On fear and flying

I’m writing this blog entry on a plane from St. Louis to Detroit. By the time you read this, I’ll have copied and pasted it online, but right now it’s nearly 11 pm. We’re running late on our return flight home after a short but, as these definitions go, long weekend in St. Louis. I’m finding myself feeling a little anxious as the plane bumps along the clouds and it occurred to me that there’s comfort to be found in writing about it. I’ve actually been thinking a lot about fear, lately, since that’s really what my “anxiety” is. There was a time when I was so terrified of the idea of flying that I simply didn’t do it – probably from the time I was 15 or so until I was 26. Since returning to the friendly skies nearly 11 years ago now, I’ve had an interesting journey – if you’ll pardon the travel pun – when it comes to my fear. Generally speaking, it has ebbed as I have traveled more and more, as I have become used to both the notion and practice of air travel.

Also playing a significant role has been my evolving spirituality, if you will. For me that’s less about feeling a connection to a single higher deity than it is about developing a sense of my place in the world, my connection to the things around me, my acceptance of not being in control of everything and, frankly, my dwindling need to be in control of everything. Whether or not I believe in God is both boring and, really, neither here nor there.

Suffice it to say that a lot of experiences I’ve had in the past decade or so have helped me arrive at my own version of faith. After all, even in the direst of circumstances, I can’t deny that I have always been okay, that my needs have always been met – whether or not I realized it at the time. Or whether or not I agreed with that assessment at the time. It doesn’t mean that things haven’t been awful or difficult or scary or any of those negative things – just that I have always, always been okay despite all of that.

Over the years, as I quietly built my little "spirituality" sandcastle over in the corner, I’ve heard it said many times that fear is the absence of faith. There are times I agree with this statement and times when I’m not sure, but I think there’s truth in it, and that’s what has me thinking tonight, as my stomach does little hurdles when the plane bounces even a tad. Does my fear mean I don’t know that I’m going to be okay? Is that, in essence, what fear is? And why am I sometimes perfectly fine when flying and, at other times, prone to anxiety that feeds off itself and builds until I’m clutching Chris’ arm and making him tell me again and again that we are okay.

That last sentence would seem to suggest that, yes, fear must be the opposite of knowing that I’m going to be okay, since that’s what I’m asking Chris to tell me. (And by tell me, I really mean that he should be able to guarantee this which, as a man who is both wise and well-versed in air travel statistics, he feels pretty confident doing.) So why am I able to feel sometimes that I’ll be okay and other times that I’m not? Why does the very act of sitting here, laptop propped open and tapping away at the keys seem to help mitigate the effect of the turbulent air that’s shimmying the plane ever-so-slightly from side to side as we go through some cloud cover?

I know that it has something to do with how I feel physically. I’ve learned that if I’m tired (which I am) or if I’ve had too much caffeine (which I have), I’m prone to feelings of disquietude and jitteriness. And that those things suggest to me that I’m not okay and then that recognition turns on itself and I seem to hover on this very tenuous line between this side, on which our heroine will be okay and behave like a grown up, and this side, on which our heroine will give over entirely to the very physical sensations of fear and devolve into a blubbering, inconsolable mass certain of doom until the moment the wheels touch the tarmac at the other end.

In these circumstances, my fear presents itself to me like a temptation. Or maybe even like a fact, gnawing at me from the inside, aching for recognition, waving its arms and knowing that if I will just give it the nod, it can and will, in seconds, take over my entire being. As embarrassing as it is to admit this, my inner mantra in these situations very much relies on trying to keep fear at bay. “I will not give into fear,” I tell myself, over and over again, interspersed with, “I’m okay right now.” Believe me, I’m as embarrassed to admit that as you are for me in reading it. But while I’m at it, I might as well note that it doesn’t always work very well, largely because I consider myself a pretty unreliable narrator. I hear these things in my head, in my own voice, and some other part of me thinks, “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re a wreck!”

I’ve tried very hard to dissect my fear of flying – or, more accurately, my sometimes-fear-of-bouncing-a-lot-while-flying because it seems to me that it’s something that should improve consistently on an upward trajectory. The more I fly, the more I land safely, the less fear should even be an option for me in these circumstances. I should know better. Would that it were so easy. When fear takes over, what I know has little bearing on the panic party taking place in my brain. I’m not absent faith – just faith that I’ll be okay. I seem to have a lot of faith that I won’t. What’s that about? It’s all so, so hard to say. All I know is that now we’re much closer to Detroit and even if that means it’s been a long, long blog entry for you, my gentle reader, it’s been immensely soothing for me.

Things I love when I'm sick

I'm not one to criticize the infinite wisdom of the universe. I'm just sayin'. After what I went through at the beginning of the week, it might strike some (myself included) as unfair that I should wake up this morning with a lousy cold, the day before I leave for St. Louis, no less. Still, I'm hoping that if I can rest up today, I'll get it out of my system and feel good for the weekend. I can live with that. Thus, I thought I'd focus on the silver lining in this snuffly cloud and share with you a few things I love when I'm sick.

