Willpower: seeing past the moment of temptation; keeping eyes on the prize.
Thinking that but feeling futile. Frustrated.
Spending every day for a year trying to lose two recalcitrant pounds.
Two measly, miserable, lousy pounds.
Somehow could not muster the will power to lose that weight.
Could not look past at least half of Burdick’s Harvard Square brownie.
Today is Thursday, May 17, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my fortieth consecutive daily posting.
It’s 6.15sm
On TV: “The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm,” with the classic line, “Just tell them I’m your brother.” Sweet.
Working its way to a nicer day than the clouds and 50* it is now.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner tonight is Fish Soup: the leftover Bouillabaisse in a food chopper.
Readers’ Comments
Many have written that they look forward to receiving my blogs, reading them with their morning coffee.
And that makes me feel real fine.
Keep such emails coming, by all means.
But I want to share the emergence on the blog-scene of a human trait we all wish to be without: anxiety.
Anxiety that I’ll oversleep and, with a later posting, disappoint some who have to get out early.
I am truly sorry when that happens, as from time to time it must.
The day’s posting is pretty much done the night before, some tweaks related to time waiting for the actual sit-down and mailing.
But that said, I still need an hour to read it again; to add in any last thoughts (just like this one,)
and to look for typos. Never catching them all.
Add into that my need for sleep.
I get between five and five and a half hours every night.
Given that I take a couple of twenty minute naps, that works fine.
But when I don’t wake until 5.30, I’m delighted.
An extra hour’s sleep can only do me good.
My lesson here: “Don’t let the self-imposed pressure of an early post knock me from a healthy path.”
So I will fight my anxiety stressing me with, “Hurry up and post.”
I won’t let anxiety spoil the fun I have in bringing the post to you.
Again, I apologize in advance for those times I miss you.
I am truly sorry for that.
Spending the early morning with you is the greatest joy I’ve had in many, many years.
I can’t thank you enough for inviting me in.
Wish me good health.
And don’t be angry when I post a little late.
Love you.
Website Tweaks
See several very small changes to the Bouillabaisse recipe.
Hope to have a new Table of Contents page functioning tomorrow after my sit-down with my tech advisor. I’m thinking of renaming it “Navigation,” since I won’t try to keep up with he daily additions to the blog.
Also. as promised, we added a page for Herschel Adams. See “Readers’ Comments.” Nothing is there yet. Hoping that in time he’ll give permission to reprint.
Today’s post
Willpower: seeing past the moment of temptation; keeping eyes on the prize.
Thinking that but feeling futile. Frustrated.
Spending every day for a year trying to lose two recalcitrant pounds.
Two measly, miserable, lousy pounds.
Somehow could not muster the will power to lose that weight.
Could not look past at least half of Burdick’s Harvard Square brownie.
Worse, feeling an upwards pressure from the scale, twice-daily happily threatening to add two more pounds to my belly if I just thought about the other half of that brownie.
I realized it came down to this: I’d reached a point in shaping my diet that to lose any more weight I would have to sacrifice something I loved very much.
Simply didn’t want to.
Willpower for such a sacrifice simply lacking.
And a feeling growing inside me that if I gained those two additional pounds, well @#$%^ it!
One half-step from unconditional surrender to the flesh.
Remembering my friend Michael Ponzo, long since passed, grossly overweight, going on the Atkins Diet.
The extreme type of dieting I’ve always eschewed.
He lost 100 pounds.
He looked good.
In his instant, however, too many years smoking three packs; binge-eating; too many nightly rums and coke.
The sugar killed him, I think.
Since MP’s experience, Atkins had stayed in the back of my head.
Now, years later, thinking I should take a peek at it before submitting to jeans with a bigger waist.
I bought the book to see what I could learn from it.
Plenty.
Specific to me, I discovered that my two principal sources of hydration, Low-Calorie Gatorade and Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, each contained one of the sugar-substitutes anathema to the low-carbohydrate diet.
And that popcorn, which I made and ate nightly, another carbo.
And, of course, the whites: pasta, rice, potato, sugar.
And mints. Tiny mints a lot of sugar.
Atkins’ tenets that I rejected?
I drink wine or a robust cocktail with every meal. Only with my main meal. And for purposes of elegance, or civilization. I rejected tampering with that.
I eat half a sweet roll every morning for breakfast. I rejected tampering with that.
And I rejected counting carbs as Atkins people do.
I simply greatly reduced carbo’s role in my diet.
I gave up desserts, entirely.
Most importantly, I caught the spirit of the movement.
That willpower so important to creating a diet that works for us.
But any extremes come fraught with dangers.
What I did to mitigate some of the obvious negatives:
I accepted taking a daily vitamin on the grounds that it can’t hurt.
A little too late, I discovered I needed to take a stool softener.
But bottom line?
The ideas contributed a lot to me diet.
I lost the two pounds within a week.
Stunning for one whose long-term weight loss averaged half a pound a month.
Six pounds a YEAR.
But over six years, significant.
So. Having lost the two pounds I set out to lose, I plan on continuing my severe reduction of desserts and whites and see if I can come away from the experiment with a slightly amended diet that will maintain the weight I want to be.
Dieting is tinkering.
Seeing past the moment of temptation; keeping eyes on the prize.
Post Scripts
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Or would you like to comment on a posting?
Mail the comment to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Or would you like to view the blog?
Existential Auto Trip: www.existentialautotrip.com
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
dom
_____________________________________________________________________
As soon as we decide, “We’re going,” many of us think, “What must I take? What am I going to wear?”
Well, the great thing about an auto-trip is that we can take an awful lot including as many outfits as we'd like. I mean, within reason.
An entire car our luggage.
But starting.
What is the “Go!” space when packing for ANY trip?
Today is Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my thirty-ninth consecutive daily posting.
It is 5.56am
On TV: Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau in the “Fortune Cookie,” the first of nine movies they made together.
Nice enough, but not a brilliant day: Light clouds and below 60*.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner is a Bouillabaisse shared among seven of us.
Perhaps the last of a series of symposiums-for-content as the blog is spreading and bringing more people into contact, reducing the time and need for such events. Certainly, none are in the queue.
Readers Comments
Here are some reactions to the post re: my well-loved but flawed father.Within an hour after posting yesterday’s blog I got three letters of support, two of them with attachments; only one of them approved for public viewing.
Marc Olivere’s reaction to the post regarding my well-loved but flawed father.
I can relate,
Only in my case it was my grandfather (I was living with my grandparents then).
