Just Cyd.

those were the words that escaped under my breath walking out of dad's house tonight, trying hard to NOT slam the door: "It's not worth it."

any of it; all of it. something something diminishing returns.

When I showed up and shimmied out of my hoodie, dad was confused: he thought I drove all the way up there just to get two industrial-sized boxes of granola bars and then head out. "No, you have drawstrings that need unknotted?" I asked, but he can't hear and certainly doesn't listen, so it took three tries and some snark on his end for him to remember what he'd asked me to do (and then threw a fit when I didn't drop everything to do it on Sunday). Three pants with tightly-knotted drawstrings. I brought dpns to use, and they did eventually serve to pry apart the flannel pulled too taut and cemented into place with maude-knows-what. I jokingly said they could buy me dinner, and next thing I know we're headed to my car and to the Mexican place in an old Pizza Hut building. He can barely get his legs into my car, and now he can't make the arms and hands work to buckle himself in. That, of course, led to a litany of wrongs in cars, because how dare he ever say anything nice about anything. and no, he doesn't want your feedback or opinion, he just wants to bitch. He's got an audience now, one that isn't hard of hearing, and by golly, he's got A LIST.

I got lucky at dinner, that I was across from Diane, not him. He's losing his social skills at an alarming rate, as one does when they're low-vision, hard of hearing, and isolated. he two-fists his food like a toddler starved, and it is NOT pretty. He's demanding. hogs the salsa, then demands I summon more, rather than just asking for it with his order. he's already making a bunch of substitutions on his dinner.

the drive home is more of the same. epic one-up-manship. I comment on gas prices. he mentions as he always does, that they get $1/gal off at Kroger. I get $0.20/gal off at Speedway as an employee. that last part doesn't matter, because HE gets $1/gal off at Kroger... I'm driving, so I resist the urge to turn to him and scream that NO ONE CARES, because you have to shop at Kroger to get that, and I don't grocery shop three times a week for things I don't need.

I have to run inside to get the granola bars and my drink, or I'd cut and run so fast the neighbors would surely pop their heads out at the commotion. Now that I'm home, I'm low-level angry, the kind that paralyzes me and prevents any sort of useful action. but it's the same anger that has me wanting to load up my car, drive southeast, and never look back.

it's just not worth it.

I did an oops at the show Saturday night. Didn't think it was a HUGE deal at the time. then after the show I found out it WAS a big deal, and I'm going to spend the rest of forever berating myself for it.

I sat front and center at the show. I had to look UP to see the singer, and mostly I could see up his nose and the roof of his mouth when he sang. I could've futzed with his mic stand if i'd been so inclined. the band included a drum kit, so I think the stage was set deeper than normal to accommodate that. That meant to get the same number of rows of chairs in, they were smashed up against the stage. I hate seeing the whole first row empty, and honestly thought others would fill in with me.

talking after the show, my presence front and center made him nervous, like, having to focus on not messing up nervous. fuck.

it wasn't the only flub of the night. while tuning up for a particular song, he mentioned channeling his inner Elvis Costello, including wanting to shave his beard for just the one song, and someone shouted "so that means your wife is ..." and immediately a dark cloud passed over his face, just a flash, and there was brief hiccup in his tuning while he composed himself. not sure anyone else caught it, but I did. talking after the show, he also said that things started falling apart about 5 songs from the end ... the one where this interaction happened. double fuck.

partway home, I replied to a msg I'd started with another band member, and brought up that interaction, asking if he could gauge how it affected him overall. He said he cringed inwardly at that insensitive comment, and would absolutely check things out. good man, he is.

Why why why am I like this?!

I need help. I KNOW I need help. LOTS of help. Do you want the list alphabetically? Chronologically from when I first identified or asked? by order of importance or overall financial expense?

Historically, asking for help has not gone well. Asked for help with my flowerbeds once, only for the helpers to show up to take me to dinner, after which it was too dark to do anything outside. "oh, ha ha, sorry, we were hungry and wanted to treat you" was the wildly troubling response. Other requests were met with "oh, well, first we must take this trip, and then that trip, and see these people and then those, and how does the second Tuesday of never work for you?" My failure to pair-bond and spawn held against me with the most saccharine smile.

