Building Character

Did you read my last post?
Did you notice how I was all brave and courageous and strong at the MRI yesterday?
Did ya' see how I was all like "in your face cancer?"

Guess what I get for all my bravery and courage? A return visit.
No kidding. A very kind scheduler called and invited me back in for another go.

Isn't that nice?

And so I won't get bored with the same old-same old, tomorrow, they're going to add a twist and perform a biopsy whilst running the MR. To be more precise, the MRI is going to guide the doctor to the mass in my right breast so that she can safely take a tissue sample or two. Yes, I said RIGHT breast.

For those of you just tuning in, the cancer is in my LEFT breast.


I've got my work cut out for me tonight as I fall asleep.

I guess no one told cancer that I intend to stay upbeat and positive throughout this journey. Throw me all the curve balls you want; I'm keeping my eyes on the prize - and -that light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike you cancer, I'll still be in my body a few months from now.

I fill my world with joy and beauty and all is well.

Em Are I - Killed it!

You know what's worse than finding out you have cancer?

I'll tell you - all the bloody diagnostic tests to determine what stage of cancer you're dealing with.

Mr. Bon and I hadn't even begun to wrap our heads around our new reality, when the surgeon began ticking off the list of diagnostics she would require before the inevitable removal of my cancerous breast.

She mentioned something about the necessity of determining whether or not the carcinoma in question has invaded other sites in my body; though Mr. B and I can barely recall her gentle words and thorough explanations.

It wasn't until we got home that I counted the list of appointments: four in total. Four dates in which I would be poked, prodded and injected with some sort of you've-got-to-be-kidding-me-you're-putting-that-in-my-bloodstream?-substance.

As mind-numbing as a cancer diagnosis is, for me it's those dreaded, but admittedly miraculous,
tests that put me over the edge. I know-I know, they're useful and even critical to my healing process - but they scare the daylights out of me.

Today.
Today was test number three, or officially, Breast MRI. I could only think of it as what it was: my third trip into a mysterious tube with the added bonus, wait for it ... contrast dye via an IV injection, in less than two weeks. No friends, I did not sleep well last night. As my mind is wont to do in these situations, I spent a fair amount of time in the wee hours of the morning dwelling in the deep, dark, depths of my mind. Not such a good place to hang out when the lights are out and the rest of your family is in a deep and peaceful slumber.

Fear not friends, this story has a happy outcome.

Patients who are claustrophobic, or think they might freak out in the tube, are offered a sedative to get through the test with a minimum of discomfort. Given my current anxiety levels, I thought a little "cocktail" wasn't a bad idea, so I signed up.

Funny thing happened to me on the way to the Imaging Center though.
Somehow, I tapped in to a deep - so deep it was unbeknownst - reservoir containing courage and strength (yay! I have courage and strength; could be useful in the future).

As the appointment approached I realized a mind altering drug induced more fear than a confining, noisy machine. I was going to have to get through this chemically unaided. And ya' know what? I did it. Actually, I killed it!

Employing grounding techniques learned from my Reiki master, yogic breathing and positive affirmations gleaned from various books found in the "woo-woo" aisle of Barnes & Noble, I made it through the MRI with no anxiety what-so-ever. In fact, I found it kind of relaxing.

Remember that feeling when you finished your last final of the quarter?
Remember that overwhelming (in a good way) feeling of relief and liberation, knowing you could claim back your life and do what you please with your time? That is where I'm at tonight. It's not quite a Summer break for me, but something shorter; we'll call it a Spring Break.

A few luxurious, worry-free days in which the C-word shan't be mentioned.

Postscript: Kudos to Mr. Bon who sat vigilantly near MRI system, giving me great comfort with his presence.

This Path

I am on a new path.
You should know this, as it is likely I'll be seeking solace here in the coming months.

Just two weeks ago, I was on another path; a completely different path.
And then, in the course of a two-minute phone call, everything changed.

Two weeks.
That's how long I've been trying to tell you. I've layed awake at night formulating the words over and over. Trying so very hard to come off as a good, compelling writer. So many different versions, so many opening lines - but none of them seemed clever enough.