A plumber by trade, a drunk on the weekends, he enjoyed a brief success when he was appointed plumbing inspector for New Castle County, but a scandal about his fathering two children outside the family ended that and he died three years later after his drinking caught up with him.
M.
Another came in saying a lot, but I don’t have authority to publish it. It began, “This is a powerful story and one that is mirrored in many families of our era…”
In another letter, I get a correction to my attribution of “Sixteen Tons.”
Here is that from a certain ‘Herschel Adams.’
“The song “sixteen tons” (the first record I ever bought was a 45 of Tennessee Ernie Ford singing it; I was ten or eleven). I loved that song.
It was a hit because of Tennesse Ernie, for sure. And Tom Jones also recorded it, about 20 years later.
But the song is by Merle Travis, and there are many many other covers of course. It’s a classic.
But it’s Merle who deserves the credit. Not freakin’ Tom Jones.”
We sincerely hope to be hearing from Herschel often.
In fact, we’ll set up a mini-blog called “Reader’s Comments,” with an eponymous page to collect Herschel’s comments. He is outrageously talented and we cannot afford to treat his entries as disposable.
Today’s post
From experience, three bags form the control center of any trip's smooth functioning.
The number one, the alpha dog, the first being the waist-pouch (or purse or pocketbook.)
My belt threaded through its back, it securely hangs at my waist.
This little bugger contains tickets for today’s events, cash as in folding money, a comb, as in make ourselves beautiful, credit cards and business cards, iphone, a folded sheet of blank paper and a pen for notes, and our car keys.
Everything we ever wanted at our fingertips but wondered how.
For those who carry purses or pocketbooks everywhere, our bond to these is spiritual: we are never without ours and that ‘never’ is our bond as sure as my belt is my bond to my waist-pouch.
Why ascribe to the waist-pouch (or favored daily pocketbook) the title of 'first?'
Because we use it constantly, like frequent purchases at rest stops and gas stations.
Like for identification - our driver's license; or to share contact information with a just-met friend - our business cards.
Like open the car door and swing those long, cramped legs out to the pavement, armed with our bag, free to pee or do anything else we want to do.
Why? Because it's convenient.
Like walking around town with our light backpack over our shoulders.
Stop to pay for something and we don't have to swing the pack from our shoulders to fish around the stuff waiting in our waist-pouch for cafes, restaurants, admissions, and shops.
Because it contains the most important of the personal property we plan to take.
That so, it is always with us, like a pair of shoes, even while driving.
Attached to us even at a urinal or on the bowl. I do what I must do to keep that baby dry, because it's never coming off.
Losing it will bring serious problems when we're far from home and vulnerable.
So, so important.
We’re not leaving this baby behind, anywhere.
Several other noteworthy characteristics.
It doesn't need to be constantly replenished.
It requires no space in the car for backup materials.
Its contents each has an assigned space in the bag, and since we use it again and again, we immediately note if anything not in its place before we close the top.
It's used identically at home. This the one bag that doesn’t need packing.
Second in importance, because after the waist-pouch we spend more time with it than any other bag, is the light backpack.
The light backpack contains our reading book and reading glasses, sunglasses, Vaseline (my lips are always dry,) a piece of fruit, a bottle of water, a toothbrush and toothpaste, (I hate my mouth when it isn’t fresh tasting,) a sweater against air conditioning, and a large cloth shoulder bag that folds or crumbles to very small, to be used to carry unlooked-for-shopping. I hate having my arms occupied with carrying things.
Nothing expensive in this bag, but everything useful for a walk-around.
And like the waist pouch or shoulder bag, the light back pack needs very little room in the auto for back up materials. We’ll replenish supplies for the light back pack in local markets.
Second in importance because every time we leave the car to walk-about we take this bag with us: around the center of town, to museums, to cafes and restaurants.
The light back pack comes into the hotel room with us.
Like the waist-pouch it is always loaded with the same list of goods.
And like the waist-pouch, we never close it up without knowing from total familiarity that the bag is complete.
We don’t lose anything.
We don’t forget anything.
We don’t have to pack this bag until the day before we leave.
Now for the heavy-duty backpack, the third bag, given the task of moving the clothes, toiletries, and Surface Book laptop to the hotel from the car; from the hotel to the car.
Some may consider this bag the first in importance.
Who does will get no argument from me.
Why?
Think about the trip.
A regularly repeated and undeniably stressful moment, is the transition from the car to the hotel room and its reverse.
From the car, it’s very easy to forget something we’ll need for the overnight, necessitating an extra trip or two.
From the hotel to the car, it’s so easy to leave something behind.
And that sucks.
To mitigate against leaving something behind, much of the contents of the heavy-duty backpack stays in the bag, minimizing the time it takes to load and unload it properly, and obviously reducing the risk of leaving something behind.
And like the waist pouch and the light back pack, the contents having reserved places in the heavy-duty backpack means we will sense if anything is missing.
That augurs well when repacking.
These bags well organized, the packing logistics are almost complete.
Here is a link to a sample chart of what might go into each of the three bags. Copy the link and drop it into the address bar selecting “Paste and Go.”
I’ve lost the original file I created for this chart so please bear with me.
It’s not that important, anyway.
Said the fox to the grapes.
Post Scripts
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Or would you like to comment on a posting?
Mail the comment to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Or would you like to view the blog?
Existential Auto Trip: www.existentialautotrip.com
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
dom
_____________________________________________________________________
Thump. Pause. Thump. Pause.
Years ago, my father coming up the three flights of stairs to our four-room apartment.
During the week a sound sequence we looked forward to: his return from work.
His pants cuff caught bits of leather from the hoes he worked on and I loved kneeling in front of him and picking the pieces out.
After dinner my father, my three sisters, and I would spend many nights playing board games or cards.
During the week.
Thump. Pause. Muttering. Thump. Pause. Muttering.
Years ago, my father coming up the three flights of stairs to our four-room apartment.
On weekends, a sound sequence we dreaded: his return from drinking.
From Friday after work until Sunday afternoon my father drank excessively.
A drunk, he.
And a nasty one, at that.
Come home to disrupt an already overexcited environment, four unruly, aggressive, hostile children constantly fighting among ourselves to be Lord of the Flies, we under the tutelage of a good but overwhelmed mother, he to eat, and to sleep, and then go out again.
Today is Tuesday, May 15, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my thirty-eighth consecutive daily posting.
It’s 5.54.am.
