Better Safe Than Sorry

Warning. This post is about breasts in general, and mine in particular. So if you are my son, nephew, or anybody else who doesn't want to read about my ta-tas, move on. I originally believed that gay men would also prefer not to read about breasts, but I've been informed that this is untrue. Apparently, they can be quite fascinated with breasts, and are reportedly very good with them. Which is probably extremely bad news for straight men.

For identification purposes, I've decided to give The Girls names, because I hate when women call their breasts The Girls. I'm not in favor of naming body parts as a rule, but in this case I think it will be helpful. Not that I tend to mix them up. I mean, they pretty much stay put. It's not like putting a Sharpie "X" on one of your twins' foreheads so they can't keep playing tricks on you. (I don't know anyone who's ever done that, but I think it's a really good idea.)

So, they shall be Layla (Left) and Roxie (Right). Notice the matching-letter thing. Is that a mnemonic device? I remember things better that way, and - you know - don't want to get confused.

I'm 44, and I've never had a mammogram. I'm also currently uninsured, which merely adds to the fun. About three weeks ago, Layla started complaining. She had an ouchie spot just beneath the skin on the anterior surface. (I'd insert a diagram here, but even I think that would be too much information. Ditto for photos. Times ten.) It felt almost like a burn, but in the layer of skin just under the top one. It didn't hurt most of the time, just sitting around (which I do a lot), but when moving, it was tender. And if I touched it... ow. Which I did a lot, because I'm a "picker," and can't leave things alone.

I informed Dr. Vet-Friend that if she came into the office and found me poking Layla (or Roxie), it was for medical - not recreational - purposes. I don't think she'd care either way, but I thought I should clarify.

Me: Do you still hurt? (poking at Layla)
Layla: Yes, you idiot. Stop doing that!
Me: But how will I know if you're better if I don't poke?
Layla: Stop poking, and I'll probably be fine.
Me: But how do I know you don't have cancer?
Layla: Shut up. And get your finger away from me.

Roxie was laughing quietly to herself, so I poked her just to make sure she wasn't hiding anything from me.

The tenderness wasn't going away, so I started my quest for a mammogram. Because dying of breast cancer would really piss me off. My ideas for overhauling Layla and Roxie might include removing all the post-obesity leftover skin... but not a mastectomy. Also, I would not enjoy chemotherapy. I like my hair. And not vomiting.

I had to jump through several dozen hoops this morning, as an uninsured person who had not previously visited this particular healthcare facility, but got an appointment for an exam. They required this before recommending further diagnostics such as an ultrasound or mammogram.

Did you know that when you register at a clinic, they not only ask you if you are sexually active, but if it is with male or female partners? I thought that was interesting. I wonder how many people lie. They also ask if you feel safe in all your environments, which is also interesting, but very sad. I said I did. Because the voices in my head probably don't count.

I had my exam, and the verdict is "nothing to worry about." Probably an inflamed duct. (Tom was surprised to learn that Layla and Roxie contain ducts.) I can hot-pack Layla, and take anti-inflammatories. If it doesn't get better, or if I see any redness or swelling, I call the clinic back and they'll schedule me for an ultrasound or mammogram.

Overall, I'm very relieved. Tom is formulating his own treatment plan, which probably won't do much good but is sure to be fun.

Road Trip Report: Day 3

The second concert couldn't have been more different from the night before in Bloomington if it tried.

We drove the 4.5 hours to Springfield, Illinois, and got checked in at the hotel. Then we went out for lunch, drinks, and to visit the liquor store because all our supplies had been consumed in Bloomington.

Interesting note: During the course of the trip, I was in three Bloomingtons. Drove through Bloomington, Minnesota, home of the Mall of America, drove through Bloomington, Illinois, and stayed in Bloomington, Indiana.

We drove all over looking for the liquor store, only to discover that across the parking lot from our hotel was a giant "Friar Tuck's," which is - apparently - a liquor store. The name threw me. Up here, they all tend to be called Something Liquor, or in the case of my neighborhood establishment, the Liquorette. But, we were soon able to continue the pre-concert festivities.

We headed out to New Berlin to the Sangamon County Fairgrounds and parked right by the entrance to the Grandstand. Strategy is crucial. It turned out to be especially important this time, because a severe storm blew in. This gave me time to sit in the car and enjoy the merchandise from Friar Tuck's and send some more annoying text messages. Etc.