My couch. It's an Ikea Ekeskog couch that's about a thousand feet long and ridiculously deep. So deep, in fact, that it makes it a tad difficult for casual sitters to do so without falling into the abyss. Still, when you want nothing more than to lie on a couch, this is the one for it. Ideal for napping, wide enough to accommodate two. Although I'm not sharing today.

My teapot. Last year, Chris bought me a beautiful persimmon crackle green teapot from Beehouse. I've been through a number of teapots over the years, most of which seem to taunt me with their inability to pour without spilling. This is the cream of the crop, something I never would have splurged on myself. And while I love it all the time, it's extra nice when you're feeling lousy to have something beautiful from which to pour large cups of lemon-zinger-green-tea blends that soothe the throat.

My neti pot. A different kind of pot entirely. Nothing soothes nasty, dry sinuses like this ancient tool and, I must say, even though I don't know if it truly helps speed me through a cold, the ritualistic feeling I get when using it certainly makes me feel better. Not recommended if you're completely stuffed up, otherwise you just end up with salt water cascading down your chin. Trust me.

Alka Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine, TheraFlu and Cold & Flu bath soak. The first really works, the second soothes and the third...what can I say? Soaking in some sinus-clearing, chest-easing goodness is as close as you get to feeling good when you're feeling bad.

Netflix Instant Viewing. Ideally, you want to lie in bed with magazines and books, but sometimes that gets old or your headache makes it hard to concentrate, at which point, the urge to lie on the couch watching old movies and TV reruns becomes almost all-consuming. For those of us without cable, it's a bit tough. Fortunately, our Netflix membership includes the ability to instantly watch pics from their library of Instant Viewing materials, including tons of old (and some not-so-old) movies and TV shows. And they just expanded the service so that you get unlimited hours of viewing each month. I just prop up my laptop on the coffee table and go to town. Thanks, Netflix!

And now, back to said couch...

A return to Free Candy

Those of you in the greater St. Louis metropolitan area will be thrilled -- thrilled, I say -- to hear that I'm returning to my old stomping grounds this weekend for another episode/installment/theater of the absurd performance of Free Candy, St. Louis' #1 live, non-broadcast, local interest talk show. Yes, Tom Weber just couldn't take the heat trying to fill my shoes and has skedaddled off to Minnesota. He said something about a job with Minnesota Public Radio but, I mean, I think we all know the real story. Even more exciting, while we'll be at ol' reliable Hartford Coffee Company on Sunday night, we're starting at a new time of 6 pm, so all of you who belly-ache about being out past 8 pm on a school night won't have an excuse not to attend. In addition, Amanda and I are thrilled to be sharing a bill of sorts with the fine folks who churn out 52nd City, truly a labor of literary love, which is one of the finest city lit mags I've seen. We'll be celebrating the release of their latest issue, themed and titled "Stupid," from 5 pm to 6 pm. There'll be some deals and fun in the mix, and I strongly urge you to come out, have some good, clean fun and support both us and them!

Oh, as for Free Candy, we're still firming up our guests -- as we are wont to do until the 11th hour -- but we do know that one of them will be guest favorite Debbie Baldwin from the Ladue News, who's fun personified. Hope to see you there!

A few more fibro thoughts

First, wow. While I seem to have a solid number of blog readers, they're not usually particularly active when it comes to commenting. So I was very moved to read the few but meaningful responses to yesterday's post, especially those from strangers who must have stumbled upon this blog while trolling the 'net in response to the NYT article I mentioned. I thought it was worth noting that the second half of today's episode of The Diane Rehm Show on NPR was dedicated to the topic of fibromyalgia. (Thanks, by the way, to the many friends who tipped me off!) I was intitially frustrated by the broadcast, which kicked off with New York Times reporter Alex Berenson making more broad generalizations about both fibromyalgia and doctors' opinions about it. (Berenson, for the record, seems to cover the business of drugs for the New York Times. He does not appear to be a healthcare reporter and seems to have written a grand total of one article about fibromyalgia. Which brings up another pet peeve of mine, this positioning of journalists as instant experts on any given topic. But I digress.) However, I thought the broadcast generally went uphill from there and I found the comments of the doctors featured to be, for the most part, heartening. In case you missed it, you can listen to it on the DR Show's website here.

And as reluctant as I am to report on my own failures (on which, I assure you, I am an expert), I decided after some debate to post here that I was simply unable to continue my withdrawal from Effexor XR. By last night, I had been withdrawing for nearly three days and I could not handle it anymore. As someone who lives with chronic pain, I can take a lot. But I have never in my life experienced anything as uncomfortable and disconcerting as this withdrawal. I would, I can tell you without exaggeration, have walked through my withdrawal from alcohol or cigarettes again before going on another minute.

By midnight, I was sobbing uncontrollably in bed, my skin crawling, my brain "zapping" every time my eyes moved from side to side. But, worst of all, I was seized with what I can only describe as an unshakeable sense of doom, to the extent that I was convinced I wouldn't live until morning if I went to sleep. Poor Chris was thrown for a loop, probably a bit terrified in his own right, wondering what had happened to his wife. After he did some research, we concluded that the best thing for me would be to take some Effexor and to take another stab at this withdrawal, far more slowly, when I return from St. Louis next week.