Marlene Dietrich is playing in “The Shanghai Express.” I am convinced that Marlene Dietrich possessed the most expressive and alluring facial expressions in movie history.
A nice day today if you don’t get caught in one of the passing thunderstorms.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner will be a Tuna Fish Sandwich. A recipe will follow at some point. For now it’ll wait in the lengthening queue.
Blog Notes
I’m making Bouillabaisse again tomorrow night and, using the recipe from the blog, I made several unimportant tweaks to it. Just a heads up.
Today’s post:
A pearl from my father discovered too late for me to thank him
The great thing about my father: routine-based.
He drank EVERY weekend.
Counting holidays as weekends.
So growing up, we never knew what Christmas’ Silent Night meant.
Nor did we ever have a smiley day of giving thanks.
I mean, we had a turkey.
But my father had an uncanny nose that told him exactly when we were sitting down to enjoy my mother’s great cooking.
And just before the first forkful reached my mouth,
Thump. Pause. Muttering. Thump. Pause. Muttering.
Day over.
Early on Monday mornings, crowded among four kids getting themselves ready for school and a mother tying her best to get breakfasts for us, he was persona non grata, as he prepared himself for work, five of us vying for the kitchen sink, the only one in the apartment. The toilet was outside in the building corridor and was only that: a toilet. We had no shower. Few in the North End had a shower.
Image of his face smothered in the lather that he whipped up with a brush and soap.
Images of one kid after the other elbowing him aside to brush her teeth or tend to a pimple.
And my mother drawing water for soft-boiled eggs.
Each of us abusing him, repaying him for his weekend misdeeds.
He absorbing it all, not defending or retaliating.
He deserved it.
He accepted it.
He was an abusive drunk.
And resigned to it.
My father, getting off to work.
At one of the lowest paid, most unsteady blue-collar jobs in America.
He, the inspiration for Tennessee Ernie Ford’s version of the Tom Jones lyrics.
“You load Sixteen Tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.”
Not the kind of position where his heart is thumping with the excitement of a gratifying position and the prospect of adding to our family’s wealth.
For this he shaved every day.
In the kitchen sink, the only sink in the house.
That had to service four rude and hostile children and an embittered mother, each of whom had her own need for access.
Not pleasant for any of us.
He tolerated it as fitting.
But on Mondays, and every work day for the matter, but Mondays worst for him because of his suffering from spending the weekend abusing his less than robust body.
He toughed it though.
My father never missed work.
Never.
He was never sick.
Or at least never complained about his health.
If he did, who’d care?
He’d go to work every day.
In inclement weather.
Rain. He couldn’t balance an umbrella.
Snow and ice, his deadly enemies.
Sometimes had to ask a passerby to permit him to hold onto his arm to cross a snowbank.
But he ALWAYS went to work.
He and his wooden leg.
Not a svelte, lightweight, modern apparatus, but basically a tree trunk.
We lived three flights up and we could hear him come home from his first step.
We could feel the building vibrate.
Thump, the wooden leg hit.
Quiet as he pulled himself even.
Thump.
Going to work.
What a lesson he illustrated.
Priceless.
A pearl in our development.
Remembering “The Bronx Tale.” De Niro’s son praising the Mafia don for his strength. De Niro ripping him a new one, angrily pointing out that the real man who shouldered his burden and went to work every day.
My father that.
He never missed work.
Not the kind of father who sat and discussed things over dinner.
Dinners for us were rough.
Not such a teacher.
He the do as I do, kind.
And ultimately, we did.
None of us shirkers.
Workers, we.
Never sick.
Never taking days off.
Every day, do our duty: go to work.
A great teacher, he.
Unpraised.
Ridiculed.
But toughing it through.
Years later, the recognition of that pearl of a lesson struck me with a thump.
I wish I understood that back when.
Post Scripts
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Note that reader’s comments are invited.
I’ll soon have a page to display them
www.existentialautotrip.com. For viewing
dom@existentialautotrip.com For commenting
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
Dom
_____________________________________________________
Can teenagers find true love?
Can a brilliant achiever convince her less shiny partner he’s attractive to her?
And those unfortunate people who have been around medical disasters know that the capital ‘C’ word is not an obscene reference.
Illustrations in today’s posting.
Today is Monday, May 14, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my thirty-seventh consecutive daily posting.
It’s 5.30am
Marlene Dietrich is playing in “The Scarlet Empress.” Too good; too distracting. Music, please. Thank you.
A nice day today.
The Boston Celtics blew out the Cleveland Cavaliers yesterday. First game of seven-game series.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner today will be a Chicken Salad Sandwich. I made a Chicken Soup last night with too much chicken.
Blog Notes
I don’t know if anyone received two copies of yesterday’s post. Sorry, if you did. The bright side: two is better than the three of the night before.
Today’s post
Two chapters of the Conflicted manuscript. Select 'Writing,' choosing, “A Lover’s Question and the capital ’C’ Word.”
Story Background
It’s the day after two connected, exhausting, and violent episodes in which Dee, practically on her own, violently brought two evil men to justice. This morning, Dee and the girls, minus Lori-Baby who has spent the overnight at the hospital with Sgt. Jesse, the pair supporting one of the victims in yesterday’s escapade, sit with morning coffee. The phone rings. Dee only met Phillip yesterday and although both still teenagers, they both knew they belonged together. In the chapter Phillip fully discovers who Dee is and Dee convinces Phillip of her love for him.
The chapter following the Dee and Phillip piece deals with a tragic turn in girlfriend Laini’s health.
Note that the writing style a little different. The words ‘said’ and copulative verbs like “am, are, is, be’ rarely appear. But I promise after a couple of pages you’ll find the story reads real fast and you’ll easily adapt to the style. Maybe after three pages.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
6.30am, Friday, 7 July 2017
Dee woke late, six-thirty, still tired but sheets dry, that part good, and started her morning routine, listening to the TV news through headphones, watching the set when they played coverage of yesterday’s confrontations, confirming that the reporters didn’t have a clue of whom. Thanks to the informal police cordon the cell phone videos too distant and too jerky, while the police remained a veritable black hole of information. First Stella and then Laini, each with a coffee, joined her.
At seven-thirty the phone rang, Dee answering. “Good morning,” smiling. “I thought you might forget.”
Phillip, “Not after yesterday and last night. I’m hooked.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
“Well, you finally caught up – I fell when I first saw you on the sidewalk outside the café. But let’s see how you feel after I whip your rear end.”
Laughing, “What time, peewee?”