Asking friends for help at my rock-bottom lowest also backfired. I was in constant, unmanaged pain, my house was a wreck, but I was too [whatever the words are] to articulate what I needed. So the day was spent with a few friends helping with what ended up being mostly cosmetic things: removing wallpaper border from bathrooms, moving some other things around. one friend (since dropped) chastised me for my request not being "serious" enough, that she had given up a day with her husband & family for this, and how dare I ..... The entire day I was a hair's breadth away from losing my shit, having put myself out there so far to even ASK, then to be met with this.

I'm not sure I've asked for help from friends since. A single friend, maybe, if I'd keep an eye on her littles, her assistance also providing an escape from the confines of her house in the dead of winter.

more recently, friends have helped, in the form of readying my house for a roommate, moving and building furniture, appliances, hauling unwanted things off. Their kindness given freely, readily, if only I know what I want.

Since The Wreck (always capitalized, and usually assumed that others know what I mean, five years on), very few people have been to my house, tapering off as I got better and then the arrival of Covid restrictions. D has been the only one to see the horror of what it has become, The opening scenes of a Bravo TV Series. Those issues are fueled and compounded by the mental and physical issues, and the growing disconnect from reality. I am too embarrassed to list the things that need to be dealt with, but the cat tree in the corner might give you an idea.

Meds are off. I know they are. Or they're insufficient, or just plain wrong for what my grey matter needs right now. manic manic manic and oh, yes, manic. can't be depressed if you can't slow down long enough to wallow in it. the physical effects are starting to show, and the financial ramifications are blindingly clear week after week when I get the e-notices from my bank.

A friend recently told me the tale of her now-adult (how?!) daughter's "grippy socks vacation" and how it came about. my unspoken, knee-jerk, response was "oh, how lovely to have the freedom to spend two+ months focusing on mental health!". There's been half a dozen times this year alone that I wanted to scream "UNCLE!" and do whatever it takes to get whatever help I need, but then I look at my calendar, and realize "nope, that's not a good time for me." Hotels are non-refundable, and the trips are too tied to my happiness, that missing seeing my friends might do more damage than just letting this all go unchecked. I find myself getting hopeful over ND (among others), and then pull back, knowing I have no right to foist this level of crazy on him, especially without his express consent.

Driving down here, I cried no fewer than six times. Three for sure on the first leg, and at least on the second leg, believing for sure that Show #1 would add to the count. Last night it snuck up on me, pain being the catalyst, along with a jolt of nostalgia of seeing Darren, Holden remembering me, that full-circle moment of this journey. Today, I'm mostly OK, but starting to tense up knowing that tomorrow I must head home.

Am I delusional? perhaps. Am I separating realities in a possibly unhealthy way? signs point to yes. will I get to the point that my reality, and actual reality, become a Venn Diagram of two circles on opposite sides of a chart?

Stage banter asked "what are the five stages of grief?" while introducing a new-to-me song. We shouted out "anger!" and "denial!" and "bargaining!" and made it to four when he suggested Buc-ees as the fifth stage of grief. we all laughed, at least some of us familiar enough with roadside haven to get the joke.


I was filming, my phone battery low, or I would have googled it for him. I think that was closest he got to ever saying his wife got sick and died, but i'l have to listen to it again to be sure. my phone completely dead about 5 songs from the end, I wasn't able to to fill in the blank as we grudgingly said goodbye. back at my hotel, he was online so I googled it and let him know:

ME:
We missed depression

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Not that I ever follow directions

HIM
I knew there were more than four!

ME:
I guess when depression is the default setting, you kinda forget about it?

HIM:
yeah, kind of a 60-cycle hum going through the whole thing

I should've stopped there. I didn't. too wound up, too thrilled to be chatting, too high on the thrill of whatever this is

ME:
for nearly 25 years now one of the tags I use in my online journaling is EKRcanKMA - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross can kiss my ass.

i'm currently too manic to notice any depression. like a toddler with the zoomies at bedtime.

-----

sleeping away my day, it occurred to me that Buc-ees is a good substitute for Depression, as it offers all the things Depression robs from your life: clean bathrooms, an amazing selection of food and drinks and toys and impulse buys and light, such violently bright light. I'm told the Richmond KY store can been for miles at night by the glow of the lights, an oasis in the dark hills of rural Kentucky.

They're also overrun with tourists, and there's nothing tourists love more than swarming in on a tragedy, dispensing pleasantries and platitudes, and then scurrying back to the bus for the ride to the next stop.