I'm not writing about this to garner pity. I'm writing about it because I am a reasonably sane person who has withdrawn from a thing or two in her lifetime -- and I had wondered if the horror stories I read about Effexor withdrawal on bulletin boards could possibly have been true. I'm not exaggerating when I say that what I experienced yesterday was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. And I think it's important to say so. I think it's important to talk about these things, to keep giving a voice to these things. Because if we don't, then I think what happens is the very thing I railed against in yesterday's post -- no one believes us.

Is it real? The past decade of my life suggests so

I'll be honest. I've been having a really difficult couple of days. I'm in the process of switching medications for fibromyalgia and coming off Effexor is proving to be every bit as brutal as all the web sites say. I'm unspeakably emotional, weeping at the drop of a hat. I feel dizzy and confused a lot of the time. And I get these random jolts, like electricity shooting through my body, especially, today, when I move my eyes quickly from side to side. So I suppose you could say I just wasn't in the right mindset to come across today's New York Times article by reporter Alex Berenson, entitled "Drug Approved: Is Disease Real?" As soon as I read the headline, I knew the article was about fibromyalgia.

A little history, if you'll allow me... Eleven years ago, I was rear-ended for the second time in two years. Instead of improving over time, the pain that resulted from the accident spread and worsened over a period of months. I felt, for days at a stretch as though I'd worked out really hard -- that same kind of achy muscle fatigue. Initially, the pain was mostly in my neck, shoulders and back, but it soon gravitated to my arms and my legs. It cycled in and out, so that sometimes the burning in the backs of my legs was so great walking up a flight of stairs was a tremendous challenge, or raising my arms to put away dishes left me in tears.

In addition, a whole host of other odd symptoms emerged -- I was constantly exhausted, but had terrible insomnia; I was introduced to the joys of irritable bowel synrome, the specifics of which I will spare you; I had great difficulty concentrating and my memory was tremendously affected, to the point that I'd wonder if I had some sort of early-onset Alzheimer's. I'd start a sentence and simply couldn't find the words to finish it. I'd start to do a task and, midway, forget what I was doing. My ability to recall basic facts ebbed and flowed and it affected my work tremendously. I was working at a marketing firm at the time and not only did sitting at a desk leave my upper back, neck and shoulders throbbing but whatever was happening with my mind was eating away at my performance. I was making a host of mistakes, forgetting to check things or complete tasks entirely. It was awful. I was afraid all the time of messing up, getting caught and losing my job.

I was fortunate enough, at the time, to be seeing a really terrific holistic physician. Lord knows why I chose her, but I'd gotten sober just a few months before and was on something of a health kick. At first, she thought perhaps what I was experiencing might be part of early recovery, as my body and brain tried to repair the damaging effects of alcohol dependence. But things got worse, rather than better and, after some concern that I was displaying signs of lupus or MS, my doctor finally concluded that my symptoms matched a diagnosis she had only recently heard about: something called fibromyalgia. She put me on Effexor, a now-very-popular drug used primarily for depression, which she told me was said to be effective in the treatment of fibromyalgia. She was, in her way, very ahead of the curve.

I was so grateful to finally have a name for what I was experiencing and I began to research fibromyalgia. There wasn't much information out there and what little there was highlighted the controversy surrounding it: some doctors felt it wasn't a real condition, that it was largely in the minds of sufferers who, for the most part, tended to be women in middle age. Protests from the medical community also surrounded the labeling of fibromyalgia as a disease, since there's no laboratory test to confirm the diagnosis. I wasn't overly concerned about whether or not it was truly a disease, versus a condition or a syndrome. What was far more disturbing to me was the idea that it was merely an "imaginary" condition mostly in the minds of silly, middle-aged women.

Over the next five or six years, I saw a number of different doctors -- from primary care physicians to pain management specialists to chiropractors -- with varying degrees of "belief" about the existence and/or the nature of fibromyalgia. Some were skeptical, but the worst of the lot was a cocky pain management doctor in Indianapolis who told me fibromyalgia was a "junk diagnosis" and then diagnosed me with it anyway. (Which I only discovered after leaving his office in tears and sneaking a look at the diagnostics form before handing it to the nurse at the front desk.) I've been told over and over again that I have it and, occasionally, that I don't. And the truth is, I don't really care if what I have is called fibromyalgia or not. I'm not interested in the label; I don't care what it's called.

But I do know that whatever it is I have, it's very real, despite the occasions I've spent in doctors' offices, reduced to tears by the suggestion that it's all "in my head." And perhaps I could have sunk further into depression and self-doubt, questioning my own sanity (which I did anyway, at times), did I not have a husband who witnessed my very-real symptoms as well as my active attempts to do whatever it takes to make them go away and, barring that, manage them as well as possible.

Again, I don't care what the medical community calls this. I don't care if it's a disease or a disorder or a syndrome. What I do care about passionately is the mindset of the doctors in The New York Times article: that this is just in the minds of the patients and that naming it and offering treatment merely encourages patients to think they have something. One of the doctors quoted even suggests that fibromyalgia patients just don't seem able (willing?) to cope with pain that the rest of the world just deals with by pulling up their bootstraps. It's an insulting, insensitive, dismissive and deeply disheartening comment. And it smacks of the same medical institutional sexism that dismissed menopause as "hysteria" for centuries. As a patient, I can tell you that there is nothing worse than being in tremendous, life-altering pain and being told, often with a hint of disdain, that it is all in your head.

