I was having an americano with a pal at Joe in the West Village...

...back in February when he remarked, "It's so great you guys have Powell's Books in Seattle."

"That's Portland, not Seattle," I replied.

He smirked. "What's the difference?"

"We're four hours apart, for starters."

"Yeah, but isn't one just a bigger version of the other?" he volleyed.

Next week I will be able to answer in greater detail. As ridiculous as it sounds, I haven't traipsed to PDX since 2002 for a friend's wedding. Whenever I've had simultaneous health and money (and the former has largely been the tripwire), I've had my ass on a plane to New York or San Francisco. Sometimes for work, usually for pleasure, always to feel at home.

But after spending most of the summer landlocked (if you already have an immune system compromised from CFIDS and are still running a fever from the pneumonia you had in '08, try not to get shingles in '09), I've slowly been accruing more strength (witness the increased posting here) and am restless as hell. I haven't left town in seven months and it's near certain, in light of the probable H1N1 clusterfuck, that the Centers for Disease Control or World Health Organization will issue a de facto travel advisory for the immuno-compromised and then I'll be stuck here at least through spring. And that simply will not do.

So, for three days and two nights next week (that's all I can physically sustain right now, realistically), I will be exploring Seattle's step-sibling to the south. I sound facetious, but I'm actually quite excited. My friends and colleagues who reside there gush about it and I'm eager to poke around and see what kind of mischief I unearth.

And to the person who condescendingly asked, "Well, who's going to drive you?" Well, no one. As I explained, I'll be flying, surgical mask and all, per doctor's orders (woo hoo!) and I don't need someone to babysit me. I will never understand why, in 2009, so many women are still so reluctant to travel alone, but that's an entirely different topic and I'm too beat to delve into its morass right now.

I've got to rest up for Portland.

Helen Falangus 1926-1974

In short stories, everyone's grandmother smells like rosewater or lilies or, if she's the antagonist, bears a faint whiff of venal decay.

I've had allergies since I was a little kid and I don't remember what Yiayia smelled like. I remember her voice, though, warm and encouraging and sometimes conspiratorial in the best sense, as if she and I were our own party of two, off to do something wildly fun and cultured but still ladylike, as she was of that generation.

I have a framed photo of Yiayia and Papou from the 1940s on my mantel and have viewed hundreds of pictures of her in family albums, but I see her most clearly in my mind's eye. We lived near her and Papou from my birth until I was five, when a stroke felled her into a coma, and as such, she and I saw each other or spoke on the phone everyday. Mom insists that when Yiayia (her own mother) called, she would playfully say, "I didn't call to talk to you. I called to talk to Litsa."

I knew she was ill because when we vistited Yiayia and Papou's home, she was usually reclining in the hospital bed they'd intstalled in their living room. But I never remember her acting ill. She'd have me hop on the bed with her (with an assist from one of my parents or Papou, I suppose, though I can't recall) and we'd read countless books together and to each other. (Mom, my aunt, and uncle all describe her as a voracious reader and her few living friends have told me, "Helen always helped us with our book reports.") She was a gifted seamstress (though not by profession) and taught me a number of stiches, always on the most beautiful swaths of silk or taffeta, because muslin simply would not do.

And then she was gone, but not quite. "When Yiayia is out of the hospital, we're going to throw the biggest party in the whole world!" my mother and I would say to each other, though my mother must have known her mother would not awake but kept a brave face for my brother and me regardless. There was never a choice to make, Yiayia was breathing of her own accord, and that, of course, was worse. She was nearly unresponsive, but Mom says that when a nurse would drop a tray or there was a loud noise in the hall, Yiayia's eyes would flicker. And the two times Mom brought my brother and me to see her, Yiayia's eyes filled with tears.