After the rain passed and we were not struck by lightning or sucked up by a tornado, it was time to go get in line. This crowd was way less stabworthy than the previous night's. We finally got in and went across the huge, grassy field to the stage. A little later, the promoter came on and announced there was another severe storm coming. The opening act would play, then there would be a break so we could seek shelter.

(Note: It's never a good thing when someone has to tell you to "seek shelter." But it's never boring.)

Yep. It was another severe storm, alright. Nasty one. We waited it out in the car. When we went back into the Grandstand area, the grassy field had turned into a super-size version of Darwin's mud bog. I had on sandals, leather with wooden beads, flip-flop style. And I was up to my ankles in mud. Literally. Squish, sploosh, squidge. We got our spot in the crowd, and at long last the show started. Then it rained some more. But I wasn't budging. Then it stopped. Then it rained some more. Then Tom decided we should move back out of the crowd, because there's something about concerts, alcohol, and mud that makes people want to fight, and he didn't want us to get caught in the middle of it.

Plus, the porta-potties and the drink tent were back there.

Then it rained some more. We stayed and watched the whole show. Oh, should mention... they started the concert with "Carney Man." This is one of their old songs, one of those quirky, gimmicky fan favorites, with lots of participation from the crowd. They don't play it often, even though there's always at least one drunk guy yelling, "Hey, dudes, play Carney Man!" But how else do you start a show at a county fair, at which 1000+ fans have just endured two severe storms and are now standing ankle-deep in mud? Gotta be Carney Man.

Trying to remember if I've ever been so muddy. I had on dark olive capri pants, and they were disgusting. Shoes may be a total loss. I was mud from the waist down, since just because you are in a quagmire doesn't mean you don't dance. Arms, face, shirt... muddy mess. But, in a way, this was one of the coolest things we've ever done. 44, at our favorite band's show, having just followed them from another state the day before, drinking, dancing, getting rained on, jumping around in the mud... one girl told me I was her hero when she heard we came from Minnesota and had also been at the show the night before. Which was nice, because most people just think I'm weird.

(There are only a few pictures from Night Two. With all the rain, the camera had to stay in the case. But here's one of Cody. I wish we'd taken some pictures of the mud.)

And that's it! Long, super-hot shower to get un-mudded, then up early in the A.M. for the 8.5 hour drive home. Awesome road trip. We hope they play the Bluebird again, because we'll go. If they play the same series as this time, we might do Evansville, IN, Bloomington, IN, and the county fair shows. Or whatever. 2-3 shows.

They do have a new CD coming out September 1, though, and I'm hoping that leads to some new fall dates... in Minnesota.

And now I'm home, and back to editing my book, going back to work, petting my dogs, and sitting on my ass. My legs are so sore! My mud-squelching muscles are in agony. I have a knot in the back of my right calf that might cripple me. My knees are bruised. I probably still have mud in hidden nooks and crannies. But I had the best time ever.

Road Trip Report: Part 2

Day 2, Thursday, otherwise known as Concert Day, dawned warm and rainy. After the brief shower, Tom and I ventured out to do some shopping. Bloomington is the most awesome small city ever. You've never seen so many funky restaurants, shops, yoga studios, bars, etc. I bought a gorgeous banded onyx vase... which I can't seem to locate at the moment. Tom said he put it in the box our bottle of Jack Daniel's came in, but I can't find it. If I left it in Indiana, I shall be beyond pissed.

We had lunch at Brother's, the bar across the street from the Bluebird. And Round One of pre-concert beverages. The band bus pulled up, and there they were. I had to drive 12 hours to accomplish it, but Cross Canadian Ragweed and I were finally in the same town.

We went across the street. I sat on a ledge maybe 30 feet away from the bus. Sightings were tricky, because the night before, I had failed to get my left contact into the case and found it dried to the sink that morning. Operating with one contact meant anything over about ten feet away was significantly blurry. And I'd forgotten my glasses at home.

Grady came walking by, and we talked to him for a bit. He's always so incredibly nice.

Tom is great at spotting people. Next thing I know, he's up the sidewalk talking to Cody. He recognized how he stood. I was thrown, because Cody now has short hair (photos below). He's had long hair, slightly less-long hair, and/or longish hair the entire 7 years we've been fans. I don't handle change well. Can't deny it looks good (because, well, it would have to), but I'm still getting used to it.

