Itchy, scratchy but working through it

Somewhere in the usually fabulous state of Maine, I encountered something that irritated 97 percent of my skin. Not in a mildly annoyed way. In a full-on I-am-going-to-make-you-beg-for-death kind of way.

Dermatitis was the diagnosis. It's not contagious, but it's dug in deep. Prednisone is supposed to help it, and lucky for me, CVS delivered on that pretty fast.

Four days in, I'm better, but Ali woke up the day after Christmas with a sore throat and snotted up the friendly skies while I scratched my way home. It was a good thing we had an all-Reed set of seats.

Ali's sneezing was a come-and-go thing while my itching was fairly constant. Despite her illness, she and the Captain also feel compelled to instruct me on how to behave in public. Mostly it started with two words whispered loudly, followed by a command and then them falling against each other laughing. 

“Stop scratching!”

• You look like you’re in need of more crack.
• You look like you’re masturbating.
• You look like you’re a girl just released from a convent trying to talk to the first man she sees.
• You look like a 5-year-old who has to pee.

Later, as we waited at a restaurant for our connecting flight, Ali ran out of Kleenex but not snot.

"We can buy you NyQuil and Kleenex," I said.

"I don’t want NyQuil and I have napkins," she said.

I pick up my napkin, from which I had torn a sliver for myself and given the rest to her because she’d used up all the napkins within reach.

"I have napkin," she said.

We both cracked up in delirium.

Jeff wanted to walk to another terminal to get ice cream. Sweet Jesus Ice Cream. A favorite that Ali and I have had for breakfast on prior flights.  We both declined. That’s how you know how bad we were feeling.

Jeff peeled off searching for ice cream and, let's face it, a deserved break from us. Ali and I leaned against each other and struggled to the appropriate gate.

"Mom, I want to die."

"I want to die with you."

We discuss how to get killed in an airport. I said I wanted it to be a quick death and was concerned that nothing we did would result in a quick shot to the head. She said I was too demanding. Before the prednisone took effect, I could feel myself swelling up - especially my eyes. There for a while, I thought I might swell up like Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and float home. 

We got home about midnight and Jeff sent us to showers and bed, agreeing to drag in all our suitcases and stuff.  For the first time since I can remember, I didn't unpack right away. Ali and I spent yesterday on separate couches. I don't think I did one productive thing except apply calamine lotion and take the drugs. 

Today, the swelling is down, the itching is better and Ali is better, too. I'm halfway to getting the tree taken down. Jeff is off shopping so we'll have fun stuff for New Year's Eve. I should be back to near normal by then.

Prednisone is supposed to make you really energetic. I'm looking forward to that.

Christmas wasn't all itchy and scratchy. Gary crushed Jeff at cribbage. Ali had her fill of crab legs at our annual trip to the China Buffet.

We took a great walk up Jen's mountain-like hill and ended up with a postcard-like photo of Team Chase and Ali. We also met Mary's new love, the puppy Rory, who is super cute and about the size of a dust mop.

Rory is also suspect No. 1 for the source of my dermatitis. (Sorry, Mary.) Jeff and Ali have cat allergies, but I haven't had such issues before. 

We had lobster rolls at Allagash Brewing and drowned each other in gifts and food.

  It was a great trip and will be -- overall -- a great holiday break.

Happy New Year!

 

.

All I want for Christmas is some willpower

Not as in Will Power the race car driver. (He couldn't handle me.) But as in will power.

My pants already don't fit. A couple weeks ago, I grabbed the wrong pair of jeans, struggled into them and hoped they'd stretch. They didn't, and I'm pretty sure I sported a camel toe the rest of the day. This wasn't a muffin top situation. It was more like an overstuffed bratwurst that's been on the grill so long it's split open and oozing its stuffing.

My pants held that day, but barely. Had my waist button not managed to stay attached, it would have put someone's eye out, or embedded itself like one of those ninja stars had it sprung free like it was trying to.

Anyway, Ali is home from Purdue, which makes me happy regardless of my size.

She's baking coconut macaroons today and will soon dip them in dark chocolate. For my Book Club on Friday, she dipped strawberries in chocolate. And this is just the beginning.