“I’ll go to the hospital in a few minutes to relieve Stella, and later the girls will relieve me…From now? About two hours – near ten. I know they’d like me at the station for a debriefing and the Captain would love to congratulate me; maybe call the mayor. Try to accelerate a meeting. But I need a break from the police for a couple of days – basketball my diversion and recharge. Can you be here about nine-thirty?”
“I’ll take a book in case I have to wait.”
“Oh, wait. Do you have access to a car?”
“No. My parents need our car this morning. But I can find one.”
“Don’t bother. Come here. Use my car to drive Laini or Stella, whoever’s coming to the hospital to relieve me. Stay in the car and when my girlfriend comes up to Lindsay Jean’s room, I’ll come down.”
“That sounds smooth. Tell the girls I’ll be downstairs at nine-thirty. Do we need a basketball?”
“Phillip don’t wait downstairs. Come on up when you get here. The concierge will let you in. You’re like one of the family. No. no basketball. The school has them and I have access. But do take a towel and a change of clothes. I’m treating you to a nice lunch after we play.”
“Wow! Thanks. Is every day this exciting for you?”
“Not before you came into it.”
“Totally sweet. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
“Me, you, too. Bye-bye. Oh, wait. Phillip, I saw the footage of us on the news. They don’t have any of our names and our faces are too fuzzy for anyone to make out. Which is good…Right. If anyone asks, deny; deny; deny…Thanks. See you.”
“Phillip?” asked Laini, the girls sitting on the sofa with their coffees.
“Of course,” Dee.
“Of course,” Laini, smiling.
“Basketball?” Stella.
“Yep.”
“So fast, Dee,” Stella. “Will it happen to the rest of us so fast?”
“I think it’ll be different for each of us, to fit our personalities.”
“So. What’s on our agendas today?” Laini.
Slipping into the passenger side she refused Phillip’s suggestion that she drive. “No, you, please. I’d rather just relax. I’m still tired, Phillip.”
“Do you even have a license?” Phillip.
“A permit. All of us have one.”
“A permit doesn’t give you the right to drive with passengers under eighteen.”
“We drive. It’s okay.”
“What if you get pulled over?”
“No. We won’t. We don’t. We’re very careful.”
“And connected.”
They parked next to the gym and, after a little bumbling, Dee found the slow-moving maintenance person she needed for access to the gym and equipment, thin, crew-cut blond hair on his head, a match for his stubble. She watched him scan Phillip and form the question for her,
“You’re that Dee?” she acknowledging. “Ms. Ester told me about you. Anything you need you ask me. I’ve been here forever. Name’s Dexter.”
The girls’ lockers a floor below, they both changed in the boys’ locker room, separated by a bank of lockers They went into the gym together where Dexter waited by the cart of balls he had gotten for them, he volunteering, symptomatic of his addiction to basketball – having played high school ball, -- asking if they would mind a spectator. Not at all.
On the court after a seven-month absence, Dee reached for one of the wonderfully familiar balls and, staring down at it, paused for a silent, profane prayer of thanks.
For thirty minutes Dee and Phillip loosened up: dribbling, passing, and shooting: foul shots, short and long jumpers, three-pointers, and running layups, both sweating a bit before mutually calling an end to the warm-ups.
“How long has it been since you played,” he holding the ball under his arm.
“A few months,” she using a face cloth kept damp in a food storage bag to wipe the salt from her eyes.
Phillip took it when she offered, following her example, saying, “You’re always prepared. Question. How can you grip the ball so firmly with one hand? I’m a lot bigger and I can’t do that.”
“A flaw.”
“A flaw? I’ll take that flaw.”
“My hands are too big for my body, especially my left,” she holding up her left hand to match his: hardly a difference. “And my hands and fingers are unusually powerful. Last year the basketball coach, a mean person, screamed at Stella for making a mistake. My anger built up and I squeezed the basketball so tightly it exploded. Everyone assumed I punctured it with a knife.”
“No way!”
“Afraid so,” Dee. “By the way, my last game, I think, last December. Almost seven months.”
“I’d never guess. You look terrific. Why did you take so much time off?”
“How about I answer that question at lunch?”
“Okay, mystery woman. Ready for that little one-on-one?”
Her answer: pulling the ball from him and dribbling out to half-court, pausing, turning and freezing him. In place of the expected smile, he caught an unfamiliar adversarial expression, a tiny taste, a soupcon of the fear that yesterday she served up by the plateful to those bad guys. But she gave him no time to dwell on it, she on the run, dribbling towards the basket until he stepped to cover her at the top of the key where she jumped and shot. Short, he grabbing the rebound off the front rim, dribbling casually to half-court, turning back to assess. Too slow he, she swooping past, scooping the ball as she went, dribbling around him and driving in for an uncontested layup, zipping the ball back out to him. He quickly dribbled at her, stopping to jump-shoot from the foul line, hitting, saying, “One up.”
At two to one, Dee scoring on a mid-range jumper, he again dribbled at her, jumping at the same sweet spot as his last basket. She took two steps and leaped forward and up, swatting the ball to the ground as it left his hand where it bounced high in the air, she leaping again, retrieving it before it went out of bounds.
“Wow! Nice block. How did you get up that high?” a drive to the basket her response.
Along the way to her 21-11 win, she stole the ball twice, twice spun around him leaving him flat-footed, out-rebounded him, hit two from the arc and three from the top of the key, while on the other side of the ball harassing his dribbling, blocking some shots, and forcing him into shots outside his comfort zone.
“Goddamn, you play. You whomped me.”
Dee wincing, “Phillip, please don’t say that.”
“Sorry?”
“God. Say it respectfully or not at all.”
“Alright. Sorry.”
After showering one at a time, and dressing for lunch, they exited the building, waving goodbye to Dexter who yelled out, “Nice work, Dee. Smells like a championship,” she thumbing up.
“You look great,” Phillip, opening the passenger door for her.
“Thanks, twice,” on her toes holding his arm and kissing his cheek.
“Thanks for that. Still heading for the Summer Shack?”
“Yep.”
“You know, you don’t have to spend so much money for lunch for us.”
“Phillip don’t worry about me and money. I can count.”
“Do your parents ever complain when they see the bills?”
“No, they don’t, Phillip. Especially since I drive my own car, live in my own apartment, and only spend my own money.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Why should you? FYI, I’ve recently inherited a lot of money, a fortune, from my aunt. A burden in some ways, but I’m learning to handle it,” her eyes sparkling.