Dreams of a similar sort speckled my slumber - running away, by bicycle not car, in familiar cities changed by perspective of mode of transportation. searching for help and not finding it. Eventually running into him, the tractor beam of i-still-don't-know-what pulling me into his orbit, into his arms, into his promise of a steady, solid something. A message, in my ear, via his lips directly or via voice mail, assures me "I'm OK. We're OK. It's all OK." The tone is one used with an inconsolable child, a distraught friend, someone on the brink, someone who prefers the alternate ending to Cocoon. I took the "we" to be us two, not any other obvious groupings (his band, his family, his community), because that's what fits my delusional waking narrative.

-----

At the end of the night, he told me didn't know I was there until several songs into the show. Aghast, I exclaimed "I was sitting right in front of you! How could possibly miss all this?!", gesturing to my heft, my girth.

They took a break a good hour into their set, Jess's request. I stood up to move my aching bones, and he found me, said hello, and then offered a hug in case he didn't get to do so later, but then promising he would see me. I assume(d) that I was the cause for these decisions. don't rock the boat, don't anger the highly unstable woman. He hugged me again at the end of the night, and with both, I felt more the warm fuzziness of his velvet blazer against my cheek than his arms around me, disconnected from my self. We held on tightly, but briefly. The promise of Saturday's show giving me hope that it's not a "goodbye forever" but just a "farewell for now."

up until I set foot in that decommissioned church, I was a Very Hot Mess, on the very far end of the Scoville scale, crying multiple times over songs and scenarios my brain would conjure up and the brainweasels would run off with, leaving me bereft behind the wheel and nowhere to pull off. Once in the door, though, I had A Purpose - feed everyone! - and the music either melted away my worries, or threw me deep in denial and held me under for two-plus hours. I fully expected to cry at least one song more if they made the set list (not knowing the set list and show was fully Australian Rules music - "the rules are THERE ARE NO RULES!"). driving back to my hotel with a phone that was just being resurrected, but not willing to provide direction, I did mostly fine, as it was just two turns and a long dark road back to the interstate, and I roughly knew how far and which exit. back in the hotel room, well, scroll up to see what happened.

Driving into a new state, there's a lot to take in. Virginia assaults you with rapid-fire roadside rules: DO THIS, DON'T DO THAT, BRAG BRAG LOOK AWAY NO KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD. West Virginia throws a curve ball, literally, for the first 35 miles, a nail-biting, white-knuckling test of intestinal fortitude as the brain weasels fight for control of the wheel. Ohio is a smooth, slow descent back into the flatlands, subtle but comforting. Seeing the actual horizon is the surest sign i'm nearly home, or what rounds to home these days.

North Carolina is a bit kinder, gentler. They ease me into the full-contact sport that is highway traffic through Greensboro. There are quirks, sure, but charming ones. They love their double decreases on the freeway, each merge adding from the left and decreasing from the right, as any good knitter would do. Except that one spot. Was Elizabeth Zimmerman from GSO? Did she have a thing for High Point, a left-leaning exit south from I-40 westbound? that lane that springs forth like her favorite invisible increase, a gentler reminder that EZ Was Here. it still makes the shortlist of things that surprise me when encountered.


All lanes are right on red according to my fellow drivers, and I don't know how I feel about that. Splitting stitches in live traffic is scarier than dividing for armholes. "Australian Rules Driving," I call it, picking up the old term I've batted around since grade school to define that which cannot be defined any other way.


Left turns at your own risk with that flashing yellow light. I still don't understand that one. are you telling me that Continental is too risky but English is fine? I'm a Continental/picker; I take this personally, you know, my hopefully-future home state.

North Carolina is also generous with exit-only lanes, so much positive ease built in, increasing to decrease.

But why do busses need to stop on the side of the highway? Are we joining yarn mid-row? I don't know how to asks the question to get an answer that makes sense in the context of what I've seen.

Does the word "pal" have a different meaning based on age of the user? Where they were born & raised? Man to woman? He's called me that a couple times now. I'm trying so hard to NOT read more into it, reminding myself he's a Girl Dad, and I'm probably just another young woman for him to fret over, offering me a place to crash when roads are bad, lest he worry for my safety. But I'm not young - there can't be more than 10 years between us. Sure he played CBGB before i could drive, but who says he was old enough to drive either?

