Happy Fever-sary!

It's official: as of today, I've had a fever for two years. After a battery of tests, having drunk gallons of radioactive crap (to see if any naughty cells light up under the MRI), and after consulting with at least seven physicians, the conclusion is that the fevers are "rheumatoid in nature." As in rheumatic fever, a 19th century, Jacob Riis meets Jane Austen type of disease. I don't even have a chaise longue to go with it, nor am I inclined to take the cure at the seaside. I suppose the vapors are next. Or possibly some scurvy?

Strangely enough, I've got this weird urge to celebrate this nonsense - I mean, hell, if you've gotta be sick, you may as well have fun with it. So this morning, I took it upon myself to look at that quaint old list of anniversary presents. Number two (heh heh, you said, "number two") doesn't get you anything too glam. Research tells me that the traditional gift for a second anniversary is cotton (?); the modern gift is china (supposing, I guess, that you've managed to break some of the china that you received as a present the first time around). But cotton? Not sure what to do with this.

So...tomorrow I am off to California for a few days of relaxation, ocean-gazing and Young Ones videos with my dear friend Ellen and her family. The car service will be arriving at some insane hour tomorrow morning (yes, it'll still be dark out), so there's much to do today to get ready. Being ridiculously organized (it's a curse, believe me) I made a list, checked it twice, and I'm already sitting here stressing about the decision to check my wheelie bag or not. And of course, stressing about whether said car service will even be able to find my apartment, given my mystery address. If my friends have trouble finding me, I don't have a whole lot of faith in a stranger in a Town Car.

And of course there's the garden-variety flight anxiety that afflicts me every time I board one of these winged creatures. The iPod is queued up, the xanax is in my purse, but I can't shake the scary realization that I booked: A nonstop flight. To California. On a Tuesday morning. On what is supposed to be a beautiful sunny day. I realize very few people remember those details, but sometimes it's the little things you can't shake that come back to haunt you.

I'm going to comfort myself with a toasted bialy now. Tell me I'm being paranoid.

love, love, love...ALR

Counting Down

My apologies, again, it's been a while; my head just has not been clear enough or relaxed enough to get an idea down on virtual paper. Between the swampitude at work (haven't been this busy in some time) and the NBC-sponsored, Phelpsian fog of worship that has clouded my at-home hours for the past ten days or so, my fingers haven't exactly been on speaking terms with the keyboard lately.

Hopefully, that is all about to change. Realizing I am in desperate need of a perspective shift, some calmness that is neither vicodin-induced nor pedicure-inspired, and just a general need to get the hell out of Dodge before the annual September 11th Memorial Week to Ten Days of Severe Panic Attacks sets in, I am headed to California, (aching in heart, optional.)

Six more days, and I'll be off to San Francisco for a few days of relaxation, and hopefully some wine, since my dear friend Ellen lives in Marin, not far from a whole slew of wineries, vineyards, etc. I'd be happy with plain ol' grapes, (p'ri hagafen, baby!) but I could also be very happy bringing back a bottle (or case) given all the blessing we're going to be doing in late September and October.

My rheumatologist says that I shouldn't have any wine, but also acknowledges that I probably won't listen to her. Normally I am quite cheerful and obedient in these sorts of situations, then again, I was a very happy beaujolais drinker during my four days in Paris last year, so she's right: I'll probably do some damage out there.

I have only two requests, and those are 1) to go see Copia, the museum of food, wine and the arts and 2) to see the Pacific Ocean. If you've ever sailed in the Pacific, you already know it is totally misnamed. Eight years ago, I spent vacation on a 35 foot Catalina named Moonshadow, off the coast of Washington State tooling around the San Juan Islands.

My first day out showed that the Pacific is, shall we say, kind of demanding.

Imagine this: 40 foot swells leaving port, water coming up on deck, trying to raise the sails in gale force winds, and a mentally unbalanced, somewhat masculine sailing instructor yelling "Sailing is not for the WEAK!" over the wail of the wind and my fellow sailing students doing our best not to barf up a lung or two. Thus, I'd like to leave this time with a different take on my darling Atlantic's westerly sister. Like, not throwing up, or coming home more agitated and shaken up than I'd been before I left.

Hence the need for a more relaxing vacation, this time around.

I'll try to post again before I go.

RIP, Isaac Hayes