She's been separated from the Kitchen Aid for weeks now. She has visions of cupcakes and cookies for her friends and the neighbors. I'm going to have to go work in an office to escape sampling and stealing licks from the bowls.

This morning after she cleared the cobwebs from mixer and it was humming happily in tune with her iPhone music, she said, "Oh I've missed that sound." Later, she signed and said: "It's good to be in a kitchen again."

It's not just my child who's contributing to my growth. There's a pile of cookies and popcorn and chocolate everywhere I go these days. I thought I'd save some calories by not drinking until Christmas.

But today, the Captain came back from Kroger with 10 bottles of great wine that he found in a bargain bin to add to the Advent calendar of wine Tracy and Eric Wiseman dropped off just after Thanksgiving. And of course you can't have Book Club without some champagne. And Bree's Book Club lasagna was so good I almost ate more of it than the damn strawberries.

Have I mentioned that I'm a weak, weak person?

I should just give up now and amend my Christmas list to elastic-waist pants and oversized shirts. I'm definitely staying away from the colors red and green this year for fear of being mistaken for Santa's largest elf.

Oh well, that's what resolutions are for, right? And everyone knows you can't start working on a resolution until the new year. We're starting a new decade come January 1 -- so it's probably good to have a meaty challenge for it.

Looks like it's leggings for me for the rest of the year.

The picture of Jeff isn't of him with his Kroger treasure, but him yesterday preparing to deliver craft beer to his friends before we set out for the Kahn's champagne tasting where we found Kate, Niki and Shelly there to sample as well.

Today, if I can wrest her away from the kitchen, maybe Ali and I will drop by the gym. That'll work off a bite or two...

Team Reed is lit

Ali brought a friend home from college, and the Captain claims I abused the poor kid.

I'm fairly certain I didn't, though I did doubt myself there for a while. I put that nonsense away when Ali told me that Jason confided in her that he was glad put in so many hours of labor. "I ate a lot," he said.

Didn't we all, Jason?

Decorating for Christmas has always been a tradition for Ali and me. We put the tree together the morning after Thanksgiving. I do the lights, but she pretty much sets the theme and decides what goes where while I set about with other areas of the house. Most of the decor is concentrated in the living/dining room, the kitchen and the porch. So, we put in a bunch of CDs from the House of Merle Christmas collection and blast the holiday spirit into being into every room of the house.

Ali usually turns off Toby Keith's "Santa I'm Still Here," but this year, she just cried through it like she did the first time she heard it and realized it was a story about a little homeless boy. Most of the other songs aren't as sad, and Jason jumped right in to hum and sing along.

As the weather was good and I had labor, we started outside. Ali and Jason took on the lights while I got rid of leaves that were clogging prime decorating space. I really didn't mean to bag leaves -- I've been mulching to minimize the need for that duty and was planning to chop them into bits with the mower.

But it turned out to be a bigger pile than Id envisioned and I didn't want to spoil the ambiance. At about bag three, Jeff came out and decided we needed to do even more leaves, so it turned into a big leaf production alongside the light display.

With Jason supporting from the ground, Ali went high and was on the roof when Jeff came out, so of course he set her to work on the gutters as well.

At a loss for hands-on work, Jason asked if I wanted him to switch to leaf duty. But I the Captain on that job, which was the worst job in the yard. So Jason went back to finishing up the lights.

Jason's usual holiday job in California involves putting lights on his family's two-story house, so he was in his element albeit 40 degrees colder than his norm. But he was a super trouper and their work turned out great.

After a Thanksgiving leftovers lunch, we turned to inside work, which involved a bit of structural integrity assessment. We nearly worked too close to time to meet the Jacksons for our annual Friendsgiving dinner.

That was its usual amazing time. We love the Jacksons and our tradition, which I think started when Ali was two-years-old. Jason slid right in. It helped that he's a Boilermaker.

If you think Jeff is proud of Ali, double that emotion for Patrick when he found out she'd gotten into his alma mater. I suspect Ali will be seeing the Jacksons on campus in the coming months.

I had to return my workforce Saturday morning as Ali was meeting another friend for the Old Oaken Bucket game, which had a 12 noon kick-off. I'd have kept them longer if I could. Start to finish, it was a great, great holiday weekend.