I've admitted that I'm prone to bouts of tears with little provocation right now. But to this morning's article set me off again. I'm not trying to play the martyr, but I've suffered a great deal at the hands of fibromyalgia (or whatever the hell you want to call this group of difficult, unpleasant symptoms) for over a decade now -- and perhaps the biggest disservice I've done to others with this condition (and myself) is my pride-driven ability to hide it from those around me. (Ask nearly anyone who knows me -- only a select few know how much pain and exhaustion I'm usually coping with.)

I'm willing to field accusations of being reactionary but I also think the article is sloppy journalism. I think it takes a very limited and superficial "is it or isn't it?" glance at fibromyalgia, inspired, apparently by the FDA's recent approval of Lyrica as a drug for fibromyalgia -- without talking to patients or even providing a full, clear scope of the symptoms afflicting fibromyalgia patients. I understand the article's assertion that drug companies have a very real and lucrative motive for wanting to promote fibromyalgia as "real." But that doesn't actually mean it isn't. It doesn't mean that the suffering of all these people is imaginary.

I actually went to my doctor last month to talk to her about Lyrica. She wasn't gung-ho about putting me on something relatively new to the market, with no long-term data on its effects and I appreciated her perspective. Instead, we talked about Effexor, which I'd been taking for over a decade, and how much it seemed to be helping me and if it was time to try something new. Thus, we decided that I would come off Effexor and try neurontin, a drug that has many applications, not the least of which is pain relief.

I did some research on withdrawal from Effexor and, by all accounts, it is unpleasant at best and brutal at worst. I've spent the past few weeks weaning off to the lowest prescribed dose and yesterday was my first day without any Effexor in my system. And it has, to be honest, been lousy. In addition to the weeping jags, I feel constantly dizzy and off balance. I have what feel like small jolts of electricity going through my body, especially when I move my eyes quickly from one location to another or turn my head quickly. It is deeply, deeply unpleasant and unsettling...but it seems to be par for the course in getting off this drug, upon which my neurological system has depended for 11 years.

It's possible that these symptoms could worsen, although I hope not. And it's likely they'll continue like this for a while, although whether that means three weeks or six months remains to be seen. So what's my point in telling you all of this? Partly just because it's what's happening to me right now and that's what I write about here. But also, perhaps more importantly, because I think it's pretty obvious that a sane person wouldn't put herself through any of this if there weren't a very real condition for which she hopes to seek relief. No matter what you want to call that condition.

A math problem

Question: If you buy a new rug from Ikea for your office, how long before one of your cats pukes on it? Answer: Four days.

Discuss.

Irritable much?

Man. I'm in a mood today. I'm trying very hard to bear in mind that it's probably largely due to my change in fibromyalgia medications, that I am exhausted from the new one and grouchy from withdrawing from the old one. And the fact that it's grey and rainy again, doesn't help. But really. I just got back from the Y where I had a pretty good workout that left me in a relatively good mood. However, trying to exit the Y parking lot, I got stuck two cars behind an older gentleman. I couldn't see clearly from my car, but the exit gate wasn't lifting, so obviously there was some sort of error -- whether user problem or faulty system, I didn't know. All I know is that we weren't moving and I could see him pressing the call button for help a couple of times.

Since I was at the end of the line, I backed my car up and went inside to tell the front desk. Now, it should be noted there were four YMCA employees behind the desk at this point. I asked them if they knew that there was a man stuck at the exit. To my surprise, two of them replied that they did know. "He's too close to the gate," one said. "He needs to back up." Another said, "You mean the elderly gentleman? When he calls back up here again, we can buzz him out."

To which I responded, perhaps not patiently, that there were cars behind his and that somebody needed to go down there and help him. Which one of them did, but not without a distinct look of annoyance passing across his face.

Now. I know that I'm an uber-bitch when it comes to customer service, but this really got under my skin. They seemed to move into action only once they knew other members were stuck behind this elderly man -- at which point, I tend to think I'd be driven to apologize to my clients for the inconvenience. But that's just me. What really bothered me, though, is that the staff knew there was an elderly man at the exit, having obvious difficulty with the system, and no one considered going out there (which, yes, involves going downstairs and outside and a quarter block down) and helping him. Sure, he's old and doddery, but he's also apparently a paying client.

Am I being ultra-sensitive? Probably. Still, it cheeses me and cheeses me good. I just really hope that when I'm old and incompetent -- or, hell, young and incompetent -- someone will help me out. Is that so much to ask?