This lasted nearly two years, until her death when she was 48. Throughout my life, I've been a believer, an agnostic, and an atheist, and while I won't limm my beliefs now, I will say there were times I hated God. How could any omniscient deity who purports to love us allow someone so unfailingly kind and magical to suffer so long and so horrifically? Of course, I have no answer and none of us do. But I'm 42 now, not much younger than she was when she left, and I know there are still times I would trade every worldly possession and every friend I have just to be with her again and share stories and make each other laugh like we used to.

And, perhaps, if there is something on the other side (and I am suspect of those who ascertain too vehemently one way or another), maybe we'll get to again.

Today makes 35 years since she died and yesterday the entire family, spanning in ages from 76 to infancy, came together to celebrate her life. And I think somehow we made her happy.

I miss you, Yiayia.

Love always,
Litsa

Guys and dolls, as it were:

Last night I watched an interview with an author whose work I like, but that doesn't prompt me to do cartwheels and then finger myself. Still, I found his answers smart and insightful and enjoyed listening to what he offered next. Then he was asked the inevitable (though sometimes useful) question, "Which other authors do you read?" He named three off the top of his head (all fine choices and one of whom is a friend of mine) and later revisited the topic, rattling off about ten playwrights whose work he's long admired.

Then he caught himself. "I'm sure there are some women in there, too, I'm overlooking right now." Each of his picks had been men. He struck me as sincere and I believe there are women whose work resonates for him. And I like that he answered honestly: no one should feel like they "have" to publicly laud any artist if the latter's work really doesn't spark something within.

I've been pleased that my writing, so far, has garnered a healthy degree of praise from the whole gender spectrum and that no one has attempted to pigeonhole me as a "woman writer". I've been viewed simply as a writer, which is how it should be for all of us, regardless of sex, race, religion, or where one falls on the Kinsey Scale. (Side note: I say this without a trace of arrogance. I know if I were to attempt, say, civil engineering, I would get quickly labeled, "disaster". I'm fully aware of the many things at which I would choke.)

But still, it got under my skin that if I or any woman had been asked the same question and the interviewer had been of the opposite gender (as was the case last night) and we had named 13 writers who sport vadges, it seems near certain we would have incurred the response, "Don't you read any men?"

Unquestionably, things continue to progress in the right direction. I just wish we were already there. Anyhow, it's 75 degrees and sunny on what is one of the last warm days of the season and nothing is going to shift culturally in the next 90 minutes. I'm off to get an iced americano and head to Thomas Street Park. And, for the record, my favorite authors run the whole spectrum of humanity. Except for the bad writers: while some might be lovely human beings, it's perfectly okay to shun their output.

Boredom? Paranoia? Or just not getting it?

Dear assistant to a highly talented but discredited author who just settled another fraud suit,

When you conduct a Google blog search for said author from the city in which you work (and your IP # is from a Comcast Business address), arrive here and then search for your own name, I'm aware of this. Like all writers (including the one for which you work), I have a Sitemeter on my blog that relays said information. This is not rocket science. Nor is it the first time you've conducted a similar search here.

I'll save you the time: I've moved on. I haven't written about said author in years and if I ever alluded to you (and I don't recall I did), I never referred to you by name. Maybe it's time for each of you to realize you're no longer compelling.

But definitely a bit sad.

I've been writing most of the day and I'm still in...

...my blue and green striped pajama bottoms and my '04 Death Cab shirt (the one with the bunnies on the front) and need to be somewhere in an hour, preferably fed and caffeinated and wearing pants, as I often find that makes ventures with other humans run more smoothly.

Fifty-nine minutes and counting down.

I was going to write something cogent about...

...9/11 last night but it had been a busy day (and I was able to vacuum for the first time in three and a half months!) and I fell asleep before I could prop myself before my laptop. Mostly, I think of my compadres who were there (I have scads of friends and family in NYC and D.C.) and/or who lost loved ones and how the anniversary will always be harder for them than it is for the rest of us. Not that we will forget, but unquestionably, we are scarred differently. And I ate a nice quiet dinner at Thomas Street Park near my home and read the latest issue of New York Magazine and that seemed as fitting tribute as any.