After he got in a car and drove off, we went back to the room to continue the pre-concert drinking preparations. And a nap. Then it was time to go grab dinner. And pre-concert drinks. I went downstairs first, and as I stepped out of the Inn door, Cody was standing three feet away, talking on the phone. Which he continued to do for, oh, ever. We went back up to Brother's, and he kept strolling up and down the street right in front of the bar, back and forth, like a duck in a shooting gallery.

So, then we went to get in line. Anybody who thinks I'm a weirdo fan should stand in one of these lines someday. I think we met two normal peope. The rest? Holy cow. They all seem to know each other from other shows, but... there is a limit to what I need to know about you, your friends, your icky adventures, your sweat glands, your asthma, your drinking habits, your sex life, or any combination of the above. That limit is... zero. I do not need to know. But now I do. And I can't get some of the disturbing information - and images - out of my head. However, I was on my best behavior. I did not open my mouth. The smart-ass comments were right there - oh doG, I had a million of them - but I resisted. I now have enough material to use while writing my next dozen oddball characters for the next book. More than enough. Ick.

I did spend much of the day amusing myself by sending some of you an endless stream of annoying text messages. One I sent to Curt: "Not stabbing other fans in the head. Deserve medal." It was that kind of day.

Doors open, and there I am, at the stage. As planned. The opening act was really good, and I need to email the club and find out who they were. They might require further investigation.

The show... as always... beyond belief. These guys are the best live band in the world. Long, awesome, high-energy sets. Naturally, I did not emerge unscathed. Both knees are very sore and bruisey from leaning against and knocking into the front of the stage. I move a lot at concerts. Which is totally unlike me, usually. Elbows slightly bruisey. Plus, if I hadn't had quite so many concert-beverages (because this club is so small Tom was actually able to get to the bar a few times) I might have realized immediately after the show that I was deaf.

(Cody)

It wasn't till morning that it occurred to me that it sounded like I had ear plugs in. Everything was muffled, and I was missing some sound levels (I think bass ones) altogether. This happens to Tom at concerts, but not to me. Also, leg muscles were oh-so-hurty.

And that's the report on Day 2! Day 3 = moving on to Illinois for the show at the Sangamon County Fair. Or Woodstock. With all the mud, it's hard to tell the difference.

For your viewing pleasure... here are some shots from the show. Tom takes awesome pictures. There's one video clip, but I'm not wasting your time with it. The volume was so loud that the camera couldn't cope, so it's all jangly and jarry and ear-hurty.

Click on pictures to biggen.

(Cody playing his beloved Paul Reed Smith guitar)

(Cody)

(Grady & Cody, Jeremy visible in the back, far right)

(Grady & Cody)

(Randy)

(Cody & Jeremy)

(Cody)

(Cody)

(Cody)

Road Trip Report: Part 1

I actually made it out of bed at 2AM on Wednesday, and got out of the house at 3AM. Much, much driving, during which I began compiling the imaginary soundtrack for my book... though due to my lack of musical range, this consists solely of songs by Reckless Kelly, Carbon Leaf, and (of course) Cross Canadian Ragweed. This started when I was listening to Carbon Leaf's "Life Less Ordinary" and realized it is totally Seth's song to Abby. Brilliance.

Eleven hours later I pulled into the parking lot at the Wayne branch of the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library. I worked for I-MCPL for 7 years, and two of my friends now work at that branch. I figured at least one of them was probably working, and I also wanted to check my email for the ticket confirmation number I had forgotten to bring.

I was in luck, because Jen and Angie were both working... and another friend, Willie, happened to be there with her granddaughter. I was so excited to see them again! It's been a few years since my last visit. I also got to show them the copy of my manuscript... as book people, they were sufficiently appreciative.

Turns out, I had two hours to kill at the library, because Tom's flight from Chicago had to turn back (landing gear issues), and it took a while to find them another plane on which all the gear was functional. We appreciate their diligence.

At long, long last, he got to the Indianapolis airport, and I picked him up. An hour and a half later we were checking in at the worlds most charming, funky, perfect little inn. New favorite place in the world: The Walnut Street Inn, in Bloomington, Indiana.

(The three windows to the left of the corner and the four to the right - second floor, of course - were our room.)

It has only a handful of rooms and is located above a vegetarian restaurant. We stayed in the Walnut Room (but it's listed as the Brick Room on the website), which is on the corner. From my bed, I could see the sidewalk outside the club where the band's bus would be parked.

Awesome.

I loved the exposed brick, the original old hardwood floors, the high ceilings... and the location.