I wanted to tell you in just the right way.
I wanted to be eloquent.
I wanted to stop you in your tracks; because that's what happened to me.
I wanted to be a headlights-to-your-deer kind of writer; because that's what happened to me.

But really, there is no clever way to tell you.

And as it happens, this path moves rather swiftly.
The way I looked at this path two weeks ago is completely different than my view today. Some things are already a blur; events I'll never be able to re-capture - let alone in words.

So it's time.
Time to say the words.
Time to get comfortable with the words - and the view.

I, Bon, have breast cancer.

For Blue

Traffic will be bad in Seattle this morning.

One thousand (maybe more) police and emergency vehicles will participate in a procession from the University of Washington in the northeast sector of the city all the way to the Space Needle in the "center" of the city. Really, it's not that far. In fact, the line of vehicles may take up the entire route without even moving.

I mean it, traffic will be a mess. And that is just fine with me.

The procession is to honor and memorialize a Seattle police officer who was ambushed and shot to death while he sat in his patrol unit training a rookie.

Not cool.

This cold blooded murder has left a family with out a husband and a father. Also, not cool.

It has put fear and ill ease in the very people who protect us. Not to mention their loved ones.
Would you be able to sleep at night if your wife, husband, son or daughter was a cop?

So yes, my heart is heavy for the fallen officer's family, but I also hold a silent vigil for those that are still on the street. -still just a phone call away when we need urgent help.

I imagine these are tough times. Thank you for your service today and your continued strength in the weeks and months that follow.

Who Can Say?

For the first time in a long time, I feel happy.
Truly happy. And I can't put my finger on exactly why that is.




Maybe ... it's the sunny weather here in Venice Beach, from where I'm writing.

Maybe ... it's my brother-in-law's* delightful laugh.

Maybe ... it's the fact that my mom* is back in her own, freshly renovated home and a lot of hard work is behind us.

Maybe ... it's because my husband* is, finally, back on the road to gainful employment.

Maybe ... it's the residue of spending the afternoon in a neighborhood completely devoted to three of my favorite things: arts, coffee and food.

Maybe ... it was spending a lot of time with the healing crystals in a bookstore called "Mystic Journey."

Maybe ... it's just that sometimes you realize that all in all, you are okay just the way you are.

Or maybe, and this is probably it, it's that excellent (though now empty) bottle of Riesling produced by the good vintners at St. Michelle using what appears to be a terrific '08 harvest, sitting over there on the counter. Never, in my wildest dreams would I ever expected to recommend a bottle from St. Michelle.

Whatever the reason, even though I have a lot of asterisks in my life, today I feel good and I'm celebrating with a post.
~bon
*Life has changed friends- more on this later

What is This Handbasket and Why am I so Hot?

Strange day in Seattle.

Major, big-time major, bank fails.

Homeless Seattlites are evicted from "Nickelsville," while million-dollar helicopters hover overhead catching it all on film for the evening news.

And nearby, the Boeing Machinists picket their employer while burning wood fires in old oil barrels, while said employer loses a reported $100 million a day.

Is this September 26th of 2008? Or did I accidentally discover
time-travel?

What's the Word, Bird?

"I've got a hunger,

twisting my stomach into knots..."

Every once in a while, you stumble upon a song and find the lyric so eloquent you wish like hell you would have written the poem that became that song. Sometimes, the song resonates so strongly it gets stuck in your head, your psyche and your throat. It becomes the backdrop of your life. At times, it takes over your thinking.

I've had just such a song stuck in my head for weeks now. Oh yes, weeks. Possibly even months; I can't be sure though - for, where this song is concerned, I've lost all track of time. It's in my head when I wake up. It's there humming softly as I make my daughter's lunch. It's there when I drive to work - and at work, shuffling fabric, folding invoices. Cooking dinner? It's there- spinning on some sort of maniacal loop, playing its soft, sweet, haunting self over and over.

Though my efforts have been mighty, I haven't been able to shake this song. No amount of soulful serenades or rocking baselines can exorcise this number.

This song's presence is so constant, maddeningly-so I might add, that I've come to realize it's there for a reason. I am supposed to stop and just listen to it. There is a message I'm supposed to be gleaning. The Universe is trying to tell me something. But What? What. What is the word? Speak up Universe.