Then, after having been up a good portion of last night sick, I discovered at 7:00 a.m. this morning that my building had been broken into. As condo secretary, this has caused an enormous headache for me (calling the police, doing the walk-around w/ the officer, filing the police report, alerting the neighbors, et al) and I am reminded of something Wanda Sykes told me when I interviewed her for The Believer, "Unwanted children grow into the biggest assholes." While there is a good chance the person who decided to smash the doorknob to fucking hell is an alcoholic or addict and therefore wrestling with a real illness and desperate for money and a fix, at the moment, I'm feeling spectacularly uncompassionate and really want the perpetrator's wang dipped in honey and waved in front of hungry fire ants. And, underscoring Wanda's point, odds are pretty good the parents of said individual did not do a real bang up job with the love and nuturing or any of that and I kind of want to pelt them with flaming garbage.

Humanity: so brilliant, so glorious, so transcendent, but (and this hardly a revelation) so much douchebaggery, too.

I give mad props to the California omelette I had for lunch, though. That held its own.

And perhaps some Ovaltine, sir:

I think President Obama's health care speech last night was extraordinary and that he nailed it in terms of policy, specifics, and tone. As noted elsewhere, I would make him peanut butter and jelly crackers if I could.

But just how effective was his address to Congress? My father, a lifelong moderate Republican, told my mom this morning, "You know, I was prepared to disagree with him but he addressed all the details and made a lot of sense. He did a good job."

Choke on that, South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson, and I hope your insurance plan covers the mental health treatment you so desperately need.

I say this as someone who enjoys Rachel McAdams' work and...

...appreciates her versatility and deft comic timing. Overall, I'm rooting for her.

But holy mother of fuck, I've seen the trailer for The Time Traveler's Wife twice now and fear what it has done to my cerebral cortex. I know the book was a bestseller, but did no one in McAdams' management team allow her to read the script before signing on? Was there a sort of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey procedure wherein she was spun around five times with a pen in hand and the first contract she touched she was legally bound to?

And as the new school year starts, I urge parents everywhere to shield their kids from the film's poster: I think even a cursory glance could set them back a grade.

One of my best friends was in town from Chicago this weekend and...

...took me out for lunch and dessert yesterday. Because my very closest friend took me out on Friday, I had to spend almost the entirety of Saturday recuperating from one and resting for the next, but in each instance, it was completely worth it. (And for most of the summer, it took two to three days to heal between outings, so the 24 hour cushion, odd as it sounds to the uninitiated, is a huge improvement.)

As oft-noted, I know that out of the seven billion persons currently inhabiting the planet, I have one of the very best lives. Still, I am not at all sorry to see this summer end: Memorial Day weekend I, of course, developed a particularly acute case of shingles that proceeded to masticate the season's remainder; my brother had an emergency appendectomy shortly thereafter; my beloved cousin became excruciatingly ill before giving birth prematurely; my massively intelligent and ridiculously super-cute alpha male bunny, Henry, died; my brother had emergency back surgery for two ruptured discs; and my mom was rushed to the emergency room with what initially but falsely (repeat: falsely) appeared to be cardiac arrest.

And as all of us know and keep reiterating: we're very lucky. We're still here (with the exception of Henry, who was a rabbit and not a person, though that is a distinction I acknowledge mostly to preempt a one-way ticket to a group home) and everyone knows families who weren't so fortunate. Each of us has health insurance and family and friends who love us deeply and vice versa and all of us got each other through things emotionally and practically.