Dreary Day -- Xmas Revisited

It's a perfectly dreary day here in Ann Arbor. The temperature is due to peak at a suspiciously balmy 56 degrees. It's been some combination of mist, fog and rain for the past couple of days, slowly melting away at all the snow we had. Looking out the window at the dregs of snow drifts morphing into brown and gray puddles it's hard to believe everything was hidden under nearly a foot of snow not even a week ago. I curse you global warming! I'm also feeling extra-low-energy as I'm in the midst of changing my medications for fibromyalgia. That means weaning off those I've taken for the past eight or nine years while starting the new one and the process is knocking me on my ass. I'm sleeping a ridiculous amount and still feeling like I'm worn down. I know it's part of the process and, I hope, that the ultimate result will be less pain, better quality sleep, etc. But for now it's just a period of adjustment and, to be honest, it's not much fun.

Looking for something to cheer me up -- and realizing that I never got around to posting any snaps of our Christmas trip to Indy -- I thought now might be a good time. Thus, without further ado...

Chris and my oldest niece Jenn, chillin' on Christmas eve.

Christmas morning. Olivia looks devilishly happy with this Leapfrog game.

My nephew Will, rocking the traditional Christmas fedora.

Rebecca and Jenn amid piles of presents.

Mama Peeps (Chris' mom), Rebecca & Olivia enjoying Christmas breakfast.

Wow. Hard to believe they're not actually related by blood, eh?

My younger brother Dave and his spotted dick.

Jane's beautiful Christmas table.

The entertainment.

Marilyn & Olivia.

Rebecca & Mama Peeps. (The red wig was part of my Dad's contribution to festivities. The paper hats come from the crackers and are just par for the course.)

Little Orphan Becca.

Those seeking more entertainment will find photo sets from Christmas eve and Christmas day -- as well as an exclusive fashion photo shoot with Olivia -- on my Flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/readjulia/sets/

Snow, down time and Raymond Carver

On New Year's day we got another inch or so of snow, putting our total at nearly a foot in 24 hours. And I have to say, I love it. Chris always laughs at me because the minute snow starts to fall from the sky, I get a gigantic grin on my face, beaming like a giddy child. Can't explain it, but snow makes me happy. Check back with me in a few days, perhaps, when I actually have to venture out of the house for something more than a quick trip to the gym -- and when the roads are more traveled, turning the roadside piles black and grimy -- but for now, I'm still thrilled. I'm actually enjoying 2008 a lot so far. After the chaos that was December, it's very strange to have no deadlines bearing down on me and actually have time to do what I want. I've been mildly productive, continuing my organizing streak, making piles to go to Goodwill, etc. It also means more down time for doing the things I've wanted to for ages, including afternoons of knitting, sewing, crafting and reading. In fact, I finally got around to alphabetizing my books, something I've been meaning to do since we moved here. (Don't laugh! I just hate it when I look for a specific book or story and can't find it.)

That particular task did remind me that I have so much reading I want and need to do, so many volumes that just haven't been cracked yet. One of my goals for this year -- I'm avoiding the word resolution -- is to try to read the equivalent of one short story a day. (By equivalent, I mean I may have a day when I read five or I may be reading a novel, in which case, I just need to read a significant chunk.)

I've been helped in my initial attempt by The New Yorker's winter fiction issue. I'm now gunning to read more Junot Diaz and Jhumpa Lahiri. (Lahiri's story, about a college student coping with his father's remarriage, was particularly moving to me.) I know, add them to the list, right? There's a really interesting article in there about Raymond Carver's relationship with his editor Gordon Lish and the extent to which Lish cut -- and, it looks to me -- even rewrote some of Carver's work.

It seems Lish cut Carver's manuscript for Carver's seminal "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by a good 40%. It begs the question: was the minimalist style for which Carver is celebrated really of his own doing (and his own intent) or was it created by his editor? According to the article, Carver's widow, the poet Tess Gallagher, suggests that Carver was gut wrenched by Lish's edits on his first two collections, to the point that he nearly pulled the plug on the publication of "What We Talk About." (The New Yorker publishes a letter from Carver to Lish in which he long-windedly and reveals his sense of inner torture about the cut-down versions of his stories and begs Lish to halt publication.)

The article also includes an unedited version of the volume's title story, under Carver's original title, "Beginners." If you're familiar with the story -- which focuses on two couples drinking at a kitchen table and discussing love as the sun sets -- you'll likely be quite stunned at how different the original is, particularly towards the end. It becomes a very different tale with Lish's edits, ending on a different note and with, according to the New Yorker, lines that appear to have been written by Lish. (You can see the line by line edits Lish made to the story here, which include changing character names for what strikes me as no evident reason other than Lish's preference.)

I don't feel I know enough about fiction to say whether or not the original is a better story. I can certainly see some of the places where Lish may have felt there could be some reduction. But what startles me a bit, as a wannabe fiction writer, is how much the ending beat of the story is changed by the editor. Forgive me if it sounds dramatic, but it makes me wonder what the truth is in the rest of Carver's writing -- what he wanted us to experience, versus what Lish wanted to achieve. Gallagher's now hoping to re-publish "What We Talk About" with Carver's original versions of the stories in it, so perhaps we'll find out. For those of us who came to love short fiction in part because of Carver's stories, I'm not sure how much we want to know.

Happy Snowy New Year!