He talks of 2016, when his life and marriage fell apart amidst the shared sorrow of losing Bowie (and Rickman, and many more), and he had to keep it together for his daughter, peeling back the first of many layers. I always picture her as a young child. 2016 would make her a teen - 15 or 16, if my math is right. It's one thing to be strong for a toddler, a single-digits aged kid who will believe what you tell them, the Why It Must Be This Way, and the small lies that ease the Big Truth. It's another entirely to stare down an almost-adult and lead with denial because the mere prospect of existing in the truth is just too painful to bear. I don't know the circumstances. He is not one to open up even about easy things. Slowly, though, the layers are loosening. Some photos show him with a left-hand-third-finger adornment. It wasn't that long ago, and yet it was a lifetime ago.

Do i continue to throw myself and my money at him to buy his favor? Will it convince him to let me tell his story? Am i ready for all that entails, or is this just another manic fever dream that will break in the harsh light of my Ohio life? In NC, anything seems possible. Back here, "home," I'm less certain.

Eventually, it came: the request for my phone number, the follow up to a promise in an earlier message. a file sent, but not usable. iPhone to Android incompatibility, we decided, and I try an app to beat the file into compliance. No dice. Still eager to send me something, but insisting it's no big deal, "may email it sometime" comes across the chat and my inbox pings before i can digest the words. another layer revealed, in mp3 format.

I'm not used to being the one whose approval is sought. The follow-up. Follow-through? lobbing compliments like automatic fire, hoping quantity will blind him to the quality, deeply lacking, his Other of (Un)certain Significance able to out-articulate me in her sleep, razor-sharp wit cutting me down to size.

A firehose full of my sincerest thanks follows as well. For sharing. For trusting. For taking me at my word when I say I won't share with anyone until he gives the OK. The power I hold, but will not wield. I am on unfamiliar ground and sinking fast.

Always wanting to do right, the suggestion of NDAs pop up, but then dies on my tongue (fingertips?), worried I'm taking it all wrong. But if he does concede to me as biographer, NDAs will be inevitable. good thing I know an attorney in NC.

Today, an unanticipated message on a different platform: the upcoming show announcement as posted by the venue. no note, just his sharp visage in high contrast and a link to the post. I can't stop smiling at the thoughtfulness. my giddy reply confirms ticket bought and hotel booked, along with the unasked for details of where I'll be the night before. Rambling. A thousand words, easy, for the one picture. I'm collecting concerts like Pokemon now.

I've got the basic Wikipedia format typed out, and am filling in what little bits I can - band names, albums - and realize how little I truly know. Google won't tell me what I truly desire. Notes from chats with him and others, plus little gems and photos from Facebook clutter the document. I have until Valentine's Day to mold this into something that will make him proud, to encourage the full revelation of what's inside.

Inspiration for this came from Ordinary Elephant's "A Few Words for Wednesday #111: Left" which is linked below. I believe you'll need to be a Patreon member of theirs to view it.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/few-words-for-120572898

Memories shared are memories extended. There are few tangible reminders of the growing miles racked up: tickets and payments are digital, the tshirt saturation point reached longer ago than I will admit. I don't take many photos, and even fewer selfies, not wanting to spoil the moment, to out myself as fangirl, only out for tickmarks on a hit list. Miles racked up and dollars spent are the best proof I have, if you need proof.

the music rings still in my ears, months later; that chord, that harmony, the rise and fall and breath and hush and all the rough spots that get polished out of the professional recording, but make the live moment so singularly special. Those chords that transport me back to the first time I heard them.

So many moments that are mine and mine alone: Mark Kano apologizing for his voice being off, but still sounding as perfect as they did on the drive in, the only changes being the depth of voice that comes with age. Wes & Barry singing along with CSN on the musak while the Scott dials in the tuning, the night FJ had a family emergency; sitting impossibly, intimately - inappropriately? - close to Pete Damore on stage, seated, in profile, such a youthful face projecting an old soul. Crystal, across from him, expressions holding back nothing, their connection just short of palpable. John Gillespie in his infinite patience, explaining yet another nuance of a song, or instrument, or connection between people I've met, my musical tour guide, BFFs from that first 3-hour breakfast. Darren Jessee - sweet, sensitive Darren - exasperated at crowds not there for him. "Joke's on you," he tells the Asheville crowd, "you bought the ticket." the true punchline is him setting up his kit, drumming for the headliner. The Greensboro crowd, some months later, see him begin to lose his cool, begging them to give him four minutes; I think he got two.