That said, if Summer '09 were a person, I would go Titus Andronicus on its ass and bake it in a pie and feed it to its loved ones. Fuck you, Summer '09. Fuck you with a hammer. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

Two things that have absolutely nothing to do with each other but that remain pertinent in very different ways:

1) As noted here and on Facebook, I have spent most of the past year on Capitol Hill (my neighborhood) and the adjoining downtown because I've usually been too sick to venture farther. So, as I've been getting healthier, my best friend has made a point to whisk me to different parts of Seattle (I still can't drive) and, as ridiculous as it sounds, it's been a total adventure. Today we went to Alki and ate lunch at a waterside restaurant and strolled the beach and then drove over to California Avenue and the surrounding area and perused Easy Street Records and sundry book shops and ephemera. We proceeded to get ice cream (chocolate chip mint in a waffle cone!) and it was the first ice cream I've had in over a month (I've almost lost the eight pounds I gained from the shingles) and when I dripped it on my black jeans, he laughed and insisted I pop the last of my cone in my mouth and when I did, I laughed and spit said cone on various parts of my forearm and then neither of us could stop laughing. An absolutely wonderful and soul-boosting day.

2) Re the health care meme currently swirling on Facebook: as I've posted, if you have time to play on Facebook, you have time to contact your legistlators in support of President Obama's health care reform. Step #1: Google your two senators and one congressperson. Step #2: Go to their contact page. Step #3: Contact them. Anyone with ten minutes and opposable thumbs can do this.

Tuesday night's reading at Elliott Bay Book Company was an utter delight...

...and one of the best outings of what has been an incredibly difficult summer. Chelsea Cain is not only a very talented writer, but a compelling and hilarious reader, too. Those of us in the industry know these are two separate skills and Cain has each in heaping fistfuls. Plus, I ran into a pal I hadn't seen in over a year and, of course, as mentioned in my previous entry, it's great (perfect, really) to be among my tribe more and more as my health returns.

Then yesterday was sad and awful and one of those days that will, undoubtedly, make sense in time but, for now, stings and is a reminder that sometimes, even persons who know each other best fail each other occasionally.

I have to leave for a doctor appointment soon and I'd be lying if I said part of me feels like I simply can't do one more, but then I remind myself I've been to hundreds that were worse than today's will be and prevailed and still wore a jaunty ensemble and bantered with the physician and his or her staff and then, in the better periods, I continued to write and publish dozens of pieces about subjects vast and fascinating and life went on. And such will be the case today.

Time to head out the door.

I'm off to a reading now at Elliott Bay Book Company...

...for a Portland-based author about whom I've heard good things, Chelsea Cain.

She writes well-reviewed thrillers and while her genre is not something towards which I usually gravitate, tonight, that's not even the point.

Sometimes, more than anything, you just need to be among members of your own tribe.

What the fuck, humanity?

As if this day hasn't been odd enough--and parts of it have been good, but overall it's been odder than a tech-employed hippie with a decent pair of shoes--two individuals in the past few hours have tried to get me to watch "Two and a Half Men" tonight. (I've attempted it before at their urging and find it a total crapfest.)

Why not just goad me into stepping off the curb five seconds too early and get it over with?

Mr. Dunne and Senator Kennedy:

I'm about a million and a half emails and phone calls behind because, as I continue to heal, I've been writing increasingly and, also, seeing sundry individuals in person, which is always nice. As such, I have to hop in the shower and be at a graduation party soon, but it feels strange not mentioning this week's concurrent passings of Dominick Dunne and Senator Ted Kennedy.

Regarding Mr. Dunne, I have a few of his books I bought used years ago and haven't gotten to yet, but I read his Vanity Fair column since its inception and it was often the first piece I turned to when my issue arrived in the mail. He was a damned fine writer and if his work often focused on those whose faucets were 24 carat gold and had caviar served in between tennis sets by a phalanx of servants in starched uniforms who bore names like "Nigel" and "Clive", well, that was his world and you write what you know. I admired his unceasing work as a victim advocate in the wake of the horrific murder of his daughter and, too, that he was able to get (and stay) sober and reinvent himself as a scribe in his fifties. He will be missed.