In the car, Phillip focused on getting safely onto the highway and making a tricky left-handed U-turn. For a couple of minutes afterwards neither of them spoke; his silence a prompt.
“Something wrong?” Dee.
Phillip, “Nothing,” pausing, deep breathing. “Okay, Dee. This gnawed at me all last night.”
“Go ahead, please.”
Calmly, “You’re amazing. You’re drop-dead gorgeous: every guy we pass turns his head; and the girls, too. You’re wealthy: a great car, great dinners, a great apartment at Harbor Towers.
“Very smart: your mind works amazingly fast; and fearless: confronting violent criminals on the street and going up for rebounds against me, twice your size; and very strong: like you break bones on the street and you out-muscle me on the court.
“You’re also some kind of hero to the police. I heard what the uniformed officers said to you when you got into the ambulance; and I see how experienced detectives defer to you. Sixteen-years-old.
“You’re some kind of telepathic: I saw you frighten that guy on the Common, whatever you did to him, and you knew that you’d find Lindsay Jean naked and abused – why you told me to wait downstairs, and wanted only female officers in on the rescue.
“And everyone wants to be around you; and so do I,” maneuvering the car around aggressive rotary traffic.
“That’s what’s wrong?” Dee edgy.
“Yeah. Two things make that wrong. One, couldn’t you at least leave me basketball? I mean, you have everything else going for you; did you have to be great in basketball, of all sports? Tennis, anyone? Lacrosse? Girls’ hockey? The coincidence disheartening; makes me want to swear. But if I do you’ll break my finger.”
“Basketball’s not so bad. We’re pretty close.”
“Not even. But anyway, we’re not supposed to be close. I’m bigger, more experienced; I play for a men’s college team, for crying out loud. Oops, not blasphemous, is it? Sorry, bad joke. Dee, I came to practice today expecting to toy with you.”
“Well, pull over and do it.” He smiled, reluctantly. “Gotcha!”. . . . .
They followed the hostess in the clean, unpretentious, and active dining room with its signature brown-butcher paper-covered tables and saliva-inducing aromas of Chef Jasper White’s pan-roasted lobsters , seafood, and fried chicken, to a booth where they sat side-by-side, Dee’s request. She lifted her finger asking the waitress to wait while she scanned the wine list, quickly ordering a bottle of Australian Sauvignon Blanc. They set their menus aside without looking at them.
Dee looked at Phillip, “And the second thing?”
“Look at this place, Dee. A perfect example of the first thing.”
“Of what? Not the M word, I hope?”
“No. I know – you’re rich. But simply and basically, beyond your money, you’re over-the-top otherworldly. Look at what you just did.” Her confused expression both exasperated him yet made him smile, and smiling, saying, “You don’t even realize your impact on everyone around you. If I came here with my friends and we ordered a round of beers, the police would storm the joint in three point two seconds flat. Sixteen-freakin’-years-old, Dee. Sixteen! You order a whole bottle of wine and they bring it to you without blinking an eye. So awesome, man. You drive without a license, without giving it a second thought, like drinking a glass of water.” By now he frowning, shaking his head, his lips quivering.
Taking his arm and hand, “Phillip, what is it?” He took a deep breath and tried to speak but tears flowed instead. “Phillip, sweetheart, don’t shut me out. Your scaring me. Say something,” her face almost touching his, her hands balling the dress shirt he had put on for this lunch.
Looking hard at her, blinking his eyes clear, “You belong with a Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, or Edward Cullen. Why settle for me? Are you playing games?” His voice broke but he caught himself and went on. “Because I’m falling in love with you, Dee, and if this is just another fling for you,” he sucked his breath, “I’ll hurt real bad when we come to the end of the line.”
The wine came and Phillip looked away. Dee tasted it. “Fine, thank you. Could we have a couple of minutes, please?” The waitress poured the glasses and left.
Dee leaned into Phillip, “That’s a lover’s question, Phillip – straight from your heart; and I’ll give you a lover’s answer, straight from mine. Please listen carefully, my dear,” laying his arm behind her head and across her shoulders while sliding hard against him, one hand on his chest and the other on his shoulder.
“Before you, two boys I’ve kissed. In all my life. One, at a Halloween party for ten-year-olds at my parents’ house. And one other time, emotionally involved with a great guy, a Prince, in fact.”
“A prince of a guy or a Prince with a crown? I don’t put anything past you, Dee.”
“Well, both, as a matter of fact. But he doesn’t really count, unless you count fairies.” His befuddlement exactly the tease Dee shooting for, she explaining, “Not gay, mind you, a real fairy.”
“Dee, what a piece of work,” he nervous chuckling, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, adding, “How can I keep up with anyone so amazing. That the catch? You’re not real? I’ll wake up and find my own fairy princess gone? A new nightmare for me.”
“Shut up,” she gently pulling his face close to her lips. “I won’t explain the Fantasyland piece because I don’t want to get off point. The point? My dear, last night was the first time I have ever kissed anyone in that intimate way; and I expect you to be the only person in my life that I ever kiss like that.
“Now toast us, the couple, drink some wine, and be my forever Phillip. Because if the true history of my former lurid love life and the intensity of my feelings don’t tell you who and what you mean to me, give you all the reasons you need to understand why I want you in my life, I need you in my life, then I can’t help you.” He took her hand and kissed it long. “You kissed me like that in front of God and all these people?”
“Yes, Dee, in front of all the world. I don’t know if what you just said explains why you chose me, but I won’t doubt you anymore.”
“Good, Phillip. Very good. Because otherwise I’d think that you were searching for compliments,” pausing, eyes sparkling. “Here’s one anyway: you’re a handsome devil; and all my girlfriends agree.” He laughed.
They ordered: a dozen half-shell little necks and oysters to share, fried chicken for him and pan-roasted lobster for her, also plate-sharing.
“But you promised to tell me why you didn’t play basketball for the last seven months. Seems like a good time to fill me in.”
Lunch could have gone on for days, Dee telling the story of her abduction and recovery, answering every question Phillip asked, like, “How did your rescuers find you?” and “Why did they target you?” and “Fantasyland?”
After they finished their main courses Dee, “Shall we go in town for dessert? Do you have the time?”
“Absolutely. I never want to leave you.” She smiled and asked for the bill. They looked
at each other as she signed the credit card slip and laughed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
3.30am, Friday, 21 July 2017
Although not unexpected, the ring of the land phone jarred the three-thirty morning quiet, prompting Dee and Lori-Baby to help Laini to her feet, Stella on the phone telling the concierge they’d be right down.
