Let's get this show on the road! (again . . .)

And tonight for dinner {{{{{drum roll}}}} TA-DA! Frozen pizza! (needle rips across vinyl album, followed by pregnant pause, then crickets. . . ) Just for the record, this did not result for a lack of trying on my behalf—I offered to make sweet Italian sausage, zucchini, onion, sun-dried tomatoes and black olives sauteed in basil olive oil (thanks, Surdyks!) and garlic, then tossed with fresh parmesano reggiano (also from the Surdyk's booty), but Bob made a little face and said, "Naaahhh, not tonight . . ." Jack's pizza? I countered. "Okay!" was his all-too quick response. Listen, if you're not keen on my cooking, buddy, just say the word, and I'll gladly hang up the apron . . . but quite honestly, taking a break from the creative cuisine is a nice little break. And, I get it. Eating has become quite an endeavor again, physically, so I know Bob's thinking he doesn't want me to go through so much trouble when he's really in no condition to truly appreciate it. That's not the point, from my point of view, but I get it . . .

So, Jack's it was. Bob again ate in the bedroom, lying on the bed, as it's just getting too hard to be on his feet for very long before the pain sets in. I made several calls to doctors today, to try to get the surgery show back on track. Still waiting to hear back from cardiology, as they're really the deciding factor in the whole surgery thing, according to the surgeon's office, whom I also called today. Also made a call to palliative care on-call, because of the intensity of Bob's pain. We're wondering if it would be okay to start up his Neurontin again, to see if that would help at all, since he's tapering off the steroid. Neurontin was prescribed way back when Bob had back surgery and was part of his pain regiment until the steroid was added to the mix. For some reason I don't remember, the Neurontin was discontinued. The on-call doc said it should be fine to start it again, at a small dose, as Neurontin is a safe drug with very little side effects or interactions, but we've heard that one before . . . Bob, for now, has opted to not take one, and ride it out one more night. I can call his palliative care doc tomorrow for more details. As long as he's lying down, he feels pretty good. It's that getting up part that kicks it . . . tough gig, when your life is reduced to flat out on a mattress. Though come to think of it, Chelsea Handler made millions exploiting her horizontal life . . .

So, back in a holding pattern, till we can get all the players on the field again (like how I toss about sports analogies so frequently, as though I'm some sort of athlete or something?). By staying on the phone, trying to keep eveyone in the loop, I feel like we're doing something. Even if it's just spinning wheels in the mud . . .

I ate my pizza out on the deck again tonight, accompanied by a beer from my favorite brewery, Bell's, out of Comstock, MI. As I gnawed on my chewy slab of cardboard covered in salty fake cheese and rubbery pepperoni (can you tell I'm still a tad bitter about not getting to create my Italian dish?), I heard a rumbling coming from beyond the trees in front of our deck. Rocco ran to the deck railing, poised and alert, then bolted back to me, then back to the edge of the deck. I stood up, walked to the railing and peered through the trees. The sound was vaguely familiar, but much closer than I'd heard before. I rand to grab the digital camera from inside, Just as I returned to the deck, from above the trees, arose this image . . . (no, it's not Jesus . . . or Mary. Or even the most under-rated, but-he-had-the-ride-or-it-never-would-have-happened minor of supporting characters, humble Joseph.)

The hot-air balloon slid out from behind the trees into full view. I could hear voices, and started waiving my arms, yelling, "Hello! Hello!" to them as though I were drowning at sea and they were the Coast Guard. Several people peered from over the edge of the basket and waved back. Rocco didn't know what to do—here was this great big talking ball tormenting him from the sky. . . he ran from one side of the deck to the other, never averting his gaze from the sky above, but never uttering so much as a squeal, either. The patio door slid open from the bedroom on the other side of the house and I saw Bob slowly walk out onto the deck, looking up as the balloon passed overhead. I snapped a few more pictures before the big colorful orb finally slid out of sight on the other side of the ridge.

We've seen and heard the hot air balloons before, but never this close to the house, passing directly overhead. I swear, if someone had jumped, they could have landed fairly safely (barring missing hard, lethal objects such as trees or houses and electrical things like power lines, and humongous granite monoliths that seem to be the favored lawn ornament in these parts, our house included . . . if they were all avoided, one might simply suffer maybe just a few broken bones, a concussion, perhaps) . . . so, hopefully tomorrow, we'll hear form a few doctors and have a few more pieces to the puzzle back in place. LOVE! to all!