only one holding my breath a bit about what the economy holds?

My parents are somewhat the source of both my fiscal consciousness and borderline paranoia. Both are Depression-era babies. They LOVE to talk about eating nothing but cornbread and beans and how that orange they got in their Christmas sock was the best thing ever.

And truth be told, I remember them robbing my piggy bank when dad had lost his job for a bit in the seventies – cash to pay for the ‘extra’ they couldn’t do without, Sanka coffee. No lie. *shudder*

I’m trying to conserve — driving less, brewing my own coffee vs. hitting the drive thru, eating out less, putting off a few ‘cosmetic’ home projects, cutting back on utility usage, cutting corners where I can.

It’s not a big deal — nothing compared to the choices others are challenged with.

These are the sorts of things I noodle as I drive (way too far) into the office every day, listening to CNN, and yet more depressing economic news. And oh yes, cost estimates for that pesky war we’re paying for. URGGGH.

It’s almost November, right?