Well, That'll Learn Me

Recently, I was contacted by two friends. One, I've known since college. We were in each others' weddings. We've stayed in touch through her work struggles, my divorce. Issues with our families. We're those kinds of friends. About three years ago, she fell off the radar. This was during the time that Lithus and I were going to Malaysia ~ and then weren't. Had great jobs ~ and then didn't. Were on the top of the world ~ and then weren't. Being my friend was tiring, to say the least. There was always drama. Honestly, I figured she was tired of it. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.

The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.

As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.

Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*

They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.

So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.

And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

And Introducing...

...Cam and Mrs. Pike!

Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.

As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him. 

We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.

The movie set

Not the movie set

My two favorite things I learned ~

Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.

Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?

Not pictured: Spoons

Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.

It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.

Me, very happy

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, but good friends are priceless.

Still Wearing Stilettos

It's been a while since I've traveled, so it's been a while since I updated my travel blog, Stilettos in the Outback. However! Even though I haven't traveled in a few months, I live in New Orleans, so there's always an update if I think about it. I thought about it: French Quarter Fest. Especially good if you like pictures. :)

Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.

Impatient Patient

Oh, I have been bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored. Nothing hurt badly enough to make me grateful to stay put, but if I moved too much, the incision pulled and it hurt. So, I've been sitting. Impatiently.

The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.

Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.

Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)

The I.V. spot

The healing nicely, thank you very much, incision

Because we don't fuck around with beer and wine licenses down here in NOLA

The movie set being built on our corner

A gorgeous day in Louis Armstrong Park

Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

I'm Here

Yesterday went well. Today, I feel as if I've been hit in the chest with a medicine ball, and have almost no range of motion without pain, so I'm not moving much. Sill, I'm doing far better than expected. More when I'm not typing one-handed. And yes, Ian, pictures, too ~ although I won't vouch for the level of adorableness. Thanks for all the good wishes!





 Those are Pobble Thoughts, That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

It's A Quirk

As I have written here before ~ when you have a blog for eight freaking years, there isn't a lot that gets missed ~ I have physical quirks. Low blood pressure. Bad ears. Vaso vegal response. And a weird heart thingy. See how medically sophisticated that one is? Yeah, there's a reason for that one. That's all I know it as: Pobble's Weird Heart Thingy.

When I was 19, I was in rehearsals for Music Man when suddenly, I thought I was having a heart attack. Being a the-show-must-go-on-stupid-19-year-old type o'gal, I sat down and didn't tell a damn soul until my heart calmed back down again. After all, I might've lost the role, and dammit, I wanted to play Zanita! *insert eye roll here* That was the first episode. For the past 24 years, I have had them off and on, to greater and lesser degrees. My heart begins to race, to pound very hard. My hands get tingly. Sometimes I can breathe it down. Sometimes I pass out. There's no way of knowing which type of episode it's going to be when it starts. The "fun" is riding it out. 

The problem is that they are short. A really long episode only lasts about 30-40 minutes. A short one can be a couple minutes. Which means by the time I am in an ER and hooked up to a machine, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Embarrassingly fine. The other problem is that I might have two episodes in a week ~ or I might not have one for three or four months. Another way to make it difficult to capture and diagnose. YAY!

It's been diagnosed as a panic attack (which it's not), magnesium deficiency (which it's not) and "Pobble just being weird" (which I am, but it's not, and really had no business being in a medical chart anyway). I've carried around a holter monitor. I've been poked, prodded, pictured, and painted. Nothing.

SO! Wednesday, I am getting a doo-hicky (wow, all these really technical terms; are you keeping up?) implanted in my chest. It's an implantable loop recorder, looks a lot like a thumb drive, and it goes just under my skin, in the right of my breast. It's like having an EKG machine under my skin. It will record all "events of note" and we will finally get this shit figured out.

I'm excited. Yes, nervous, but mostly excited. Plus? I get to be bionic. As Nemeria and I were discussing, I get to have an EKG. Under. My skin. How cool is this????? And Lithus thinks scars are sexy, so I'm all good.

And yes, I'll keep you posted. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Let's Get A Few Things Cleared Up

1. Boston, Watertown, and the surrounding areas were not paralyzed. Were not cowering in fear. To suggest otherwise is disrespectful, but more, it is wrong. You don't do this kind of a thing to our city and get away with it. Period. So yes, they stayed home. They baked cookies (*waves*). They joked and laughed and kept their kids calm. Not out of fear of you, but in order to stop you. And to make other people think twice.

2. Anyone who uses these events as excuses to hurt, maim, bully, or torment another human being based on their (real or perceived) ethnicity or religion is no better than the bombers. You are not a true American. You are not the good guys. You are not extracting justice. Justice was done last night, in Watertown, by officers of the law. You are racist bigots. Don't use my town as an excuse for your hate.

3. I cannot celebrate life lost. Not the lives of the victims, be they at the race or in the week following. But I cannot celebrate the lives lost of the bombers, either. And yes, the 19 year old young man's life is lost, as much as his brother's, just differently. These are people. People who did horrible things, who deserve the justice they received. But I cannot lose sight of their humanity. I can ~ and I do ~ celebrate that they are off the streets, that they have been brought to justice. I cannot ~ I will not ~ celebrate their lives lost.

4. Everybody's learned the lesson now, right? Don't fuck with Boston.



Now, I think we can go back to "regular" blogging ~ whatever the hell that means. :)

Those are (Boston) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.