At the elevator Dee’s cell came to life, Dee confirming the source, then saying, “Hi.
Thanks for calling. So. Laini’s not well. We’re taking her to Mass General Emergency…Don’t know. But they might give us grief about our staying with her; or treating her without her parents with us. Great if you come to run interference,” Dee following Lori-Baby and Stella, they guiding Laini onto the elevator.
“No, thanks. Our taxi’s downstairs. We’ll be there in five minutes…Okay, tha...” sliding the phone into her jeans, saying to the girls, “Lost signal. He needs fifteen minutes.”
Starting from their taking the Harbor Towers elevators to the lobby, an hour and forty-five minutes in the making this tableau of dumbfoundedness, this life-stilled picture of distress, dread, and disorientation: four tightly-squeezed girls, added together the quartet a mere sixty-four years old, they silent, slumped, hand-holding, teary, uncertain where to look until he spoke, they fixating on the doctor’s mouth, each of them holding a part of Laini, she, the sixteen-year-old patient, the focus, her feet dangling off the side of the bed, the doctor standing, facing them, he, without the age and experience to remain composed, rathering standing anywhere else on earth than here, staring into these eight moist eyes, wishing he could just leave a note, wishing at least that medical school had taught him a softer way to say to her, “Your CBC shows a white blood cell count of 40,000. Whether an aberration caused by infection or something else, it’s a dangerous condition. To correct it we must run some tests. Immediately. Today,” he wishing to do anything other than cause the distort of the innocent countenances of the three young women hiding their faces in gentle hands and grabbing chunks of their girlfriends arms, or anything other than terrify the fourth, the subject, she paled, he frozen, he, the young medical wishing at least one of the poets had been inspired to create a gentler synonym for the capital C-word.
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Note that reader’s comments are invited.
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God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
Dom
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Ode to Duck
Quack. Quack.
I think duck is my favorite dinner.
Although I do love turkey. And Bouillabaisse.
Yes. Duck, turkey, and Bouillabaisse are my three favorite dinners.
And chicken. I do love great chicken. Charred rare steak? Oh, yes. Right up there.
Food, glorious food.
The thing about duck is that many people don’t like it.
Gamey and fatty are two insults hurled at it.
But those who do like it tend to absolutely love it, describing it as flavorful and melt-in-the-mouth succulent.
I’m in that love camp.
The thing about duck is that for cooks who have never had such a simple recipe as this to work with, cooking duck seems esoteric, out of reach.
It’s not at all.
Everything needs to be thought through; to be organized.
And I’ve worked to make this recipe thoughtful and organized.
The thing about duck is the fat.
And the thing about duck fat is that it is a most-delicious cooking fat.
Next time we feel like a fried egg, we’ll reach into our freezer, carve out a TB of the duck fat we have there, and use that for the egg.
Died and gone to heaven.
Point is: don’t resist the unavoidable, turn it into a strength by cutting off the loose flaps of skin and slowly frying them, turning them into a molten liquid.
That we pour into a food container and freeze.
$14.00 for a small tub in a market.
Free with Roast Duck.
The thing about the fat still on and pervading the duck?
This is moistening and flavoring the duck meat as it cooks.
The juicy, opulent meat is the genius of the dish.
The thing about duck?
It is absolutely, extraordinarily, and incomparably delicious.
Now go and buy one.
If we can only find a frozen duck, get it 24 hours ahead of time and defrost it.
Today is Sunday, May 13, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!
This is my thirty-sixth consecutive daily posting.
It’s 5.45am and our friend Kay Kane has just sent a great idea for the blog. More on that idea later.
Some of you got yesterday’s posting three (3) times.
Ouch! So sorry.
I’m learning.
Thanks for your patience.
Note that terrific photos of Sally and Tommie are now posted in their sections to Writing: Sally’s Corner and S Carolina Homespun.
Marlene Dietrich is playing. “The Blue Angel.” I turned it off as too distracting.
A strange weather day: foggy, sunny, cloudy.
I’m at my desk.
Today’s dinner is leftover Chicken Cacciatore from yesterday’s dinner party.
Brane-Cantenac, a Grand Cru Classe Bordeaux, not an every day wine.
But vintage 1964: Fifty-four years old?
My dear friends, Mike and Kathy brought it over for dinner.
Wow!
Reminds me of some writing on wine that I’d like to share.
Soon.
Today’s post
SIGNATURE ROAST DUCK
The night before the dinner:
Prepare the five aspects of duck.
The stock.
The night before, wash and dry the duck.
Remove the neck and the giblets and cut off the wings.
Put all of these, except the liver, into a plastic bag and freeze.
Later, when we’re finished eating the duck, we’ll use these pieces, with the leftover duck carcass and other pieces, to make the duck gravy.
Chef’s perk.
Sauté and eat the liver as the chef’s perk.
Duck Fat
For the third gastronomic event, cut off the large fatty flaps of skin found at duck’s cavity and around the duck’s neck, and cut off the duck’s ass and add it to the cache of fat as well.
Cut the fatted flaps into small pieces, 2 inch squares, put them in a fry pan, and render them at a simmer.
It takes about a half hour.
What we get is liquefied fat that is easy to put into a container and freeze for future gastronomic events like eggs fried in duck fat.
Prep for Roast
Still at the night before.
Brush the duck with a combination of 2TB salt, 2TB of baking powder, and 4TB water.
The air and the mix will dehydrate and break down the duck’s exterior, preparing it for a good browning.
Set the duck on a rack in a roasting pan and refrigerate the brushed, uncovered duck overnight.
Seasoning
Prepare a blended powder of equal parts: curry, cumin, ginger, garlic, onion, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
Roast the Duck, the ‘At our Convenience Method.’
As soon as we wake up, we can slow-roast the duck we prepared last night in a 200* oven for 27minutes per pound.
A 5.5 lb. duck will spend 148min in the oven, or a little short of 2 and a half hours.
When the time is up, we take the duck out of the oven and loosely cover it with aluminum foil.
Go about the day.
Finish the Duck
Remember that every oven is different so we’ll adjust the times quoted below to our own ovens.
Unfortunately trial and error is involved.
Finishing the duck will take about 45 minutes, including 20 minutes for the duck to settle.
Set the oven rack on the lowest shelf.
Turn on the broiler.
When the oven is very hot, set the roasting pan with the duck on that lowest rack.
Broil the duck breast side up for six minutes.
Be sure that the side facing the broiler is level.