Furthermore, I'm not really sure I'm comfortable getting a message from this particular song. Though beautiful, it's one bleak little ditty. Have a look for yourself:

I've got a hunger,
Twisting my stomach into knots
That my tongue has tied off

My brain's repeating
"if you've got an impulse let it out"
But they never make it past my mouth.

Bop Ba, this is the sound of settling

Our youth is fleeting
Old age is just around the bend
And I can't wait to go gray

I'll sit and wonder
Of every love that could've been
If I'd only thought of something charming to say.

Bop Ba, This is the sound of settling.

Who knew the Universe would speak to me through those Death Cab for Cutie cuties?
I feel so special. But hey, what exactly is the message? Why won't this song leave my head? I like the song alright, but I don't want it taking up permanent residence. It reminds me of a day like today; a sunless, autumn day. It makes me feel empty inside; hungry, if you will.
What's worse, if I chose to dwell on it, I could find truth in every line of that lyric. But in a long-ago lifetime- not now, not here. Meanwhile, my stomach is twisting into knots!

So Universe. What are you saying? Are you handing me a proclamation, or just issuing a gentle word of caution. Does this have something to do with my current career situation? Do tell. Whatever it is you're trying to say is lost on me. I need a clearer message. I'm not too bright, ya know.

Kudos (I think)to Death Cab for Cutie for putting this song on their 2003 album Transatlanticism. Want to get The Sound of Settling stuck in your head too? Click on this spot, right here.

Revealing My Inner Sexist

My reaction to John McCain's choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate says a lot more about me than I ever cared to admit publicly - until now.

Deep inside, I subscribe to the June Cleaver model of parenting. While I don't care to wear pearls and A-line skirts, I do believe that serving one's children and husband is the priority. There are certain homemaking (remember that word) chores that, I do believe, should be a top priority in the home of every American family.

I believe that somebody has got to get three square meals on the table everyday. And, at one of those meals, the family should sit down together and talk.

I believe that somebody has to do the grocery shopping on a regular basis so that the cupboards and refrigerator always have something to offer.

I believe that somebody has got to get the laundry done and maintain the appearance of dresser drawers that are, as if by magic, always full.

I believe that somebody has to keep the house clean, organized and running smoothly.

I believe our children require these basic needs in place so that they may grow up happy, healthy and, above all, grounded.

This I believe, but can't quite uphold.

The reality at the house of Bon, and most homes across America, is that both parents must work to pay for said house, home or condo. Sadly too is the reality that, maintaining my inner June Cleaver is impossible while working full time. Mind you, Mr. Bon is no slouch when it comes to helping around the house, but more often than not, we choose hands-on time with the Bonlets over household management.

I'm mostly coping with the cognitive dissonance I'm living.
I'm working on achieving a greater balance of work and home that serves our family better. Though it's a little early to tell, the Bonlets do seem to be fairing pretty well despite my lack of home baked cookies in the cookie jar every afternoon when they come home from school.

I find managing the lives of two children, running a house and managing a small business - although very gratifying - extremely time consuming. So much so that I can't find the time to grab a cup of coffee with a friend. How does Sarah Palin expect to raise her children and help run the country?

She has five children. Five children. They range in age from what, nineteen to two. One's heading to Iraq soon, one's about to become a teen mother, one's a hockey player and one has Downs Syndrome. Sheesh. I thought my plate was full. Is she really at a point in her career where she should even be entertaining the thought of moving her family to Washington, DC and accepting the position of Vice President?
I don't want someone a "heartbeat away from the presidency" who has so much on her personal plate.

I'm not saying that a woman's place is in the home - well actually, I am.
But I do so recognizing that everybody gets to make their own choice. And for some women, it is better not to be at home. I get that. I also get that sometimes, most especially when you've brought a slew of children into the world, you don't necessarily get to do what you want to do. Sometimes, your career has to wait - or at least operate in low gear for awhile.

In the case of the Palin family I believe the thinking is misaligned, the decisions are unwise and a prime example of parenting that isn't, couldn't possibly be, focused on the family.