I'd heard a bit about Jason, but hadn't met him until Tuesday when I picked him and Ali up. Before we hit the interstate, I asked them if we needed a snack before leaving campus, and Ali told Jason that, on road trips, if I ever ask if anyone's hungry, it really means that I'm hungry and am looking for support to stop for food. (That is only occasionally true.)

On the return trip, Jason had gotten up later than Ali and me. I made them take a bunch of leftovers and various snacks I had around the house, but only Ali and I had breakfast before we got in the car.

Because I'm polite and also I was fretting a little bit about whether I'd worked him too hard,  I advised Jason that we'd have plenty of time to stop for a drive-thru breakfast if he was hungry.

From his spot in the backseat comes, "I'm fine, but are YOU hungry?"

He's going to have to learn to take her statements at face value...

Starch, anyone?

Nutritionists say starchy foods should make up about a third of a healthy human diet that should include carbohydrates (aka starch), protein, fat, vitamins, minerals, fiber and water.

I'm pretty sure my family, several generation back, stopped listening after carbohydrates. They definitely heard the "fat" portion and took it to mean fat wa essential to make all the other stuff palatable.

Evidence? A plate from Thanksgiving past ➨
Here you have your basics of a decent holiday meal:

• Noodles on a base of mashed potatoes
• Macaroni and cheese
• Corn
• Not pictures but surely within reach is one of Donna's home-made, buttery rolls (soft butter if Jason Bradbury is in the house.)

You really only need two color schemes to have a fabulous Bickel holiday meal: white and yellow.

There will be other colors available, but they're not the stuff people dream of and fight over:

• Orange for the sweet potatoes with or without marshmallows depending on who's hosting but surely with butter
• Green for the green beans bathed in either cream of something soup or swimming in a bacon-grease shimmer and featuring great hunks of iron-skillet fried bacon from a pig that may have spent the better part of a year with you.
• Pink because that pig had more to give and you must have both ham AND turkey available
• Brown for the turkey, which could be roasted, grilled or deep-fried.
• Beige for the gravy that goes with the turkey but not the white potatoes because they get the full-fat chicken-stock broth that makes another kind of gravy.
• Camouflage which is the only color I can ascribe to the dressing, which may or may not include oysters but started out with bread, butter and a bunch of herbs.

We got to host Thanksgiving this year and all of the above mentioned items were there. Our Jasheway friends brought a mac-and-cheese that was every bit a Bickel production. My guess is there were two pounds of cheese for every box of pasta and probably the same portion of butter. Kirstin attended a family wedding with me once, so I think she must have gotten infected then.

Alison's friend Jason Hickman (not to be confused with my nephew, Jason, Donna's cossetted baby boy for whom she ensures there's softened butter for the rolls. Jaime, Donna's eldest daughter and her daughters claim they get cold, hard butter if Jason isn't around...) made the pies. Including home-made crust.

One pecan and two pumpkin. We had a bit of an issue with the pecan pie but it did get consumed first. Ali's chocolate-chip pumpkin cookies were also a big hit.

Jeff deep fried four turkey breasts after brining two of them. Jim Bradbury kept watch over the flames from the chimenea and made sure Jeff didn't burn anything down with the fryer.

My main job, per usual, was sous cheffing and clean up. It's just safer for everyone. I peeled 30 carrots, six sweet potatoes, 10 pounds of white potatoes and halved about a million brussel sprouts. Two pounds of bacon went into the weekend, but Ali and Jason ate half of that. The rest was for green beans and a shrimp appetizer.

It all seemed to go fairly well. We moved the couches and added tables so everyone could be together, and that provided ample room for euchre with  dessert.

In my least hospitable act, Jim and I handily beat our guests, Joyce Jasheway and Jason. To make up for it, I gave Joyce a recipe and fed and housed Jason and then promptly abused him by having him help with Thanksgiving prep soon to be followed with Christmas decorating.

It was a really great day despite Rachael (IU Hoosier freshman) making the most of the bitter in-state rivalry with Alison (Purdue Boilermaker freshman) and the usual claims of cheating at euchre. 