Bloomington is a college town, very progressive and trendy. The street went pretty much like this: Inn, bar, restaurant, bar, tattoo shop, bar, nightclub, barber, bar, restaurant, bar, bar. I'm not usually much of a people-watcher, but watching the evening bar-crawl was fun.

We went to the Bluebird that night, to check it out before Thursday's concert. And what a great little club. It's deep and narrow, and clear in the back is the sunken area for shows, with the tiny stage tucked in the corner. I got my spot all picked out.

End of Part 1. Coming up next, Thursday's sightings and concert experience. There are injuries.

The Short Version

Home from the legendary road trip. I'll write about the many wonderful adventures enjoyed by Yours Truly and Tom... but I thought I'd share some bullet points. The report is going to be three posts, and will fill in the details about:

• Much driving
• Dropping in on some friends at the library in Indianapolis
• Hanging around library for 2 hours, because Tom's plane was delayed in Chicago
• The world's cutest and coolest little Inn
• Three Bloomingtons
• Three I-states
• One fantastic little nightclub
• Extensive periods of close proximity to our favorite guys in the universe
• Deep concern about unexpected new haircut
• Why other fans should not be permitted to speak
• Total kick-ass concert at the Bluebird
• Concert-related injuries
• Massive hearing loss
• More driving (or, in this case, now "riding")
• One county fairground
• Two severe storms
• Three non-severe rain showers
• Mud
• Lots of mud
• Real, whole, freakin' miles of mud
• Another kick-ass concert
• More concert-related injuries
• More riding
• Plans to do it all again next year

Big News Is Just a Click Away

I don't double-post between here and Writecrastination, though it is sometimes tempting. I know there is some overlap, but each blog mainly has its own separate group of readers. But I have such monumental news that I want to make sure you all click over to yesterday's Writecrastination post and read all about it. Since that is my writing blog, I'm sure you can guess what it is, but go read it anyway.

Don't Cue the Duck: UPDATED X2

Dear Aflac,

Do not bother to instruct any of your agents or representatives to call or drop by my clinic. It will be an enormous waste of your time, and it will also piss me off.

Why the hostility, you wonder? Interesting story.

Ever since we opened in 2005, representatives have dropped by from time to time. I usually smile vacantly, let them talk, agree to accept some helpful handouts and rate charts, and they go on their merry ways, able to report they'd talked to somebody. I'm sure they have some sort of quota.

Something you need to know about our practice, though. We're young, and we're a specialty clinic. In this economy, we're working our asses off trying to keep the doors open. Well, okay, some of us are working our asses off. And by "us," I don't mean "me," because lately I've been a bit distracted by trying to formulate excuses to leave early and work on my book. But work is being done. Just not by me. Bottom line is that we do not offer health benefits. Yet. No can afford-o.

But the fact that Aflac people keep showing up and calling, despite being told several dozen times that we are not interested, isn't why I'm pissed.

Today, my technician working the front desk paged me. Did I want to talk with Courtney from Aflac? No. No, I did not. Take a message. Stick it on my mailbox upstairs. Later, I will come get the message. Then I will drop it in the recycling bin on my way back to my office. But by all means, take a message.

A minute later, my tech pages again and tells me that Courtney says it is about a claim, and they need to speak with the owner. Hmm. I do have an employee on a medical leave of absence right now, but it's not work-related. (Pregnant, car accident, broken pelvis, pre-term labor, it's a nightmare) But if there's any chance it might have anything to do with that, I should find out. Fine.

Me: Thanks for holding, this is Lori. How can I help you? (Because I'm totally polite like that. I even smile when I say it so it sounds like I actually mean it. Old receptionist trick.)

Courtney: This is Courtney with Aflac. I need to speak with the business owner, please.

Me: She's not available at the moment. I'm her Practice Manager. I understand this pertains to a claim. In that case, I'd be the one who would take care of that. (Along with every other fucking thing, except when I'm sneaking away to write the book. If it has to do with insurance, I'm the go-to girl unless it involves signing the premium check. Oh, wait, I do that, too. At this point, I don't think our bank would even recognize Dr. Vet-Friend's real signature.)

Courtney: I'd still need to speak to the business owner to get her permission to discuss this matter with you.

Me: (Grrrrrr.) Well, if you can hold, I'll see if I can locate her. (She was sitting six feet away from me, playing Bookworm Deluxe on the other computer. We had already discussed Courtney-From-Aflac and determined that I should speak with her and get rid of her as soon as possible so I could help DVF devise a strategy for using up the scary flaming red tiles that were piling up on Bookworm. Plus, it was getting to be time for us to go out for a smoke break.)