The snow started last night around 11 pm. Chris and I were at home, fire roaring, watching movies when the flakes started coming down. At just before midnight, we bundled up, pulled on our snow boots and headed out into our neighborhood, which was completely still and silent. There was already a good two inches of snow on the ground and it was coming down hard, in big, wet flakes the wind blew sideways. It was if we were the only people in the world. At midnight, we were standing under a street lamp in the middle of the road and we stood listening as people cheered, firecrackers went off in the distance and church bells started ringing. It was magnificent.

It continued snowing through the night and we woke to a good ten inches of the white stuff. As I write this, it's started snowing again, with a couple more inches promised before all's said and done. Cars are moving slowly on the main roads and Chris has burned about a thousand calories shoveling our sidewalk and driveway, but it doesn't look like there's any need to leave the house. The fridge is full, we loaded in plenty of fire wood and we still have movies left to watch, plus a million books to read.

As Chris shoveled, I grabbed my camera and trudged out through the neighborhood to take some pictures of the winter wonderland, naturally. I just think there are few things more beautiful than fresh-fallen snow and it strikes me as particularly fitting on the first day of a new year -- just a clean, sparkling slate wherever you go. Here are a few of the things I saw:

Happy Hogmannay

My mother was not the world's best or most enthusiastic housekeeper. I like to think, therefore, that I come by my own housekeeping aversion the honest way: genetically. However, it's a Scottish tradition to get one's house in tip-top shape before the New Year. It's good luck. Or maybe it represents order in the year to come. Or something. Whatever it is, I usually spend the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve getting my house sorted and in good shape. Closets have been emptied and their contents whittled down into various piles for recycling or donating to charities. I have been ruthless in letting go of things I haven't worn in more than a year, knick knacks that have no meaning and only gather dust, videotapes I haven't watched since, well, anyone watched videotapes. It's embarrassing to note how much stuff one owns, even after the paring back.

It's also embarrassing how much cat hair can gather in corners, merge together in clumps under the bed as though trying to form a brand new kitten. But the corners are clean, the shelves dusted, my desk sorted, files filed. (The dining room looks like a garage sale exploded in it or as though we're trying to open our own Goodwill, but that's my compromise to not getting everything done and out of the house before midnight rolls around.)

Now Chris and I are settling in for the evening. There's a fire working its way towards a roar. We've movies to watch, although it was pretty slim pickings by the time we hit the video store. And there's a winter storm on the way, up to eight inches of snow tonight, with another two possible tomorrow. It is, in my estimation, a good way to spend New Year's Eve. For some reason, ever since I was a little girl and we moved to the United States, I've found it a kind of melancholy occasion. No one does New Year's Eve like the Scots, who call it Hogmannay.

In fact, as I write this, the bells are probably just ringing out across Glasgow. Folks are setting out first-footing, an old Scottish tradition in which you try to be the first one to step foot across someone's doorstep in the New Year, bringing with you a gift of coal or wood (to bring warmth for the new year), something to drink and something to eat (promising plenty of sustenance for the year to come.) When I was little, my Grandpa was usually our first-footer and while my memories of it are pretty shaky, owing more perhaps to the retelling than to actual recollection, it brings up some very bittersweet feelings for times past, and a heavy dose of homesickness for a land that I haven't called home since I was nine. I always think of Scotland and get weepy when I hear Auld Lang Syne, but not necessarily in a bad way. I think it's always emotional to let go of the past and embrace new beginnings.

Thus, I wish all of you a safe and wonderful New Year's Eve. But, especially, to my friends and loved ones in Scotland -- know that I am thinking of you, wishing I was on the streets of Glasgow, watching as people throw open the windows on the Victorian sandstone tenements to let the old year out and the new one in. Happy Hogmannay!

Operation Holiday Spirit: Last Gasp

Where have I been? WHERE have I been? I have been performing the dazzling double-whammy of trying to whip my MFA application into shape AND prepare for Christmas. Since the former took priority over the latter, I wound up in a bit of a panicky funk towards the end. But the end is here. Today, the writing samples went in the mail. It's up to the universe now. Or, you know, the reading commitee.

Now, we're in the process of packing up the gifts and supplies and crap necessary for a Christmas in Indianapolis. We're leaving in a couple of hours to my sister's house, where we'll spend the big day and, I hope, some fun time leading up to said event with the li'l ones. (Although they're not so little anymore.)

My point is...I'm signing out for the holidays. Wishing you and yours a very happy holiday season, whatever you celebrate, however you spend it.

Operation Mandatory Holiday Spirit: In Progress

Although it feels like work and life are, at times, working hard against my holiday spirit endeavors, I'm managing to maintain a little. A progress check to behold:

Boxwood wreath from Ann Arbor Farmer's Market, wrapped hastily in years-old ribbon and garland: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: 12 minutes.)

Four-foot cheapie fake silver tinsel tree from Target, pre-lit for us extra-lazy folk: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: 30 minutes, not including drive time to pick up the damn thing after the website postponed my order shipping until January 8, which begs the question, why would ANYONE need a Christmas tree delivered January 8?)

Pottery bowl filled with whatever ornaments were in the plastic tote, leftover from whenever we last put up a tree 700 years ago, to pass as holiday centerpiece: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: 6 minutes.)

Christmas cards addressed and sent -- well, MOST of them addressed and sent -- complete with A-dorable knitting themed holiday stamps: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: one Law & Order SUV episode.)