The list goes on. The musicians I now call friends, meeting for coffee or a meal; offering emergency respite in the threat of a winter storm; telling me of a bookings or cancellations before they are announced, knowing I travel so far, so readily. "Can you keep a secret?" one asks, over our usual departure-morning breakfast. Of course; I smile and take in what has clearly been held back for too long, the relief to have a confidante visible in the now-relaxed face. "I'll share some new music with you and only you soon," says another. multiple tries to get a usable file to transfer, both cell numbers and emails shared, no hint of concern of misuse on either end. "Of course I can listen to it now," as I rush to dig earbuds out of my backpack in the hotel. I'm honored beyond words the trust placed in me. Appreciation, reciprocated, returned and repeated, as only Midwest Nice meets Southern Manners can. Mama would be proud.

My brain is brimming with such snippets, if only I could capture them and cram them into jars to pull out when the days are dark. Brainweasels try to wreck the place, but I do my damnedest to keep the memories safe and the brainweasels at bay. How can I possibly run out of memories, when they keep piling up? Will next week's triple-header somehow replace a long-past show? will I someday forget how I cried through "Landed," the second song played at my first Ben Folds concert in 2010? Can anything overshadow the brief but close connection with Darren Jessee, discussing Amy Hempel at that GA show, my fifth that year? our mutual surprise that I picked well, impressing his friends, or was it just the Buffalo Trace bourbon that bought his favor? the smiles, the small waves, the "hey, good to see you!" and "omigosh you really made the drive??" at the sight of me walking in the door of any given venue. The pride of Don Fucking Dixon talking to me from stage mid-set, introducing me to the group assembled in Cat's Cradle Back Room on a winter's night when the rest of the Triangle shut down. Him greeting me with a hug and kiss on the cheek as he breezed onto stage, thrilled that I was making the most of the crazy Friday night. life-long friends the second time we meet.

Can I turn that box full of empty Bonne Maman jars into my own little pensieve, and tuck away what's most precious to me? What shelf will be out of reach of the brain weasels until we can dial in the right mix of magic and meds? what needs to be given up to keep something new? how can I make room for the notebooks and research I'll need to get Jeffrey's story told, without losing too much of myself? Who can I trust to help me pluck my claws out of the tangled mess of 50-plus years of not living, but just existing? I'm only just now beginning to live, and I don't want to waste a minute more

Endured a phone call from dad last night. He doesn't call to talk; he calls to lecture and complain.

"no one talks to me"
"[grandson w/3 littles] was supposed to do xyz and he hasn't called me back"
"this happened and no one told me"
"that's going on and I don't have the full details presented to me immediately"
"did you see [reads off Facebook statuses for relatives I've never met]?"

and so on.

Do I get to speak? Kinda. at some point I interjected that I was leaving Friday after work for NC. He made noises of acknowledgement. not two minutes later I get asked what I'm doing this weekend (after his tirade about his DIL's birthday and recent surgery). deep breath, and firmly stated "I just said I am going to Greensboro" to which he cuts me off with "OK, OK, blustery blatheringly annoying accusations because **he** was "just asking a question" and why do **I** have to get so worked up over it? see also: geez, can't you take a joke? and lighten up, I was just kidding.

all of this was precipitated by his Dr appointment on Tuesday, a follow up to his recent hospital stay to zap his heart to fix the atrial fibrillation. Doc told him "NO MORE ALCOHOL" and if it's not the first time he's been told this, it's the first time he's been willing to HEAR it. But now he wants everything out of the house RIGHT NOW. The unspoken "why haven't you driven up here yet?" hung in the air.

I don't drink. My brother stopped drinking. not sure about his wife, although I fully expect the booze I brought over for Jello Shots to be gone now. that's the other thing -- "well you and SIL did those Jello shots..." as if this is a weekly ritual for us. we did them ONE TIME for a sports fundraiser. I already had all the booze, so it only cost them the Jello and containers to do it. I told dad to check with Nephew and what they want. I also suggested keeping things around for the holidays for stepmom's kids, and wow was that a bad idea. cue rant about her kids and how they do things/prefer things (and probably think dad is too low-class for their taste.