I told DVF that she was going to have to talk with Courtney-From-Aflac, which she'd probably already figured out. She rolled her eyes, I transferred the call the whole six feet from my desk to where she was sitting, and their conversation went like this:

DVF: This is Dr. Vet-Friend (only she used her actual Doctor-Name).

Courtney: Are you the owner of the business?

DVF: Yes, I am.

Courtney: I need to speak with the person who handles insurance matters and makes financial decisions.

DVF: That'd be Lori.

She transferred her back to me.

Me: Oh, hi Courtney. You're back. (Dumbass. I told you I was the one you had to talk to. But did you believe me? Nooooo.)

Courtney: Are you authorized to make decisions for the business?

Me: (I thought we aready covered this. Yes!) Yes, I understand this has something to do with a claim?

Courtney: I wanted to talk to you about scheduling a time for a 15-minute presentation about...

Me: You told my front desk staff that this was about a claim. (Which is the only fucking reason I'm talking to you right now, you sneaky, lying weasel.)

Courtney: No I didn't. (Yes, I swear, she actually said that.)

Me: Well, we're not interested in having you come in and do a presentation.

Courtney: May I ask why not?

Me: No, that is not relevant.

Courtney: Surely you can spare 15 minutes to...

Me: (Yep, I interrupted her. Because I'd tried polite, and it didn't work. But I had one last semi-polite reply left in me, which I probably should have saved for someone more deserving, but I wasted it on Courtney-From-Aflac.) Please, please just accept it when I say we are not interested, okay?

Courtney: So you don't even care about your employees enough to spend 15 minutes...

Me: Okay, we're done talking now. (Click.)

DVF and I sat there, incredulous that Courtney tried such a slick stunt, then upped the sneaky-bitch factor even higher by pulling the "you don't care about your employees" bit.

No, Courtney, I hate my employees. They're all lazy and worthless, and I hope they all suffer horribly from lack of Aflac. Wouldn't our little chat have been much more interesting if I'd said that to you, even though I love my employees, especially when they don't screw up their timecards and when they bring me chocolate?

Anyway, Aflac, keep your representatives away from me, in person or by phone. Because even if I were interested in insurance options right now - which I am not - I would not deal with Aflac. Either you encourage the kind of unscrupulous and obnoxious behavior exhibited by your representative, or you foster an environment where she has to resort to such tactics in order to keep her job. Either way, I don't like it.

I will decide to like Aflac the same day I decide Cody Canada is icky, and as anybody who has ever met me can tell you, that is so totally never going to happen.

But, hey, I do want to thank Courtney for one thing. I needed something to blog about.

UPDATE 6/11: Wowzer. In less than 12 hours, an Aflac agent found this post and commented defending the company and bemoaning agents like Courtney that make them look bad. And I got an email from the company's Customer Communications Manager, direct from Aflac Worldwide Headquarters (which I picture in a hollowed-out mountain somewhere, or possibly a garage) apologizing and offering to put me on their do-not-call list. So I shall no longer be plagued by sneaky-ass Courtney or anyone like her. Which might or might not bum me out, because I've been pondering the many ways in which I might mess with her if she had sufficiently poor judgement or faulty long-term memory and called me again.

PS: In my reply to Mr. Communications Manager, I also suggested he find Courtney and smite her. Because I believe in cosmic justice, as well as swift and blinding retribution. So, we'll see.

UPDATE 6/12: Un-fucking-believable. My admin just paged. She just had to tell TWO AFLAC REPRESENTATIVES to leave. They came in (oh, pitiful, clueless potential victims of my wrath) to chat. She told them we don't deal with Aflac due to Courtney's offensive behavior. Apparently Mr. Communications Manager's memo has yet to go out. Still hoping Courtney gets smote.

Fame, But No Fortune

The new Dog Writers Association of America website is now up and running. As I mentioned, I was chosen to be the very first Featured Member in recognition of my stunning win of the Maxwell Award for Best Regular Blog in the 2008 writing competition. Stop by and take a look! Maybe we'll attract a few new FFFans as a result of this feature... which means it would probably be nice if I'd post a bit more often.

PS: Curt, Duncan's picture is one of the ones they used!

Stupid Doesn't Have to Be Fatal, But Sometimes It Is

I did two relatively stupid things last night. I realize that is not surprising, given my tendencies. However, the fact that neither thing involved alcohol in any way, shape, or form might be.

