Coping with Coughing

Last night I woke up coughing.  The type of coughs that lift you up off of the bed so that you can lean forward and really cough it out.  Then you lay down and take a few breaths and hope that it goes away, but a few seconds later you’re up off your back hacking away again.  This can go on as long as you’d like, but eventually you have to get up and address the issue.  I chose cough drops and a glass of cold water - a fast fix that I hoped would work.  I padded bare-legged down the cold dark hallway and grumpily grabbed the whole bag of cough drops from the kitchen, filled my mug, and returned to bed.  I propped myself up a bit and began sucking ferociously on the cough drop, popping forward now and again with little fits of coughs, then laying back down and pulling the blanket up to my chin.  I was generally pissed off - mad at the freezing cold SF weather, mad that I was sick for the second time in as many months, and mad mostly that I was losing an hour of valuable sleep.  Gradually, as the cough syrup dripped down my throat and accompanying stream of mucus started to slow, the coughs subsided and I drifted back to sleep.

If this happens again, here’s what I’ll do:  I’ll get up right away, and pretend that I’m doing so for fun.  I’ll take the time to put on socks and sweats and slippers, grab my book, and head to the kitchen.  I’ll turn on the little light over the table and maybe even the heater, fill the kettle and set it to boil.  I’ll sit down and start to read as the water heats.  As the water nears boiling, I’ll grab my favorite mug and fill it with a spoonful of honey and a little slice of Meyer lemon.  I’ll stand over the stove with my hand on the gas knob and watch the steam rising from the kettle.  As it lets out it’s first whistle I’ll shut it off and pour the water into my mug and return to the table and my book.  I’ll get through another chapter or two, mug held to my grill, steam rising warmly into my nose and mouth, and sip my coughs away.  Warmed, relaxed, and content, I’ll shut my book, put the mug in the sink, and go back to bed. At least that's the plan.

Wine, limo rides, and a very frustrating sign

A few weeks ago I went wine tasting in Amador county.  I went in a limo with mostly people I didn’t know but a few that I did.  Gab and I were the youngest, and I was impressed with the efficiency and professionalism with which our older companions constructed a day of debauchery.  Before leaving there were mimosas being gulped, a hearty breakfast being finished, and a batch of cocktails being poured.  We got out the door well before noon, stowed a full-sized cooler full of alcohol in the trunk, and popped a bottle of champagne as soon as the limo got rolling.

It turns out that Amador county is gorgeous, despite the rather unsightly beginning of the trip from Sacramento on Jackson highway.  It was a winter day but the temperature gradually rose and the ground began to pick up into lovely rolling hills, and the clouds parted and let in the crispy December sunlight.  We turned the music up and held our bubbly and looked out at the spectacular clouds and hills.  We stopped just before reaching our first winery and picked up sandwiches - pre-ordered from a pre-selected deli (again, older people know how to roll), and getting out we all felt a little tipsy and quite content and the sunlight felt so good on our skin.  After paying for our sandwiches I ambled back to the bathroom, savoring, as I often do, an empty establishment and a capacious bathroom.  Sort of like stretching out in your hotel room, I find exploring a new building in a leisurely fashion, then relieving myself without the slightest hurry or discomfort very pleasing.  I looked at the pictures on the wall and at myself in the mirror, washing my hands in warm water, then striding rather quickly out as I realized everybody was probably waiting for me.  

Our driver was great.  His name was Steve and he wore secret agent-like sunglasses, a short crew-cut, and a dark suit.  Steve looked like he’d been through a thing or two in life, and was very happy to be leading the simple, sober life (at least while on the job) of limo driver.  He took his job seriously, and stood just off to the side of our party as we sat down at the first winery - outside on a patio overlooking rows of gnarled, leafless vines.  Steve busied himself with some sort of wine magazine, but was obviously not reading a word on the page, as he kept glancing up and around and smiling at everybody.  The first tasting was very pleasant - lots of whites and zins and pinos, and I swirled around and sniffed and swished and liked most every single wine, and especially the salami and crostini snacks in the center of the table.  It was so beautiful outside we didn’t really want to leave.  Gab and I moseyed out to the gravel road and into the bright sun, snapping some photos and noticing all four cars parked in a row were Volkswagen.  We were all feeling thoroughly tipsy at this point, but the fatigue of the day had yet to set in, and so we laughed and soaked up the sun and posed for pictures on an old, rusty, but very picturesque truck.  Steve took the role as photographer very seriously, darting back and forth exchanging cameras with the girls.