As for Senator Kennedy, my feelings are a bit more complicated. Unquestionably, he was on the correct side of nearly every major legislative issue of his time and he often lead the charge, particularly regarding health care and civil rights for all Americans and, of course, his early and vociferous support of Barack Obama was hugely advantageous to the latter's campaign. For all of this, I am deeply grateful as a citizen. However, and not to speak ill of one while his family is in mourning, if I were a Kopeckne, I can't say I would have shed a tear this week. Ultimately, in fairness, the line I keep returning to was spoken off the record by a Kennedy colleague years ago in a piece about the senator's complicated and too often tragic personal life, "I wouldn't want Ted Kennedy's nightmares."

Travel safe, gentlemen.

I'm not a fanatic, but I...

...enjoy "Project Runway" most of the time. Three points in light of last night's episode, though:

1. Any contestant sporting a fauxhawk should be disqualified immediately and subjected to Chinese water torture by Nina Garcia. Or she could just eviscerate them 'till they cry.
   
2. No one, in any context, for the remaining run of the show should be allowed to utter, particularly in a melodramatic tone reminiscent of early talking pictures, "Fashion should be about taking risks." See #1 for suitable punishment.
3. Would that everyone in their respective fields work with a mentor as knowledgeable, wise, and patient as Tim Gunn.
   

Best anniversary ever! (As such):

Last Monday, August 17th, marked the 18 year anniversary of when I first developed CFIDS. (Yes, I remember the exact day. The precise moment, actually. CFIDS.org asked me to write about it a few years ago and it's here if you're curious: http://www.cfids.org/cfidslink/2005/dremousis.asp)

I'd recently remarked to TJ that most years I spend that day alone and moody and crying--the notable exceptions being '04 through '07 when my life was chock full of deadlines and the symptoms were more moderate--and he decided to preempt such actions this year by throwing a surprise gathering for me at The Elysian. He was unable to send out invites until the Saturday before because, while I'm over the shingles, I'm still much weaker right now and can't as yet plan more than a day or two in advance.

He coordinated with one of my oldest friends, Christy, and sent a missive to my cherished and oft-noted friend, Eric. And while the latter was unable to pitch in to alert my writer friends because, unbeknown to TJ, Eric was in the middle of moving from one state to another, TJ and Christy put together an impressive roster.

Of course, the invitations went out the day before Mom went into the hospital with what seemed to be cardiac arrest. (As noted in my previous entry, it turns out that, mercifully, the problems were comparably minor but still serious. The good news, though, is that Mom is now on Day #11 with no cigarettes and is regarding this near miss as a wake-up call.) I, of course, had no idea a party of sorts was underway. (Nice job, TJ and Christy, putting your poker-faced Teutonic heritage to good use.) And, also, I didn't want to leave the hospital except to sleep. (Mad props to my brother, George, and Thia Elaine for being such stalwarts, too. And Dad handled things as Dad always does, not necessarily recognizing the gravity of the situation, but that worked just fine, as well, and he was a real peach when it counted.)

Sunday night, as I was leaving the hospital a bit past midnight, Mom told me to keep my plans with TJ the following day. I countered that I was postponing them and that no doubt he'd understand. Again, as noted previously, she was completely alert and lucid and wry throughout the evening and in her "Mom" voice, the same one that used to rattle defense attorneys to their core back when she was still a deputy prosecutor, she threatened to kill me if I did not keep said plans. (Again, I didn't know this either, but TJ had invited Mom and Dad and my brother to join everyone, so Mom knew what was afoot.)

On Monday afternoon, TJ and I spent a couple hours at the hospital with Mom and Dad (George had been earlier before heading to work) and the mood remained remarkably light and I think everyone welcomed the banter as a respite from thinking of what might be going on in Mom's chest wall. (At this point, the results were still inconclusive.) Around 5:00 p.m., Mom insisted TJ and I leave and while I was reluctant, I knew Dad was with her and that the situation was essentially under control.