Yesterday was a day in which even "Sofur Slug" does not come close to describing my level of inactivity. Ass and Sofur were in constant contact. Tom said it was like I was in one of those promotional contests, like where contestants have to keep their hand on a new car, and the last one to take their hand off it is the winner. I took 30-second breaks every hour to make sure I still had circulation in my legs, check for signs of atrophy, and get more ibuprofen, because lying around like that all day makes my back hurt. But with liberal doseages of pharmaceuticals, I was able to "slug it out" without twitching in agony on the Sofur.

None of that was particularly bright, but it wasn't the stupid part. Yet.

Around mid-afternoon, realizing I had not yet even brushed my teeth - due to the bathroom sink's lack of proximity to the Sofur - I made my way the six or seven steps to where my purse was on the dining room table. In said purse, I had a 5-Hour Energy drink. I thought, perhaps, I could use a spot of energy. I worried a bit, since I'd never had one of these drinks, and my reconfigured digestive tract sometimes causes me to have odd reactions to things. Like the time a couple of doses of Delsym cough syrup left me stoned out of my gourd for three days. Totally not my fault. But the parts I can remember were pretty funny.

I read the label carefully, then swallowed the alleged energy-booster. Which failed to have any effect on me. At all. I was not one bit more mobile, and my ass did not venture one centimeter further away from the Sofur. Teeth remained unbrushed.

And that still isn't the stupid part.

Stupid Part #1 began when I decided to start work on the book-in-progress around 5:30 PM. This was stupid, because it always sucks me right into fictional Emporia, Minnesota and into Abby and Seth's world. Which meant at 11:15 PM I was still writing. And I'm usually in bed by 9:00 PM. And I had to get up for work today. At 5:00 AM. And I... am not a person who does well on very little sleep. At all.

So, that was pretty stupid. On the other paw, I did get most of chapter 16 written, including the much-anticipated (by me, anyway) hammock sex scene.

The next stupid thing was... almost disastrous. It made me realize I should really give one of you the password to my blogs so that if I die in some ridiculous, Darwin-Award-Worthy, senseless way, you can at least let people know what happened. Though it'll probably be on the news.

It was about 11:25, and I was finally ready to head to bed. Normally, Tom has the TV or the computer still on in there, but he'd turned them off hours earlier. When they are on, though, they provide me with a small amount of ambient light, enabling me to navigate the dog-strewn hallway in relative safety.

But last night, it was pitch black. I began feeling my way toward the hallway. My right hand was seeking the bookcase, a key landmark on the journey. My left hand was checking for either the newel post at the top of the stairs, or the hall closet door. Either one would have been really, really helpful.

I mentioned it was pitch dark, right? Like, I couldn't tell where there might be a door, a window, a wall, anything. Finally, my right hand touched wall. I determined that it was the far side of the kitchen doorway, meaning I needed to edge slightly to the left to line up with the hall. So I turned a wee bit, and moved forward with my right foot.

And there was nothing there. No floor under my foot. Air. I grabbed with one hand, and clutched the old baby gate that leans up there, the better to block Darwin in the hall while he's eating, and it rattled. My right foot was plunging downward, and just (JUST) caught the edge of the first step down. It slid, but didn't go further.

If my foot had gone a half inch further forward before atempting to touch down, I would have missed the first step entirely, not having realized I was anywhere near the steps in the first place. The second step would have been too low, too far out, and there's NO WAY I'd have kept my balance. I'd have fallen. And not the annoying and embarassing "oh, I bumped on my butt all the way down the stairs" kind of fall. This would have been a total end-over-end, major-injury-inducing crash. Bones would have broken. Limbs for sure, possibly neck. We already know what happens when you fall down those stairs drunk. You get a gaping bloody head wound. And that time, it was daylight and I was able to get my hands out in front of me, because at least I knew which was the floor and which was... not. Falling down those stairs onto a ceramic tile floor at 11:30 PM in total darkness... would not be good. There would have been a terrible series of thuds and crashing baby gate, and there I'd have been.

Once I identified my near-disaster, I retreated, found the proper wall, and felt my way to the bathroom. When I got there and turned on the light, I could hardly stand up. I was trembling hysterically in the aftermath of my brush with mortality.

When I finally made it (safely) to bed, I was still wound up from the work on the book, and hyper with post-adrenaline aftermath. It was nearly 1:30 AM before I got to sleep.

5:00 AM came awfully damned early.

But at least it came.