Maybe I've overlooked something. Maybe... Mr. Palin is the Mack-Daddy of parenting. Maybe... he doesn't need her help with the brood. But of course, how could we know? Mrs. Palin, in her typical fashion, has squelched this man's voice.

Tick Tock

Judging by the title, you might be expecting a post about time slipping through my fingers - you know, like the proverbial sand in the proverbial hour glass? Or, you could think I'm about to go off on the fact that, already (gasp) the leaves are beginning to turn and yes (bigger gasp), my precious children are getting older.



All true, but actually, this is a post about the quest for a cup of coffee.
A simple cup of coffee with a friend.
Two friends really. No, make that three.
Ah geez, probably more - but I'm losing track ... because I don't have enough time!!



Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
The clock keeps ticking and I keep moving.
I get to work every day.
I get the kids to school.
And soccer. And gymnastics.
I get the laundry done (if you're not picky about the folding part).
I attend the soccer meetings and the Open Houses.
Everybody comes home to a delicious, home-cooked dinner most every night.
And by night, I mean night.
We are not a 6:30 supper family.
At The House of Bon , it's Dinner at Eight for us.


We watch movies together.
We play cards and work jigsaw puzzles.
We did the Puyallup. We saw the new Indiana Jones movie.
We grow vegies and Dahlias.


Yet somehow, I just can't wedge in a cup of coffee with my pals.
They're busy too.
Lives are unfolding with drama and joys.
And I watch from afar, as it all passes by.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Ninth of June, Two Thousand Eight

Sometimes,
on a rainy afternoon
in Seattle,

When the clouds
hang so low
I almost bump my head,
and I feel so hollow
and empty inside,

All I want
is to be held
by you.

A Riddle

When is a marble like a cantaloupe?

When your doctor compares the lump in your breast to a marble.

"Yes, I can confirm you have a lump, it's about the size of a marble," The doctor says quietly while gently pulling the gown over your breasts.

The look on her face? Serious. No, make that grave.

Sure, you hear the word "marble."

But as your hand instinctively goes to your breast -- you feel "cantaloupe." You tell her so.
She laughs, glad for the levity before she must deliver the news of what lies ahead: tests and then maybe more tests and then, well let's not dwell there.


After an emotionally excruciating wait of five days, Mr. Bon and I went to the first test. Nervous, doesn't even begin to describe the state of mind we collectively shared. We'd been down the cancer road once before and didn't want to tread that path again. We had the T-shirt already. Thanks, but no thanks. Don't care to go there again.


Though, with my health history, the odds seemed against us.


Sixteen years ago, I had and survived Hodgkin's Disease, a cancer of the lymph system. Great precautions were taken then to shield the radiation from spilling to the non-cancerous parts of my chest and torso. I made my way to the hospital five days a week for nearly six months.

Each day, to insure precise and accurate administration of the "medication," the technicians would tape me in place. Literally. Scotch tape was anchored on one side of the table, between my shoulder and ear, stretched over and across my chin and then attached to the other side of the table. To this day, I get a chill whenever I smell the Scotch tape.

Once the tape down was complete, lasers were lined up with the newly needled (complements of Providence Oncology) tattoos on my chin, shoulders, sternum and stomach. Finally, once they were sure I was in the line of, er, right position, a unique jigsaw puzzle of twenty-four,
two-inch-thick, lead blocks upon a glass plate was precariously suspended a few inches above my chest. Then every one left the room to push the buttons that would trigger the release of the radiation.

I laid there and hoped the tectonic plates wouldn't suddenly shift.

The plates didn't shift and the radiation worked it's magic and dissolved every single one of those cancerous tumor. On July 5, 1991 I was declared a "survivor". I was cancer free.

But even with all the safeguards, I was told way back when I was 27 years old, that the high dose of radiation vastly increased my probability for getting breast cancer in my 40's. Almost as likely as my getting chances of getting grey hair, they said.

Nearly twenty years have passed. I'm a member of Club Four-Oh. And yes, though it's nicely concealed by my highlights, I've got the grey hair. Now, I wondered, sitting next to Mr. Bon in lobby of the Comprehensive Breast Center, was I going to lose it to chemotherapy?

My answer came quickly.