Like pie tops off a great meal, our holiday finished with a visit from Eric, Tracy and Elizabeth.

Next up is Christmas. Ali got up early and is visiting some high school friends. But Jason is now awake, and he made the mistake of saying that at home in California, his day-after-Thanksgiving job is to decorate outside. So, he and I can get to work while we wait on Ali to come back and tackle the tree. I really thought he'd still be asleep, so this is like an extra bonus.

Jason is my new best friend. He and I will be in the shed soon figuring out the inventory and where lights should go. He's tall! I love him. I would totally soften the butter for him.

Jeff started out the day at 4:15 a.m. at a beer share/Bourbon County beer shopping so I expect he'll be down for the count and out of my decorating way any time now. Because I'm an excellent wife, I tried to get him to nap in our bedroom. (It's more comfortable there. Plus, he won't hear what I'm planning next and try to interfere...) From the looks of thing to my left, I've lost that battle.

It's not going to last for him, poor thing. Because part of the tradition of decorating the tree involves cracking out the House of Merle Christmas CDs. I know Auntie Jen will be doing the same, so we'll decorate together even though we're apart.

And later, I'll review the starch inventory. We sent a lot away with hungry college students, but there's plenty of white and yellow food to heat up. We'll be fully starched before our traditional Friendsgiving with Team Jackson tonight.

It truly is the best time of the year.

A voice for phone sex, a throat for Vick's.

The Captain's voice had never been more sexy, so I knew I was in for it.

The "it" in this scenario wasn't the good kind. The sore throat he'd been complaining about had morphed into his first cold of the season. 

I quickly took evasive action.

I slept on the couch. (The guest room is clean and ready for a healthy guest, and I was too lazy to event contemplate the decontamination efforts that would be required if I stayed there.) 

I avoided being too close to his air space when he emerged from his sick bed. 

I took Tracy Wiseman's advice and started pounding Vitamin D3. 

I got my 10K steps but otherwise rested. 

I had soup.

As a result of my proactive stance, my voice should take on a deeper, throatier sound (ala the Captain) today. Or so I suspect. I'm hoping not as I have a lot of work to do next week.

I may not get my 10K steps today. 

This is what marriage gets you. Someone should have warned me.

Jeff is feeling better, so I figure I'll survive. And Ali called to check in yesterday, so it's not all bad.

Goodbye, old friends. You've been a real and lasting pain, but I'll miss you.

My Pentecostal grandmother kept a hamper of fancy shoes and dresses that my cousins and I would dive into every once in a while when we were little girls.

Mind you, she was Pentecostal. They weren't high heels, but they were fancier than anything she wore during the day. This grandmother made all of her own clothes, wrapped her long hair in a bun and her only nod to makeup was a paper box of loose powder that I think she used for church. Oh! And she wore a broach or some kind of a pin on her church dresses.

But we still loved dress-up from that little hamper. My favorite item was a pair of shoes that had to be fake snakeskin or crocodile low, chunky heels with a buckle.  They might have been worn out and hideous even when new, but I must have loved them because I remember the hamper and I remember those shoes.

I've been thinking about those shoes as I consider bidding farewell to some shoes that my grandmother would never have worn.

I started wearing serious heels when I started working as a news reporter. I was 18 when I started getting paid to report. I had reached my full height by then, so I was not just young, I was short and the heels were a power boost. I had heels in every color, height and fabric. I had real snakeskin shoes that I remember wearing to Mesker Park Zoo. Not that I'd go into a snake exhibit, but I did want to show them what I was capable of should they ever escape and slither after me.

Years of wearing heels coupled with a gene pool that runs deep into bunions and bad knees have taken an obvious toll. This weekend, I decided I could wear these beautiful, red suede bootie heels to a fancy event. I've had them a couple years but never worn them out. They live with the other heels in my collection, on the high shelf in my closet.

The spikiest heels I own were debuted in New York City when I staffed a media event and thought I needed to fit in. The black and white ones went to an Oscar party. In those days, I wasn't smart enough to sneak a pair of flats along.

I made it about 30 minutes at the fancy weekend event before I limped upstairs and put my boots back on. I knew I wouldn't make it all night. I DID think I'd make it longer than I did.

Table 37 at Taste 2019.