Our second stop was at Bray Vineyards.  We tasted wine inside at the bar, and the place had a casual, comfortable vibe which was perfect for our party to really ramp up the party.  There were barrels full of buttons, and wines named “Brayzen Hussy”.  Our previous pourer was some rosy-cheeked and fast-talking attorney; here we were served by t-shirt wearing folks - one older fellow, one younger fellow, and a pregnant lady.  Gab and I found a slot near the end of the bar and were served by the younger fellow Eric - a tall and good-natured chap with a penchant for sarcasm.  Although he served us wine, he was far from obsequious, and we began to develop a bit of a banter.  I examined the sign hanging on the wall behind him - a yellow roadsign depicting a farmer popping a wheely on his tractor and guzzling a bottle of wine.  The sign read “farm responsibly”.

I soon became bothered by the contradictory nature of the sign, and pointed this out to Eric:

“That sign doesn’t really make sense.  If the message is to farm responsibly, shouldn’t there be a big ‘X’ over the farmer?”

Eric turned and looked at the sign, then back to me: “I think you’re putting a little too much thought into this”.

Our audience (2 people) laughed, but I went on: 

“I’m not really - the sign is a complete contradiction - I mean if the message really is to ‘farm responsibly’, the sign should show somebody farming responsibly.  If it shows somebody not farming responsibly, there should be a big “X” over it - like a ‘no smoking’ sign.”

Eric insisted that “it was just a sign”, and that I was really giving this too much thought, and the ensuing conversation focused on the fact that I was wearing a sport coat, and how when I’d first introduced myself that morning, people wondered just who exactly I thought I was.  My taking issue with a simple, funny, sign was obviously further proof that I took myself too seriously.

To make matters worse, in an attempt to explain why the drawing clearly depicted an irresponsible piece of farming, I mimicked the farmer rearing backwards on his tractor and swigging a bottle of wine, and I smacked my glass of wine right over onto the counter, spilling the contents.  This was quite funny, and Eric was quite kind to clean it up, but I’m pretty sure he got in a jab about my responsibility (I felt much better a few seconds later when somebody in our party toppled an entire row of wine bottles, smashing a few glasses in the process).

Eventually I gave up the argument - obviously I wasn’t about to convince Bray vineyards to change their sign, and I went back to my wine (which was excellent), and the conversation drifted elsewhere and I ended up buying 2 bottles and then we all sat down to lunch in the sun.

We stopped at one more winery, people got a little bit more drunk, conversations heated up, and eventually we all returned to reality and Sacramento in our long white limousine.

But I never forgot that sign and its frustrating contradiction.  And my question to you my dear readers, is this: was I really putting too much thought into that little sign?  Is it too much to ask that printed, posted, and sold items such as this sign - unofficial as they may be - adhere to some principles of grammatical and visual integrity?  Am I so off-base to call attention to such inconsistency?  AM I THE ONLY PERSON THAT THINKS THAT SIGN IS A SLAP IN THE FACE TO THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, THE HUMAN MIND, AND CRITICAL THOUGHT?

In defense of noses

Ever seen somebody scratch their nose?  Was it calm, casual, or mild?  Or was it vigorous, aggressive, and perhaps even violent?  I’ve seen many of the latter, particularly when the scratcher doesn’t know he or she is being watched.  Perhaps the nose’s soft, pliable character lends itself to more manhandling, and perhaps the itch that afflicts one’s nose is more potent than others, but I’ve seen some scratching that makes me cringe.

First off, at least two fingers are used in conjunction, sometimes even the entire palm.  Secondly, instead of a particular point being targeted and scratched, the entire nose is mashed and moved, often in a circular motion, in a desperate attempt to alleviate the itch.  The word frantic comes to mind - as if the itch were a life-threatening condition that must be emphatically eradicated.  Vigorous rotations of the snout are accompanied by sharp inhales and exhales.  The entire upper body tenses, eyes close, and the pace of the attack picks up to a frightening crescendo.  Finally, presumably as the itch subsides, the rotations slow, the shoulders relax, the eyes open, and the scratcher exhales gratefully.

I feel poorly for little noses around the world that fall victim to these attacks - and I can’t say I’m innocent - but maybe we can all go a little easier on our noses.  Just use one finger, get to the source of the itch, and scratch with precision.  Your nose will no doubt be happier.