A flock of hand made embroidered birdy ornaments, some for our tree, some for gifts: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: several movies and TV shows.)

Old stockings dug out and new stockings sewn, hung by the chimney if not with care, then with minimal attention: check. (Total holiday spirit time investment: you don't want to know; sewing cuffs on stockings was the bane of my existence.)

Not to mention, I have most of my Christmas shopping done! Which is all good, as we head to DC tomorrow where I will spend the week mostly hibernating and finishing up the writing for my MFA application. That puts us back in town on the 18th -- just enough time to actually enjoy, worry free, some of the aforementioned holiday spirit.

Saugatuck Stars

Partly because I had a certain song by The Weepies going through my head, I picked stars as my photo theme for Saugatuck so I could play with my camera settings like a gal with purpose. Given the season, it wasn't that much of a challenge.

Operation Mandatory Holiday Spirit: Underway

For the past several years, I have been absent much holiday spirit. Since we spend Christmas at my sister's house in Indianapolis, I stopped putting up a tree years ago -- so much hassle and hardly worth it if we weren't going to be around to enjoy it. My mom died a couple of months before Christmas in 2003 and although we went through the motions, needless to say, spirit and buoyant hearts were in short order. For the past few years, with the Fellowship and moving to Michigan, etc., there just wasn't "time" to feel the joy.

But I decided that this year would be different. Tucked into bed a few weeks ago, I read the holiday issue of Midwest Living and felt a little stirring inside looking at all the old-fashioned decorations and holiday lights -- and I decided that this year, come hell or high water, I would try to get into the swing of the holidays. And in that very issue of Midwest Living was a spread about Saugatuck, Michigan -- a tiny town on the state's west coast -- all lit up for the holidays. The article noted the town's Sparkle ceremony, which lights up the town square and Chris and I decided we'd do a post-Thanksgiving getaway to Saugatuck, ripe with cheese, and try to force a little small town holiday spirit down our throats.

It should be noted that most people flock to Saugatuck in the summer, when its rep as a first-class Lake Michigan beach town means lodging rates are double and the square-grid streets of the small downtown are packed with weekend holiday-ers from Michigan, Illinois and Indiana. So when we told people that we were going to Saugatuck the weekend after Thanksgiving, the most common response was, "Why?"

Besides the aforementioned quest for a little good cheer, Chris' work schedule is relentless and it's rare to get him away from his desk -- and focus his brain on something else -- for a little while. It requires at least 48 hours away -- the first 24 to unplug, the second 24 to enjoy. Saugatuck, at a 2-1/2 hour drive from Ann Arbor, seemed a quick and smart way to do that.

We looked originally at staying at the Wickwood Inn, which is run by the Silver Palate Cookbook's co-author Julie Rosso, and is considered one of the best B&B's in the country. The Midwest Living spread showed its decadent holiday decorations. But even off-season, the prices were far too decadent for us. After having some trouble finding a cheesy B&B with Friday and Saturday night vacancy, we opted for the rather modern Bella Vita Spa & Suites. It turned out to be a pretty good choice, especially when you can pad across the hall in your robe and get a cranberry facial or a couples massage.

We took great pains to arrive in plenty of time for Friday night's Sparkle ceremony, even though both cats got quite sick and we spent Thanksgiving night at the pet ER with Allie, who spiked a 106 degree fever due to some still-undetermined infection. (Fortunately, our pet sitter is also our vet tech, so when Allie's fever was done by early afternoon Friday, we were okay to go.) Upon arrival, we bundled up to protect against the chill and walked the few blocks to Wick's Park where the ceremony is held. The town was playing its part perfectly -- all lit up beautifully, with luminarias lining the pavement, giant snowflake lights dangling from all the trees, their trunks wrapped in strings of white lights.

There were about two hundred people, mainly families, huddled together around a gazebo when we arrived, being entertained by an ambitious but largely inaudible town choir. Within moments, a spunky, gum-chawing young woman took over as master of ceremonies, but without benefit of a microphone. All we heard was something about God and the troops. (Those of you who are familiar with the Gilmore Girls will appreciate that we were feeling distinctly as thought we were in Stars Hollow.)

The organizers stalled for a while, as we were waiting for the fashionably-late Santa to flip the switch on the square. At least that's what I think we were waiting for. It was hard to hear. Then, sure enough, Santa arrives...via police escort. That's right, a squad car complete with flashing lights and sirens comes dashing down the street to drop off Santa. That should scar a few kids for life. Not to mention confuse them greatly, as they dash out in front of cop cars racing to the scene of a crime, yelling, "Santa!"

And then it happened. In one ill-timed fell-swoop, with the freezing crowd counting down (badly, I might add) from ten, Santa flipped the switch and...voila! Exactly four trees lit up. Yes, four. THAT was it. THAT was Saugatuck's Sparkle. More of a flicker, really. Sigh. So much for magic and beauty. So much for holiday sensations. We hoofed it out of there, bracing against the stiff breeze that came in off the harbor, squeezed into one of the packed downtown restaurants for dinner and were in bed, lights out and seconds from sleep by 9 pm.