Check the duck for color.
If one end is browner than the other, raise the less-cooked end so it’s higher than the other.
To level the duck, I use a tiny bowl tucked under.
Return the duck to the oven and continue to brown it until it’s evenly brown all over.
In my oven this takes only 2 minutes more.
Flip the duck so the backbone is facing the broiler.
Make sure the duck is level.
Brown the bird for 6 minutes.
Check it for color. My oven needs 4 minutes more to nicely brown the duck.
When both sides of the duck are nicely browned, take the duck out of the oven and check the temperature of both the breast and the leg.
We are looking for approximately 125* for the breast and 135* for the leg.
Brush the prepared spice powder over the duck now.
Turn the oven to bake and set the temperature for 500*.
Return the duck to the oven and roast for 6 minutes.
This finishes the cooking and colors the duck all over as well.
Take the duck out of the oven and check the temperature of the breast and the leg.
We are looking for approximately 150* for the breast and 155* for the leg.
Caution: Hold the baking pan level. There is likely to be a good amount of fat in the bottom and we certainly want to avoid accidents.
Either dispose of the fat or pour it into the container holding the fat from the rendered skin.
Great thing about duck: it’s a red meat and lends itself to a variety of serving temperatures, from well-done to vampire-rare.
My own preference – medium-rare which these temperatures produce.
The duck is cooked when the breast is 145* and the thigh is 150*.
Final temperature check of the thigh before taking the duck out of the oven for settling should be above 148*
Temperature will rise 5* further as the duck settles.
Allow 20 minutes for the duck juices to settle.
Optimum final thigh temperature is 155*.
This is roast duck!
Succulent, simple, absolutely delicious.
We may serve the duck as is, no gravy.
The juicy meat and the crispy, salty, Asian-spiced skin easily stand on their own.
Or we may go to the Gravy, Duck recipe.
Carving the duck
Separate the leg by slicing through the skin and meat to expose the leg joint that holds the leg to the bird’s body.
Pull the leg away to expose the connection, finishing the separation by cutting at the joint with the bone knife.
Repeat this for other leg.
Cut off each of the wings by pulling each while slicing at the joint.
Separate the breast meat by cutting down alongside of breastbone, pulling the meat away as we slash and slice.
Repeat for the other side.
Slice the breast meat latitudinally, like firewood.
Serve!
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Note that reader’s comments are invited.
I’ll soon have a page to display them
www.existentialautotrip.com. For viewing
dom@existentialautotrip.com For commenting
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
Dom
_____________________________________________________________________
Saturday, May 12, 2018
So I ask: What is the “Meaning of Life”
As per Wikipedia: “…pertains to the significance of living or existence in general. Many other related questions include: ‘Why are we here?’, ‘What is life all about?’, or ‘What is the purpose of existence?’”
Searching for the meaning of life is a red herring.
Because this particular search is not the way to find it.
In fact, it is a complete waste of time.
Especially with the answer hiding in plain sight.
Masquerading as our behavior.
Today is Saturday, May 12, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my thirty-fifty consecutive daily posting.
It’s 5.15am
“Tarzan, the Ape Man” is playing, Johnny Weismuller and Maureen O’Hara, the movie notable for pushing the censorial envelope, the next Tarzan movie in the series going even further, to total nudity.
A chilly, light rainy day here in Boston.
Much of the nation is having a heat wave.
I’m at my desk.
I have company tonight.
North End grow-up-with buddies.
Certainly to be talking about our dear friend, Roger Mustone’s passing.
Dinner tonight is a Stuffed Pasta first course followed by Chicken Cacciatore.
Thursday night I prepared the seasoned ricotta cheese and a batch of Marinara Sauce.
Friday night I made the Chicken Cacciatore.
This afternoon, late, I’ll prepare the pasta casserole.
Service will be effortless, and I’ll be able to participate in the conversation.
Recipes for these dishes will eventually come to the blog.
Hoping to post the Roast Duck recipes tomorrow.
Today’s post:
I ask, “What is the meaning of life?”
What I hear back?
Searching for the meaning of life is a red herring.
Because this search is not the way to find it.
In fact, it is a complete waste of time.
Especially with the answer hiding in plain sight.
Masquerading as our behavior.
That’s right.
Our behavior is the wellspring from which meaning flows into our lives; the fountainhead of spirituality.
I see a woman with a stroller readying to navigate a down staircase.
I step over and lift the stroller’s front wheels.
Careful with the stroller, the caregiver and I descend the staircase.
That seemingly throwaway reaction runs quite deep.
I mustn’t slough it off as evanescent random kindness.
That spontaneous response spiritually enriched my life.
Our actions are amalgams of our psychological profile and our values and beliefs.
We define values as what we hold desirable or correct.
We define beliefs as what we hold as true.
Our psychological profile influences how we see reality: what we see is NEVER all there is.
Our observations are distorted by personal issues like narcissism, myopia, prejudice and acceptance, anxiety and exhilaration, physical condition, love and hate, and the environment; and by our intelligence, creativity, imagination, desire to give back, cultural awareness, analytic capabilities.
A base need for food and shelter influences our psychological profile; as do a sociological need to belong and an elevated drive for beauty and ecstasy.
Our responses to events are based on how we see them, not as they actually occur.
Throughout our lives we codify an ever-evolving personal set of values and beliefs.
We use this code as our benchmark against which to compare the rightness or wrongness of our responses to people or situations.
Some of our code’s sources date back three billion years.
Examples are genetics – biological and psychological; natural instincts, like self-preservation and propagation of the species.
And the Natural Law that reason discloses to us as underlying all human behavior.
We absorb things our parents teach us.
We add in things we learn from close friends, television, and the social media.
We merge the entire belief systems and values of outside organizations, like schools, the military, and organized religions.
Sometimes we’re victims of the brainwashing of college professors preying on young and eager minds; or governments, spinning the truth to suit; or mentors, extracting adulation for smoothing the path to advancement in the material world. We subconsciously, perhaps, add even these alien sources to our code.
Some of our code sources derive from our own past responses to moment-to-moment situations, like helping someone with a stroller descend a staircase.
Our feelings, as we walk away from such moments or think about them later, get absorbed into our code and, in turn, influence responses that follow.
Judging our behavior against what we expect of ourselves requires reflection.
Reflecting on whether our actions conform to what we deem desirable and correct produces an existential mindset, an assertion of our commitment to live spiritually-directed lives.
And spiritually-directed living makes us impervious to the unimportant.