The technician who performed the mammogram could tell right away that my cantaloupe-sized marble was a cyst. Just a cyst. Tears burst out of my eyes and raced down my cheeks, while the oncologist glided the ultrasound wand over my breast.

"Just to be sure," she said.

We left the hospital elated. I quickly made the phone calls to the ones who were anxiously awaiting the results. Then, Mr. Bon and I basked in the glorious relief that you feel when you have escaped a close call. When, just for a minute, you think your world is falling away from you. Or you from it. But then, grace comes along and spares you the tragedy. There is nothing so joyful as the moment when feelings of fear and terror are replaced by elation and security.

It's as divine as a slice of cool, ripe cantaloupe on a hot summer's day.

Time Marches On

This is no hoax. Time does march on.
Like it or not, Autumn is rapidly approaching.
Don't call me "Chicken Little," I have proof.
There are signs every where.

For instance, the sun is now long set when the boys come home from soccer practice at 8:30 in the evening. Only a few weeks ago, we ate dinner in the backyard after their arrival and lingered over toasted marshmallows and ice-cold Kokane. We had to shield our eyes from the annoying rays of the damn thing, for crying out loud. If we plan to dine al fresco this week, Mr. Bon is going to have to drag out the shop lamp so we can see to fire up the grill.

Nature is conspiring to gang up on me. The tree in my front yard is dropping subtle little reminders that one season is ending and another beginning. Every morning, I have to make a new path through the carpet of the little tear-drop leaves that fell from our Honey Locust the day before. I must take care though, for through the night the hundreds of spiders that call our yard home, cast their silky strands to and fro along the path, creating a veritable obstacle course of sticky filaments.

The annual flirtation with a possible post-season appearance by the Mariners is also underway. As per usual, Seattlites are all-a-dither (read: delirious) with talk of the Wild Card Race and Division Championship. Needless to say that in Seattle, nothing says Autumn like an 8-game losing streak in the crucial days of the pennant race.

And just this morning,
I sent my boy off to his first day of High School.

That Mariners Show!

The Zany Sitcom Featuring
the Wacky Hijinks of
Seattle's Favorite Baseball Team

This week's episode takes place at the charming suburban home of Bon and Mr. Bon, devoted fans of Seattle Mariners baseball. Time is early one Sunday morning not so long ago.

SCENE ONE: Scene opens just after dawn Sunday morning to find Mr. Bon in the family room reading the newspaper and sipping his coffee. Sun is beaming through the window, birds are chirping. Camera one on Bon as she stumbles, bleary eyed down the stairs, gropes through the kitchen to get her coffee together. Follow to family room where she sits down next to Mr. Bon.

MR. BON: (as Bon reaches for newspaper) Hey hon, guess what?

BON: What hon?

MR. BON: The Mariner's traded Jeff Weaver!

BON: (brightly, waking up at the news) They did? Really?

MR. BON: Yep that's right! He's been traded for a high school football player out of Kent!

(insert laugh track here, maybe a rimshot)

BON: That reminds me hon, did you ever contact that clever donkey, Scott Boras?
After all, he's the one who convinced Bavasi and company to pay 8 million dollars for a pitcher whose claim to fame winning 3 post season game in what was otherwise a mediocre season. Maybe he could negotiate a more lucrative contract with your boss!

(cue laugh track)

MR. BON: Ah hon, you can't blame that whole 8 - 3 debaucle yesterday solely on Weaver. After all, our boys had 3 more hits than Kansas City and left 11 men stranded on base. It's not just Weaver who's having problems, sweetie.

BON: (hangs head in sadness) Oh hon, what will we do?

Camera pans out and fades to black.

SCENE TWO: Later that same day. Camera is on Bon in the kitchen cooking dinner, listening to the post game show.

Mr BON: (entering kitchen from back yard after mowing lawn) Mmmm something sure smells good! And sounds good too. Is that the post game show with Rick and Dave and happy totals?

BON: Yes sir! Our boys won the game today!

MR. BON: Oh Boy! Gee Willikers! What were the highlights?