After a really fun and goofy dinner at The Elysian at which it felt great to relax a bit and, you know, eat, I saw TJ's friend, Jeff enter and waved to him. "Jeff's here!" I said, still not catching on, because Jeff and his wife live nearby.

"Keep an eye out for Christy, because she should be here soon," TJ said, smiling and a bit self-congratulatory when he noted the confused look on my face. "Surprise," he said. "I didn't want this anniversary to suck for you, too."

I have had many parties over the years, both epic and spectacle-packed, but no one had ever thrown me a surprise party before. And while a number of my writer friends never received invitations due to the aforementioned (well-intentioned and totally understandable) wire-crossing between TJ and Eric, like I said, TJ and Christy did a damned fine job assembling a super-fun soiree wherein everyone cross-pollinated beautifully and swapped stories new and old.

And while I thanked each attendee the next day, I want to reiterate again here: thank you all, deeply and with the force of a thousand suns, for making a day that would have been grim for a number of reasons, so utterly fucking perfect. Here's to an autumn packed with health and success and giddiness for everyone. And to my large roster of out-of-state friends with whom I talk or email all the time but rarely get to see, maybe I'll be able to travel more in '10. And if not, get your ass(es) on a plane again. Because we'll find something to celebrate, too.

This feels like one of the longer weeks in recorded human history...

...and while I'm too tired to elucidate and while my postings on Facebook intended to preempt any confusion actually added to it when my cousins' kids in Greece read my updates and the pertinent facts literally got lost in translation, here's the truncated scoop:

I have a living, breathing Mom (again w/ the wood knocking) who has no arterial blockage, does not need angioplasty, did not have a heart attack, and who has quit smoking for good. (One week and counting.) Mom is brilliant intellectually and I am in no way trying to infantilize her when I say she understands rationally and emotionally that this was a close call and all of us feel profoundly lucky and grateful that, in the scheme of things, the news isn't high-five-awesome! but is still quite good.

As I told her and my aunt, I want them around to drive us crazy as long as possible. :) (I never use emoticons here, but in this context, it's necessary or god knows what story will traverse the continents.)

Brief film musings before Mad Men season #3 premieres tonight:

One of the best parts about living in my neighborhood is residing within 15 minutes (max) of six movie theaters. For a film lover like myself, I sometimes can't believe how lucky I am. So all I need is a minimum amount of energy to catch a flick and now that I am a wee bit ambulatory, I've seen three in the past two weeks.

A summation:

• Among those who know me, there is a misconception that my film tastes skew solely toward the dark, which is untrue. It's just that so many ostensibly "uplifting" and "stand up and cheer!" scripts are such unfettered drek, that not only do I not feel uplifted or like standing up and cheering, I actually want to locate the studio exec who greenlit the project and hurl Molotov cocktails at his or her Escalade. However, I saw The Proposal because the reviews were fairly strong and Sandra Bullock is one of my favorite actresses. (Much like James Garner or Cary Grant, she makes it look easy, which, if you know anything about acting, is incredibly hard.) Also, and while this has no bearing on her work as an artist, she has always struck me as a class act who is both generous and aware of how fortunate she is. And you know what? The Proposal was not the most enlightening 100 minutes of my life, but Bullock and Ryan Reynolds, perhaps because of their real life friendship, have genuine chemistry and while even a single-cell organism could deduce they'd pair off in the end, I enjoyed watching them get there. Bonus points, too, that at no juncture does anyone allude to the fact Bullock is almost a decade older than Reynolds. I.e. it is a non-issue, just like it is for dudes on and offscreen. Also, holy hell, I wanted each and every piece of her gorgeously sophisticated wardrobe, particularly the ash gray wool crepe Alexander McQueen dress she dons for the party scene.