So reflection dooms our dinner party to success even if the roast turkey turns out a tad dry, or the conversation less than amiable.
Reflection impacts our superordinate decisions.
Never do we need reflection more than when we ponder sublime changes in our lives.
Getting married, choosing a college, choosing that first job, uprooting ourselves from an eastern city to go West and claim that government promised "Forty acres and a mule" number among such decisions.
So important these, besides reflection, we study the subject, seek professional counseling, share the experiences of peers, and get input from close family and friends.
Reflection impacts corollaries, the consequent requirements of superordinate decisions.
Every superordinate decision comes with a host of related obligations that we accept as part of the package.
So pioneers deciding to go west to root a family in the great unknown accepted farming and cooking as corollary to their chosen way of life.
Students enrolling in college accept that they will be studying texts, writing papers, producing films.
But the devil is in the details.
Details are the individual, indivisible, line-item components of the corollaries.
And it's here we clearly see the importance of reflection on our daily lives because existential mindset includes dedication to craft.
Learning the job well,
Taking the time to do each assignment properly.
using the right tools if only for the aesthetics of it.
Taking pleasure from the doing.
The more dedicated we are to the work we do the richer our spiritual fulfillment.
“Read 50 pages of Anna Karenina for tomorrow’s class,” the teacher says. The students’ details.
“May I have a very hot cup of coffee?” the customer asks. The wait-staff's details.
The cook's details: “I’ll make my own stock for the recipe.”
The Shakers' dedication to doing everything exquisitely without regard to time serves as a brilliant example of bringing meaning to our lives.
Francis of Assisi said this:
He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
The purpose of this blog is to unveil the artist in each of us.
Blog Notes:
Sally has a response to yesterday’s Melatonin post. Find in blog: Writers, Sally’s Corner.
Spurred by the posting of Gravy, Duck, changes were made in the Recipes for Stock, Chicken and Stock, Turkey.
Be well.
Be good.
I love you.
Dom Capossela
dom@existentialautotrip.com
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Note that reader’s comments are invited.
I’ll soon have a page to display them
www.existentialautotrip.com. For viewing
dom@existentialautotrip.com For commenting
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
Dom
_____________________________________________________
So, sleep deprived, I seek professional advice.
But the simplest solution is often the best.
Doesn’t everyone know that?
Today is Friday, May 11, 2018
Good morning, my friends.
This is my thirty-fourth consecutive daily posting.
It’s 6.00am.
“The Count of Monte Cristo” is playing .
A nice day, today.
I’m at my desk.
Dinner: Leftover roast duck. What else?
I am working on a great Roast Duck recipe for the Blog. Stay tuned.
Today’s post: Sleep and Narrow-Minded Professionals
I’m exhausted.
Sleep deprivation.
But too many responsibilities when raising a family.
And exhausted, I still have to get through the day.
Do my duties.
Make 6.00am coffee for my wife and myself to enjoy before the kids wake.
Sit and talk.
Drive the kids to school.
Come to home office and start work.
I’m exhausted.
Frankly, my friends, after hearing me say it ten or twenty ties, don’t give a damn.
Their response, a blasé “Really?”
So, sleep deprived, without friends who cannot hide their boredom with my oft-expressed woes, I seek professional advice.
The simplest solution is often the best.
Doesn’t everyone know that?
I guess not.
No.
Many doctors over time, examining many parts of me.
Many psychologists extracting many answers, probing my psyche for lurking disturbing issues, finding none.
No answers from anyone except suggestions for medications which I stubbornly resist, preferring to tough out the morning; take an hours’ nap in the afternoon; go to work in the restaurant at night.
So I learned to live with long nights, too exhausted to do much gainful work, frustration making it that much harder to glean an hour or two of rest.
And with days of operating at 50%, but getting through @ 100%.
And one day, after so many, many years of resignation to the condition, a ridiculously easy solution showed itself in a ridiculously odd place.
November, I think, of 2017.
The place: an Internet read about grapefruit.
The simplicity: the word ‘melatonin’ came up in the article.
Melatonin. I looked it up: a natural hormone the body produces to induce sleep.
That in some people the body fails to produce.
I already had experience with that phenomenon, the body failing in some small way.
I have dry eyes: while I sleep, my body fails to produce enough moisture for my eye lids to open and close smoothly.
When I wake, I must squirt bottled tears into my eyes.
For the rest of the day I’m fine.
A good solution.
Simple.
Doctor recommended.
But melatonin?
After all those years of loss, why didn’t I even know that word?
I called my doctor before trying it out.
“Yeah. Sure. Try it. It won’t harm you.” Blithely said.
Pissed me off.
Someone should have suggested this years and tears ago.
“Try it . It won’t harm you.”
I bought the pills in 3 grams each.
A guess to the strength that, in the event, fortuitous.
I worked until too tired to do anything else.
Regular.
Made my toilet, including shower and hair wash, prepared breakfast, (to minimize the early morning noise breakfast produces) and watched a bit of TV.
My eyes close.
Time for bed.
In bed, I open a book, read a page or two, and my eyes close.
Typically, I turn out the lights and put my head down.
Sleep rushes in.
I fade.
And a moment later, I am wide awake.
What the heck?
Point is, I’m comfortable that I can get to the brink of sleep without any help.
This night, I had put the melatonin by my bed, with water, waiting for the right moment.
I read, my eyes close.
Just before I turn out the lights I pop a pill.
I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes.
Sleep rushes in.
I fade.
And when I open my eyes again, I understand what it feels like, sleeping well.
Because of melatonin, I enjoyed the best sleep I have ever had.
At least since childhood.
I am elated.
But I am pissed. At the entire medical profession.
For all the examinations by all of the professionals looking deeply through all of the solutions, not one, not one suggested melatonin to me.
What is that?
The simplest solution is often the best.
Doesn’t everyone know that?
Blog Mechanics:
Today I will learn to post Sally’s and Tommie’s photos to the blog.
Among other things.
To see them, go to the blog, select “Writers,” then Sally’s Corner and/or S Carolina Home Cooking.
Would you like this daily posting to arrive in your mailbox?
Just send the email address to domcapossela@existentialautotrip.com
Note that reader’s comments are invited.
I’ll soon have a page to display them
www.existentialautotrip.com. For viewing
dom@existentialautotrip.com For commenting
God bless!
Be good.
Be well.
Love you.
Dom
www.existentialautotrip.com. For viewing
dom@existentialautotrip.com For commenting
_____________________________________________________