I would toss the shoes and some fancy dresses into a hamper, but the chance that I'll have a pack of grandkids wanting to play dress-up is as thin as those Stuart Weitzman heels.

I'd give them to Ali but they're size 8s and she's an 11.

I've considered donating to Dress for Success, but they're not really

Here's just the girls. I would have been as tall as Karin
 had I kept my red shoes on.

business-y.

Jeff claims they still have plenty of life left in them and that they won't hurt at all if I just relegate them to horizontal use. Because he's helpful like that.

My guess is that next time I host Book Club, I'm going to see if the young bloods in my posse can wear them. Maybe we'll skip the books and just play dress-up.


In other news, Jeff and I visited Ali for Parent's Weekend recently. She's still doing amazingly well in West Lafayette and should receive part of our leftover Halloween candy in her latest care package. It was a monsoon when we drove up and so we skipped out to shop and have gourmet grilled cheese before coming back to a really competitive -- and looonnng -- volleyball game.

Ali was going to Rocky Horror Picture Show with some friends and shockingly, didn't invite us to go a long. We had super fun, though, and I'm kind of glad the rain chased us off campus so we could just hang out together. Jeff scored a new Purdue sweatshirt for his birthday, and Ali and I conspired to also smuggle home a Purdue bumper sticker for him.

Jeff's always represented Ali's school via bumper sticker. I'd get a tattoo before I'd put a bumper sticker on my Mustang. It doesn't mean I don't love or support her. I just wear it in my soul rather than on my car.

Here's us at the volley ball game. We had trekked about six miles through the Tippecanoe County Mall before criss-crossing campus to get to the game, so we were a little damp. And I was super glad I was wearing flat boots.

Back Home again in Indiana

I drove alone to my home town recently and snapped some photos along the way. I often lament the lack of great job opportunity in that part of the state, but I've been remiss in not commenting enough on some of its beauty.

Here's a look at part of my drive, which seems like kind of a country music song in pictures. I might have had the tunes blaring and I might have taken some curves a little too fast, but it was a beautiful day -- one of the last top-down days of the year -- and I was mostly alone on the two-lanes.

Gold stars if you can match the closest town with the shot. The first one doesn't count as there's a huge clue in it.

I should do this again now that the fall colors are coming in and there are pumpkins on display along the route.

Sorry I'm late... I was hanging with my kid

One day, several years ago, Jeff returned from doing something super important to find Ali and I lazing about. We were probably binge watching Total Drama Island or something educational like that.

Anyway, he accused us of laying around like dogs. So of course we cabbaged onto that phrase and looked forward to the next time we could lay around like dogs. Or maybe it was a phrase that I came up with. I don't really remember. 

But Ali and I laid around like dogs this past weekend. And it was wonderful. We'd gotten up early so she could hang out with her friends a bit. I worked while she did that and then took her to a dental appointment and worked more while she went under the scraper.

But then, we went home and binged on South Park. 

It was the first time she'd been home since she went to Purdue. We'll see her again this weekend because the Misadventures of Bindu, a movie filmed in Broad Ripple, will debut on Saturday. She was an extra in it, and we're going to see if she made the cut. Otherwise, we wouldn't see her again until Parent's Weekend and then Thanksgiving.

From Lafayette we went straight to Petite Chou for French onion soup. We didn't even care that to get a table we had to sit outside and bundle up with blankets from the car. 

Afterward, she and Jeff saw the second iteration of It. I'm a chicken and I avoid traditional horror shows and shows that involve tortured children. I did go with them to Joker the next night. We had poutine.

We also had a girls' dinner with Aunt La, Jenna and Amy, which was fabulous. The girls agreed that going to college was an adjustment with ups and downs. But it's evening out for both of them, and for their poor parents as we all find our new normal.

All in all, it was a fabulous four days. I miss her all over again.

I might be a bit twisted, but I'm fixing that.

Let me just say that I have a longstanding rule about going to the doctor: I do not web surf to determine what this or that pain might be or to learn what may lie ahead of whatever fix I have coming. I'm a world-class worrier already. I don't need more anxiety from the myriad possibilities the interwebs offer.