BON: (while pouring two glasses of wine)

Oh Hon! Cha Seung Baek pitched a marvelous game! A no hitter all the way to the sixth!
And don't 'cha know Willie got an RBI double, that's good news! I don't want to seem critical, but his average was pretty darn low! Ichiro had a good game too! But I think the real highlight might have been Richie's single!

MR. BON: You don't say!
(counting on his fingers, with a look of exagerated thought on his face)
That's just great! You know, if he keeps this pace up he'll have ... let's see ... oh my goodness ... SIX singles by the end of season!!!

BON: (handing a glass of pinot to Mr. Bon) WOW! That is something to drink to!

(As Bon and Mr. Bon clink their glasses together with big, cheesy smiles and adoring looks, lets get a flash of light off the wine glasses and pan the camera back and fade to black.)

Greetings From Under The Rock

Clear indication that I have been somewhat out of touch came a few weeks ago while reading Tim's way cool blog. I followed the link to his so-called friend John's blog, who Tim says:

"not only can the play guitar pretty well, he's funny too."

The post about the peanut butter spreader that Tim linked us to was humorous enough that I forwarded the link (something I rarely do) on to Space.

Sensing that Tim's "friend" was either a master geek (his blog is really ripped), or possibly some kind of real musician, I asked Space if he'd ever heard of the guy. Back comes Space with the news flash that his wife has a few John Mayer CD's and their daughter sings along to his songs.
Guess I should have clued in when Bender's comment indicated that she thought it was cool that "her boy John," was one of Tim's friends too.

Okay, okay I am a former NPR junkie, people. My iPOD catalogue is limited to what the "shock doctor (I'll explain this new moniker for the eldest bonlet later)" puts up for me ... or what I download from mr. bon's and my aging CD collection. Did I mention I have poetry on my iPOD? You get the picture. I am, without a doubt, out of the loop.

Musically speaking though, I am moving forward. Have you heard the "new" song from Norah Jones, Don't Know Why. I heard it for the first time last week at work. Our screen printer, Ink Boy as I like to call him, can't do his job without music blasting. So whenever I visit the print room I'm treated to something new; new to me anyhow. One day last week, all conversation to ceased when Don't Know Why came on. I'd never heard it before, and thought it was pretty great. The very next morning, on my way to the factory, I heard it again on am 880 KIXI, The Music of Your Life. Again, hearing this song on this radio station that boasts it's Drive Time show hosted by Peter Marshall (yes that Peter Marshall of Hollywood Squares fame) should have been a clue.

When the song ended, Peter congratulated Norah on the fifth anniversary "of this terrific tune." I'll admit, I was more than a little crushed that the song had probably been introduced, then overplayed and then relegated to the likes of KIXI all with out my knowledge. But then I realized I had latched on to a song from this decade! Sweet progress.

Hey, did you know that Hillary and Barack are running for the democratic nomination?

Sorry

Sorry is the color pink
when you are embarrassed.

Sorry is the feeling you get
when you hurt someone.

Sorry is the taste
of salty tears.

Sorry is the feeling
that you messed up.

Sorry is sadness
and begging for forgiveness.

Sorry is like depression,
only for that moment.

Sorry is when you feel like silk
and are easily hurt.

Sorry is the warm you feel
when you have made up.

The last one is what I'm asking for.

What is sorry without these things?

~ the eldest bonlet
june, 2006
age 13, at the time.

My Love Grows Deeper

Remember the scene in Bull Durham when Kevin Costner joins the team? The coach, or maybe it was one of the players, describes Costner's character, Crash Davis, with disappointment: "he reads books without pictures, man!"

Crash Davis was definitely my kind of guy - hot and smart.

The M's hottie in center field has something in common with Crash. Turns out he more than fulfills the requirements to be placed on the Bon's Registry of Hunks .

Yep, that's right, not only is Ichi a hottie, he's a smartie too! Not to mention his mad skills on the ball field. But during those dry months between October and March, my "back-up plan" keeps himself pretty busy.

Check out his off season hobby back in old Nihon. I always hoped he had more than baseball drills going on inside that cute little head of his.

Doh!

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I forgot: one must be on the Edit HTML tab to upload images.
Did I really forget?
Was it that way before?
Oh the joys of menopause.

Calling All Bloggers

"Come in Bloggers, come in."