• I saw Julie and Julia with six of the women in my family (it's been a topsy-turvy and often chaotic summer for everyone, so this was the first time all of us had been in the same room since Easter) and found both the feature and the afternoon delightful. Meryl Streep, of course, is perfection, Nora Ephron is at the top of her game, and Amy Adams, whose portion of the film is almost uniformly getting referred to as weaker, is getting a bum rap. She is wholly believable as a writer (admittedly, this might have something to do with why I found her storyline compelling) and she works at a Lower Manhattan rebuilding agency in 2002 for chrissakes, so of course her scenes aren't usually as ebullient as Streep's in Paris because, if one will recall, Lower Manhattan in 2002 was one of the most depressing places on earth. I've now seen Adams in Doubt, Sunshine Cleaners, and Julie and Julia and found her superb in all three.

• The Hangover, while somewhat uneven, was a ridiculously fun antidote to the weakness I was experiencing that day. Bradley Cooper and his stubble should be cast in everything all the time, Ed Helms, as usual, is reflexively hilarious, and whenever Zach Galifianakis said anything, I was that person in the theater laughing so hard that other patrons turned to see who the hell the bozo was and if she was high or developmentally disabled. (For the record: neither.) Favorite lines of the summer so far: when Galifianakis gets jumped by the naked Asian man and tells him, "I'm on your side! I hate Godzilla, too!" and when Cooper, Helms, and Galifianakis are carrying the baby outside the hotel and the latter says, "There was Ted Danson, Magnum P.I., and that Jewish actor." Absolutely no one but me laughed at this one and as such, I feel the rest of the audience owes comedy a heartfelt apology and a promise never to be so thoughtless and stupid again.

Okay, almost time for Jon Hamm and the consistently outstanding show built around his singularly chiseled visage and Superman blue black hair.

And to the couple who decided to reenact Barfly last night at 4:30 a.m. outside my bedroom window:

You are not Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway. Your dialogue ("FUCK YOU!" "NO, YOU ASSHOLE, FUCK YOU!") was not written by Charles Bukowski. There is nothing particularly singular about your pain or your drunkenness. If nothing else, the former is sadly commonplace and the latter, pretty banal to anyone over the age of, say, 25.

Either learn to handle your liquor, seek treatment, or take your performance inside, you lame-ass, thoughtless fucks.

Like Wonder Woman in sky blue Converse All Stars:

I'm not superstitious by nature, but all of us have our idiosyncrasies. (Obama shot hoops the morning of each primary or caucus, believing it lucky and joked he lost New Hampshire's primary because he skipped said ritual that day.) So there is a part of me that is hugely reluctant to commit this to print for fear of jinxing things and waking up with, say, bubonic plague or ebola. But here goes:

• At this very moment, I do not have a fever.
• I was able to attend an arts event last night for the first time since Memorial Day weekend, i.e. the onset of shingles.
• For most of the past three weeks, I've used my cane instead of forearm crutches.
  
• While I was in a whole lot of pain today and, to borrow Carrie Fisher's line, felt like I slept under an elephant's foot, and, also, was unable to leave the house until 5:00 p.m., I still walked from my place to Denny Ave (stopping several times, but hey) and on the return loop grocery shopped at QFC.
• On the way home, I was able to carry a light bag of groceries on my "bad" side, i.e. the shingled one.
  
• For the past three weeks, I've been able to do all my own grocery shopping, laundry, dishes, and have whisked away my own garbage and recycling.

I'm completely aware that in many ways, all of this sounds like I'm a budding adolescent or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, an aging and decaying old lady, but trust me: under recent circumstances, it is huge. Huge. And just as importantly, if not more so, last month I wrote my piece for Nerve, resumed writing here, and honed in on the novel again. It's too soon to take on other deadlines--the only reason I was able to tackle the Nerve feature was because my parents and TJ did every other single thing for me, like servants but without the quaint living quarters--and I know my immune system still needs much more time to heal. (And, of course, I know that's a relative term.) But after spending most of the summer as a virtual invalid (I haven't even addressed the Percocet toxicity and uncontrollable vomiting), this is, shall we say, nicer.

Fingers crossed, wood knocked, salt tossed.