With the information on this weekend's trip finally accepted by his thick skull, dad demanded that I send them a list of all of my upcoming trips. normally I just mumble along, but this was so ridiculous that I laughed out loud and told him NOT GONNA HAPPEN. I have a calendar, not a list. actually, there IS a list, but I am NOT giving him the names of the hotels I'm staying at, venues, etc. He has lost the privilege of getting info in writing. too many privacy violations in the past. Then he launched into the "drive safe" thing and once again i'm in the wrong because he's "just saying" and the mention of getting new tires (factory originals are at 58k miles, and even I can tell they're seconds from being bald) and that initiates the rants about how they should be fine followed by the dangers of driving through the mountains, types of tires, did I get the right ones, and another jab at Nephew, who will be doing the installation.

I just can't even anymore. the intense RAGE I felt when I got off the phone is not something I want. I put these things off as long as I can, but that just makes it worse. I just want this to be OVER.

One week ago I got to cross a biggie on my mental checklist: MEET MARK KANO AND HEAR HIM PERFORM IN PERSON.

Ok, technically those could be two different things, but really, I've been able to meet everyone I've seen perform, so we'll count it as one.

The Venue: The Corner is this community space on the NC State campus. It's a pretty cool setup, but not the most accessible. There is an incline to get into the place, and it's all grass and such, so footing can be sketchy. A couple of the shipping containers have seating in them for dining, and That Station had probably 50ish folding chairs set up, while others brought camp chairs.

Mark and Mike at soundcheck, via Facebook

I've seen Mike a couple times before, and while I didn't tell him I was coming, as soon as he saw me across the grounds, he recognized me and brought Mark over to meet me. if that isn't an ego boost, I don't know what is! I'm sure it helped that I had on my bright green Dunleath Porchfest tee. We said hello, and Mike introduced me to Mark, and gave him the quick-and-dirty on my road-tripping and when/where we met. Mark was suitably impressed, and then immediately apologized for his voice - he'd been sick that week, and was struggling with some of the notes. They were, in fact, adjusting their set list to accommodate Mark's limitations, and he hoped I wouldn't be too disappointed.

The program was called Artist Notes, and they get the artists to play music and talk about their careers. They opened with Flat Tire, one of Atheneaum's hits, and played a nice mix of band and solo stuff while they talked about how they met (Mike was at the show where Mark and Nic Brown crashed John Gillespie's set), the differences between having a major record label and releasing stuff independently, what advice they'd give their kids, and what the future has in store.

It was about an hour total, and when they were done, Mark turned to Mike and said "I think we've got a couple more in us, what would you like to hear?" and the request-fest began. They played Comfort, Haircut, and the Collapsis song Wonderland, which I didn't recognize because I haven't really listened to that particular album.

After the show, I meandered my way up to the stage, and first talked to the DJ. I suspect he'd have talked to me more, but he was also chasing his 3yr old. Got to spend some time talking to Mike, and when I mentioned gifting someone the Collected Stories of Amy Hempel, his face lit up. He's got a copy of Tumble Home on his desk at work. so we talked a bunch about her and books in general, and it was so cool to make that sort of connection. I eventually got to say goodbye to Mark, who gave me a quick hug and thanked me for making the trek. As we started heading to our cars, I mentioned that John Gillespie speaks highly of him, and Mark, in turn, started raving about what a fantastic songwriter and human that John is, and NC Musicians' Lovefest added another chapter.

I didn't get pictures with either of the guys, and that's OK. It's really not my vibe, to get selfies and autographs and such. I'd much prefer chatting and nerding out over whatever it is we have in common, and make that personal connection. I got a couple pics of them from afar, took video of some of the songs. that, and the memories, are all I really need.

--Dr M - distance vision is good. Cataract in right eye has grown a bit, from a 1 to a 2, but still miles away from needing surgery for it. If it keeps up at this pace, I can avoid surgery unless I live well into my 100s. Left eye elicited the "m" word and both docs in the room were surprised. is 52 too early for macular degeneration? yes, apparently it is. don't smoke (never have), eat green leafy vegs, and take these expensive supplements -- that'll stave it off a bit. I cannot lose my vision, because I will lose the ability to drive, and that would be incomprehensible.

--Library - crochet patterns for stuffies, so I can make ND's great niece a pelican. crossing the line? yeah, probably.

--haircut - hacked off a good 3" and now I can add more blue for real. might need a pink streak, too

--chinese takeout. it was next door to the haircut place, so why not?

--crumbl - you don't cry at the doctor/dentist, you get crumbl. even if you have to cross both dams (well, the rivers) to get there.

all with my pupils dilated.