I Know Why the Caged Bird Does Sudoku

The rhododendrons, a few of them, are still in bloom here.

We've been on the north shore of Long Island for a week now, and still have many plans before us, like getting into the City to see if it is the Sodom and Gomorrah we were promised. And there's much research to perform: do they really not sell Pace Picante anywhere? More mundanely, I plan to do all the run-of-the-mill stuff (see Big Stone Woman with Torch, see Large Museum with Truckloads of Art). And I want to visit a shop specializing in Celtic instruments. There, I plan a plink-plonk on an Irish harp. And I want to find six decent curry houses. And I want to find a bhel-poori stand (bhel-poori is an outrageously good Indian salad of potatoes, crispy cereals, tamarind and cilantro). If I find a decent pub near the curry houses, I may never leave.

But we still haven't done any of those things.

The first obstacle was the heat. But even when it kindly receded, real life kept happening. Our trip to the closest beach had to be sharply curtailed when, after paying my ten bucks to park there, I realized we'd left the sun block behind. Plus, I hadn't taken my dose of steroids that morning. The doctor back in Austin had emphasized how important it was to take the pills on the schedule and as directed. So we quickly ate our sandwiches, remarked on how the seagulls were as big as a West Texas buzzard, and then generally whined and moaned about how much we missed our friends, dogs, house, etc. My daughter tells me every ten minutes how much she misses her chums. You can hear mouse-like noises emanating from her room all day as she texts them.

So that's another reason why little progress has been made on Generally Getting Out. The kid is still in shock from having any free time at all, and from being away from home. I can understand why she needs to stay at sub-light speeds for awhile. Unwilling to leave her alone for any great length of time, I content myself with doing Sudoku and teaching myself to knit (I suck slightly less at it than I did a week ago).

The drop in temperature has meant some lovely walks, where I glimpse venerable houses and placid gardens that excite all my Martha Stewart instincts. Meanwhile, I find out that Long Islanders are friendly. When they see me trotting down the hill, all but skipping because I find the breeze so lovely and the plants so lush, they don't run and hide, as an Englishman would (married to one of them, I'm an expert on the breed). The people here seem happy right back at you. And I'm finding that if you give a New Yorker the slightest nod, then they're more than up for a stroll and a chat, knowing full well they may never see you again.

Despite all this contentment and these many reasons to be happy, I was still really looking forward to last night. Our daughter was off to a sleep-over and Mike and I intended to take a guilt-free walk into town, there to find a pub, then a cafe, then a pub again. We would plan our daughter's future (she loves that) and just talk. At our age, couples have to talk more because they forget everything each other said. Yes, I was looking forward to last night.

But somehow, I found myself running late to get my kid off to the sleep-over. This was because I had found myself in a deeper eddy of confusion over just how ribbing works on socks (this after days of realizing that I'd been purling the wrong way). Looking up at the clock, two things hit me: "I'm late" and then, "Damn, I forgot to take those mother-flummoxing-blasted steroids again!". Boom! Off the couch. Boom! Into my nice clothes. Boom! Take the pills.

And after that, it's all a fog. I remember Mike coming home from work. I remember lifting my weary head long enough to explain something about steroids and not enough food. Alarmed, he got me a cheese sandwich, which fell from my hands as I fell back to the couch. His mind -- which at such times works rather likes mine -- turned instantly and without evidence to thoughts of strokes, aneurysms, yellow fever. He called our family doctor in Austin but naturally couldn't get through. He googled like mad but could find no evidence that steroids should cause my symptoms. After an hour of panic and with his hand all but ready to dial 911, it occurred to him that, yes, there were steroids in the house but there was also at least one and probably two bottles of Ambien around. Ambien, it's the traveller's friend and the athlete's god-send.

Now, if I'm making myself look like a perfect idiot here, I will say in my defense that I'm the one you love to hate, the one who stands there dry-faced while you sneeze a bathful. I get the occasional cold but until this winter, when all hell broke loose, I'd had the flu twice, maybe. So I don't have much experience with doing anything medical on a regular basis. When I was pregnant it was an almighty struggle to remember to take pre-natal vitamins. So I'm going to forgive myself, this one time and as long as it never happens again, for not checking the label on the steroids and for taking three sleeping pills instead.

Realizing what I'd done, my husband at last exhaled. Ordinarily, he'd have been a little annoyed with me for such carelessness but since I wasn't dying of an aneurysm, he felt quite giddy. Now that's true love. I want a knock-off Vespa for Christmas. Oh, and a celtic harp, just a little one. Do you think this is a good time to ask?


The garden at left, a few blocks from the Wee Cottage in Long Island, is the sort of thing you'd find in Austin, if only Austin had the rain.