"Can you read me?"

"Need urgent assistance with Image Upload."

"Party in question switched to the new blogger some time ago and hasn't been able to complete Image Upload since conversion."

"Come in bloggers, do you read me?"

"All available units please respond immediately."

"Possible mayhem to ensue; several images roaming blogosphere unruly and detached from any sort of blog!"

"Come in Bloggers, do you read me?"

"Over."

Sayonara, Ichiro

Ichiro Ponders Free Agency and a New Team


Who can blame him?

The hottie in center field cites more than money as the reason he's considering free agency.

What a concept. Ichi just wants to have fun doing what he considers his "hobby." Odd as it may seem, his definition of fun includes winning games and fan enthusiasm.

Remember 2001? Seattle was a baseball town that year. That's what #51 is looking for in a team.

Note to Bavasi: I'll get the fans, you get the wins. Uh... you should know, your end of the deal would probably require you to sign someone who isn't a has-been and who has some decent, RECENT stats to back up that handsome picture on the back of his baseball card.

Note to Suzuki-san: If baseball is your "hobby," what exactly, is your vocation?

In Which Daring Resolve Leads to My Consumption of a Thousand Year Egg.

The truth is, I wanted to snap the old man's head right off.

I'm telling you I could have done the deed right there on the spot with my own bare hands. You see, lately I've been experiencing these surges of rage. I underestimate. I think I mean to say, 'maelstroms of violence aching to get out occasionally course through my body.' Anyhow, when in the midst of these so-far-internal, outbursts, I believe it is entirely possible for me to decapitate someone.

In the end, I decided the best way to avoid a prison sentence, was to relegate my primal inclinations for physical destruction to the gym and show this curmudgeon, who I happen to know has a heart of gold, what a kind soul I am known to be by the rest of the world. In other words, rather than the quick, violent and potentially messy demise I'd fantasized about earlier, I altered my course and wisely resolved to kill him with kindness.

I knew my first move would be to accept a spoonful of the syrupy raspberry jam he tried to shovel into my tea the day before. Little did I know that my refusal would offend him so much that he wouldn't so much as look at me for the rest of the day, let alone cut the fabric I'd ordered the day before. But really, would you have allowed somebody to put a whopping spoonful of raspberry jam into your naturally sweet mug of licorice spice tea?

So, first thing the next morning, I marched right downstairs to his fabric cutting table, tea mug in hand, and asked, "would it be too much trouble to try your raspberry jam now?" Big smile from the old guy. With that simple gesture, I was easily on my way to his good graces. He proceeded to give me specific instructions on just how to add a spoonful of the unset, runny jam into my cup of hot tea. Who knew the specs would be so complicated?

It was reaching into the refrigerator for the "jam," that I stumbled upon the beautiful speckled eggs. There they sat, each one wrapped loosely, yet carefully, in a tiny plastic bag. Always fascinated by interesting food from different cultures I just couldn't let such a treasure go unnoticed. I was pretty sure they were eggs from arcona hens, but thought I'd just verify and maybe at the same time exhibit my wicked culinary IQ. I'm such a smarty when it comes to food, right? Wrong.

I wasn't even close. Well yes, the eggs did come from a hen, that much I got right. Tod, who is a Laotian raised in China and fluent in at least three languages explained that they were Thousand Year Eggs he'd brought in to share with me (he likes to feed my adventurous spirit regarding food), if I was interested. Was I ever!

That day at lunch, the old man (did I mention he is from somewhere in the former Soviet Union? We, his other coworkers and I, can never get out of him where exactly he immigrated from just twelve years ago, one of the 'stans' we think, most likely "pain-in-the- ass-i-stan," we figure) sat reading his Russian newspaper, all the while sneaking approving glances as Tod and I ate the black (think: obsidian colored jello) eggs that had been curing in ash for something like a hundred days. He wasn't in the least bit interested in trying the intensely eggish concoction, but I could tell I was showing him a thing or too about the Bon.

Next day, I scored a d-double-d-licious piroshki like thing that the old man's wife learned to make back in the old country. Not only that, my entire order of fabric was cut without one challenge, or question, or "you crazy, lady."