We spend Saturday and part of Sunday wandering around the town, me snapping a jillion photos along the way. It was peaceful, silly and fun. Here's what I saw:

A cheeky sculpture by the town hall.

Families shopping, bundled against the cold.

A beautiful wagon wheel on the side of a building.

A hot cup of blood orange infusion tea, which smelled and tasted like heaven.

The harbor, with an old steam ship on the far shore.

A wonderful little shop called the Olive Mill, where we tasted a zillion balsamic vinegars -- fig, black currant, apple -- and olive oils before walking away with a bottle of gorgeous organic olive oil and a decadent tangerine balsamic.

And lots and lots of holiday spirit:

Before we left Sunday, we took a quick drive over the bridge to neighboring town Douglas to get a look at Oval Beach on Lake Michigan, where Chris, a seagull and I tried to stave off the freezing wind:

And, where, just for good measure, a giant billboard in the middle of a residential street reminded us of the real meaning of the holiday season:

In Puerto Rico, they will call me Santa Julia

Yesterday, I performed a miracle. Perhaps not the kind the Catholic church -- with its fussy rules and stringent standards -- would recognize. I didn't turn water into wine or heal lepers or any such thing. No, this was a far greater accomplishment for someone like me: I made it through Thanksgiving while sticking to my food plan. In case the magnitude of this feat has not fully hit you, allow me to repeat myself: I did not gorge myself yesterday, I did not use it as an excuse to eat everything in sight, to drown myself in refined sugar. No, I actually stuck within my daily calorie count and came out a winner. I'm a winner! I also did something else that could bump up against miracle status -- I went to the Y in the morning. Chris and I figured a brief workout was a good defense before heading out to a friend's house for the afternoon meal. It seemed a novel idea and I pictured us practically owning the Y, the only two people in Ann Arbor good and dedicated enough to pursue fitness on this day of gluttony.

It turns out I was wrong, if you can even wrap your mind around that. We weren't the only people there. In fact, the place was LOUSY with people frantically plying the handle bars on the elliptical machine, puffing away to earn one...more...bite...of...yams. Who ARE all these people who take their fitness so seriously? Crazy fuckers.

At our Y, part of the exercise room has a large window overlooking the pool area, which was absolutely packed with men and small children, likely ejected from their households so that the moms could actually get something done. It was a happy sight.

But back to my triumph...what have I learned? How did I stay so healthy, so focused on Turkey Day? One, getting invited to someone else's house is a great idea, because not only do you avoid cleaning and cooking, but you avoid the scads of leftovers that you will -- no matter what you tell yourself -- consume in the night. Two, asked to contribute an appetizer, I brought a giant plate of raw veggies and dip. Now, I know that raw veggies and dip are not exactly fun. Everyone hates them. BUT if you force yourself to eat a handful of raw broccoli and cauliflower, you're so full of roughauge, you can't fit that many crackers with goat cheese dipped in olive oil down your gullet. (Although you might give it a shot.)

Our hostess prepared an abundance of fabulous food, but the interesting thing was that -- blessedly, though not planned -- the bread and potatoes never made it to the table. We had heaping bowls of roast veggies, a giant dish of sausage and mushroom stuffing, loads of turkey, two kinds of cranberry relish (including a low-sugar variety I made and brought so I wouldn't be tempted) and some amazing onions that were roasted in olive oil until they were sweet and caramely and falling apart. We even forgot the starter salad.

In other words, there was tons of food and most of it was relatively healthy, plus I am -- at 37 -- still trying on for size this novel idea that just because food is in front of you doesn't actually mean you have to eat it all. Or even as much as you can without vomiting. Strange, eh?

Sure, there were three pumpkin pies and one apple pie for six people -- which, in days past would have seemed like terrific odds. But I had one bite of each and was done. I realize as I type this that most of these ramblings will be of little interest to many readers. I also know that there are those too who struggle with food and health issues every day as I do. All I know is that nothing makes a difference to my general health, my energy level, my food cravings the way avoiding refined sugar and white flour does. I know not everyone's like this, but for me, they set off some sort of chemical carnival of blood sugar and madness.

But so far I'm two weeks into my latest attempt to avoid either evil substance and at least I know that if I wind up face down in a plate of my sister's brickle bars, I'll likely make my way back to this way of eating eventually. It's not easy to do, but I may finally be old enough where my health and the way I feel and what my body's telling me trumps my self-destructive impulses to consume with abandon. Well, for today, at least.

Chris on Topic A on KDHX tonight!

Many of you who were tried and true listeners of KDHX's The Wire (hosted by Amanda Doyle and Thomas Crone on the St. Louis community radio station) already know that the show's format and focus changed recently. It re-emerged with the same terrific hosts and a new national focus and a monthly theme. The theme for November is new media and tonight's guest is none other than Sharesleuth.com's Chris Carey, live via the modern marvel of telephony. (Worth noting is that last week's guest was our acquaintance and former Knight-Wallace Fellow Jason Beaubian. Small, tiny world strikes again!)

Lucky St. Louisans can tune into 88.1 FM at 7:30 pm for tonight's show. The rest of us can listen to it live online via streaming audio or download the podcast after the show via the website.