I didn't do it when I had a child.
I didn't do it when I had my first root canal.
I didn't do it when my knee hurt so bad I couldn't walk.
I didn't do it when I was sure I was dying of uterine cancer.

Spoiler alert: the baby arrived just fine while I was in a morphine coma; my only root canal pain came from having my mouth open for so long, which surprised me as I can yammer on; I didn't need knee replacement; and it was a UTI easily fixed with meds

So when I was first encouraged to see a chiropractor,  I laughed politely and said I'd consider it. I can pop my own back, thank you very much, I was thinking. Years later, still in pain, I capitulated. How bad could it be? Tons of people see chiropractors every day. And my friend Bree Emsweller owns the place I went to. You may remember her from steering me toward lip waxing. I was temporarily less hairy, but man, I'm pretty sure that's on the list of things Homeland Security does in dark rooms in third world countries.

At Book Club the other day, I was complaining about my leg. Bree pushed and prodded on me awhile and suggested I visit  the Joint in Broad Ripple.

I was expecting a strenuous massage.

I kind of got beat up.

Don't get me wrong: it's been helpful. But I was really expecting something different than what I got. Remember, I did zero research other than Googling to figure out what to wear.

So I was a little tense, not knowing exactly what to expect. There was a moment when I was sure the good doctor had mistaken me for a chicken on a Sunday when the preacher was coming over for dinner.

After a couple of twists and jerks, he said, "I think we'll try something different; you don't seem to be relaxing enough to make that effective,"

I thought: "You got that right, buddy." I mean, it was like he was Tom Cruise and I was a bad guy who had to die silently. Who can relax in a situation like that?

The alternative was he took something like a hammer -- I was face down by this time on the table and didn't see the device he used -- and commenced to thumping on the sides of my neck like I was a watermelon he wasn't sure was quite ripe.

It was waaaaaaay better than the wrenching thing. but all things being equal, it's not something I'd generally pay for.

If you haven't been to a chiropractor to get what they call an "adjustment", let me clue you in: an adjustment requires the chiropractor to prod and pull and push on your body until your joints cry "Uncle." You're on a table that pops with every vigorous pummeling. It sounds like a jail door slamming shut on your innocence.

Sometimes he'll just pull your leg, but not in a fun kind of jokey way. He literally yanks on your leg.

And when you stand up at the end, you feel.... better.

Or I did. I'm still analyzing it, but apparently I have a twisted/tilted/uneven pelvis that needs to be pushed, pulled and prodded back into place. It's been the issue affecting my walk and potentially is why I have had leg pain for the last several years.

I'm kind of excited about it. Until, you know, I have to lay down again and have my joints pummeled back into the position they should have been in all along.

I think I recommend it. But I'm twisted/tilted/uneven.

Take my word for what it's worth.

I'll be on the porch

It all started when Ali and I fixed the door from our garage to the back porch. It failed to shut properly since we moved in back in 1998 but it was the back porch and we had other other priorities.

The ugliness of the concrete block wall into which the door fit was an annoyance that I lived with, tried temporary fixes and groused about. For years, I had an item on my Christmas list for wall board to cover it up.

Then, earlier this year, on a trip to a local liquor store with Jeff, I saw an entry way paneled with a small mosaic of wooden wine crate panels. "That's it," I said. "That's what we should do with the porch."

In July, I started prepping. Was I putting off my angst over Alison's imminent residency at Purdue by scraping off the hideous brown, square linoleum flooring until I wore a hold in the center of my hand? Yes, of course.

We'd considered the flooring so terrible we didn't care if we spilled paint and glitter and glue from our various art projects when she was so little she didn't know I have no talent with paint or glitter or glue. I had happy flashbacks with every splatter I found as I tore off those squares.

It was another couple of weeks stripping the peeling paint from existing wood and the door, then priming and painting them.

Finally, we were ready to address the wall. I won't bore you with the hours of varnishing, measuring, cutting, re-measuring, re-cutting, sanding, gluing, mixing and matching it took to get us to the finished product. Notoriously impatient, I had Thanksgiving as a deadline for it all to be done.

We went through four tubes of "all weather" Gorilla Glue, two cans of paint stripper and have, of course, leftover primer and paint. I used most of our Goo Gone and probably will need more if we're to keep the floor. Jeff hates my idea of using wine corks as a baseboard, so we have that battle still to come. But miraculously it was a project with little marital discord.

Mostly because I gave Jeff moral support and fetched this and that while he worked out what when where. Our neighbors may tell you there was a fair amount of cursing and muttering. They're probably exaggerating.

More than 130 panels made it onto that wall; some in their original size and some pared down to fit.

The circle is a French oak red wine barrel top we scored on a trip to Casey Brewing and Blending in Glenwood Springs, CO. Seemed fitting that we included it because it blends Jeff's love of craft beer with my wine appreciation. (They age some their beer in wine barrels.) John, our tasting guru was kind enough to sign and date it for us.

Other than the wine barrel lid and my insistence in the spring (long before I saw the wall in that liquor store) that yes, we would find a use for those cool wine crates,  it was Jeff who secured the 170-plus wine panels we had to work with.

Some of the panels came as actual wine crates from local liquor stores. The last-minute donation from John and Chris at Kahn's Fine Wines saved us from the terrible fate of having to use duplicate panels.

Jim at The Wine Shop and the crew at SoBro Spirits contributed crates and panels, as well. Others were sourced by the bargain-hunting, eBay surfer, Captain Reed.

In addition to his procurement skill, Jeff is the master when it came to execution. Mostly because math and I kind of hate each other's guts and it turns out that math skills are key when trying to fit mismatched shapes onto a flat surface.

The Captain and I are at odds over whether to keep the floor as is. I kind of like it. It's old and has character. I can see it on the floor of a wine cellar. We'll get the curtains back up soon and I'll figure out what furniture will go in there. There's no heat or cooling out there, so we won't likely keep wine out there except to serve. There will be a lot of serving...

I'm settling into the idea that Ali doesn't live here anymore. Typing that sentence did make me cry, so maybe I'm not really there yet. It is so weird that she's not here. Sigh. But she's doing so well at Purdue. And she'll be home to visit soon. It's all good. All good.

Man, I might need some wine. Or I'll get started on the floor. Or the furniture. Or a care package for my little Boilermaker. Or actual PR work. Maybe I'll get back to what's going on in Claymont, and you know there's a ton of stuff happening there.

Until winter sets in, I'll be on the porch. Come on by. We'll have some wine.

We said it would be a month

Thirty days. 3.0. A month before we'd see our little Boilermaker.

It's advice gifted me by my friend Chris Austin in the form of "The Naked Roommate: For Parents Only." It's designed to ensure your child goes off to college and forms relationships and routine such that he/she will be more inclined to survive, if not thrive, their freshman college year.

But I forgot about Labor Day and its 3-day weekend.

"Let's go get her," I said to the Captain.

"We can't," he said. "She needs a month. You said so."

I huffed a bit but decided he was right. She made plans to visit a friend in Chicago and arranged for a bus ride to get herself there.

Back in Indy, we had an awesome time with Eric and Tracy at the Indians' game (Tracy's first baseball game, somehow), dinner with them, Jeff & Susan and Jack & Karen on Saturday; then a jaunt on the Red Line's debut day and dinner with Tracy & Eric and Karin & Dale on Sunday.

I checked on Ali -- she had a great time other than having to step around a pile of steaming vomit on a Chicago bus. Her friend Allie, shrugged and said, "You get used to it."

Sometime during the weekend, I lamented the 30-day thing to Jeff, who coughed and hesitated. "Yeah, about that," he said.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Remember that I go to the Purdue/Vanderbilt football game every year with Andy and Bryan?" he said.

I nodded.

"It's next weekend," he said. "We have an extra ticket. For Ali."

I wanted to complain. OK. I complained.

But I did want one of us to get eyes on the girl. Did I want it to be him without me? Nope. But such is life. Plus, I'd asked for a lot of additional work to keep me from being helicopter-y and the universe delivered. So I needed a day to catch up.

They had a great time. She showed up with proper spirit and appetite, hung out with them a while and ditched them to watch the game with some new buddies. 

As for the Indy weekend, here are a few shots. Should have taken more but we were more in the moment than I thought. It was a great weekend.