Sometimes I wonder how much of my success in life is actually attributable to skill or talent, and how much is just my absolute refusal to actually acknowledge defeat?

Case in point: last night I decided to tackle a "new" vintage recipe for caramel dumplings. It sounded pretty simple; a basic sweet dumpling batter cooked in a caramel sauce. It's that last bit that turned out to be the problem.

I've made caramel before, but this was an odd technique that basically called for melting sugar JUST RIGHT, then adding boiling water. And the instructions were incredibly vague. Which led to our first pan of sugar clumping up like damp rocks, and then crystallizing into a delicious-smelling art deco sculpture.

But it's just sugar, right? So I figured I'd try again. Another cup of sugar into the skillet, and this time watch and wait longer for the sugar to melt.

And wait. And wait. Husband staring over my shoulder, both of us starting to jump at optical illusions of shimmering bits, until FOR REAL there was actually a spot of molten sugar. Time to stir. Recipe says this will make a smooth caramel, so it'll work, right?

Or maybe you get another pan full of weird grainy tooth-looking lumps. So what. Keep stirring. Maybe bash some of your frustration out on the lumps with the wooden spoon. Now they're weird crumbly brown lumps. Husband expresses his regret that things haven't worked. But why? It's not officially failed yet. Keep stirring.

Now they're wet melty brown lumps. Husband asks if it's actually starting to work. Tell him to hush, and not even LOOK at the stuff too hard. And maybe this is what it's supposed to look like?

Pour in the water, making sure it's still at an actual boil this time. Try not to choke on sugar steam, and keep freaking stirring, poking at the one or two ribbons of hard candy that have sedimented out. Husband looks at you hammering at one corner of the pan and once again expresses remorse at the failure, reminding you that even professional chefs can fuck up caramel. Remind him again that you're NOT FREAKING DONE, and that it's sugar in hot water and it should theoretically dissolve eventually, right????

Keep stabbing (it's not really stirring anymore, at this point), until the sugar blobs are mostly melty. Make an epic mess trying to drop sticky dumpling dough onto what is either the world's thinnest caramel or sweet burnt water. Stick it in the oven and figure that, no matter what, at least you tried.

Half an hour later, pull out a pan of sweet dumplings in the most glorious velvety caramel sauce you've ever seen.

I don't know that I can claim any talent or gift here; as far as I can tell this is seriously just a matter of refusal to acknowledge failure. On the other hand, if I can win a battle of wills with a skillet full of sugar, what can't I do?

I know the world is full of badness right now, and I know that it's bleak and horrifying, and I've been doing what I can to be both a candle in the darkness and a squeaky wheel. And I feel guilty talking about almost anything else. But at the same time... I want to chronicle some of the goodness in my life, too.

[Unknown site tag] and I just came back from a week in New Orleans, and while it wasn't quite our usual winter Week Somewhere Warm and while I'm not quite sure NoLa is quite my city, it was ultimately a lot of fun (thanks in large part to evcelt's recommendations; thank you!). But our last night there was, far and away, the best part of the trip.

We had booked an evening Haunted City tour with a company that promised a "more immersive" experience - hands-on ghost hunting, access to haunted locations, and a full recreation of a Victorian seance. I figured that, whether the ultimate experience was awfully good or just awful, it would at least be entertaining.

When our guide handed umbran, our resident skeptic, an EMF reader, I couldn't help but make a Supernatural joke. At which point the guide paused just enough to show me his Devil Trap tattoo. Within 20 minutes we were having to make a conscious effort to slow down, stay on topic, and not leave the rest of the group behind as we babbled at each other about everything from American Horror Story to the Fox sisters and their role in the Victorian spiritualism trend to the Salem witch trials and our own personal theories behind them.

The tour and the seance were both hugely fun, and as things were wrapping up I made a reference to my work in hospice and end-of-life care, and half-joked about being a psychopomp. And he paused, and told me to stick around for a few minutes after the official end of the tour.

Which is how my husband and I wound up at the invitation-only vampire and magic-users speakeasy hidden behind one of the jazz clubs on Bourbon Street, nursing something red and sugary, learning card tricks and divination, and playing 'what White Wolf setting was your favorite?'until sometime after last call.

I know that I lead a charmed life; sometimes it's just more obvious than others.....

So I've been going through some rough stuff lately, and it's been taking a while to get better. Which is a nice way of saying.... it really hasn't been getting better. And so I woke up today pretty much the same way I have for the past almost-month - nauseated, nightmare-shaken, and sincerely wishing I could just cease existing instead of facing the day. But I had a house call to get to, so up and out with me.

And then I got to the house - this was a follow-up on one of my chronic cases. And the kid who opened the door greeted me with a huge smile and 'HI DOCTOR BECKY!' (said kid wants to be a vet, and gets very excited when I let them try on my stethoscope and help with exams). And the dog trotted up to me wagging its tail. And the other kid insisted on showing me his new Star Wars bag that looks JUST LIKE my doctor bag, and the family insisted on sending me home with a handful of homemade chocolate chip cookies that they were prepping for the brunch they were hosting in a few hours, and I remembered for a little while why I do this thing that I do.

Whatever else good or bad I can say about my life, or the world... I am unbearably, unbelievably lucky in the work I have fallen into.

I feel like everything in my life is in a state of 'getting ready' right now.

I'm trying to prep for the first session of a LARP that'll be running in a couple of weeks.
I'm working on choreography and planning for a silks routine that, if I'm lucky, will be ready for stage-time in a few months.
I'm trying to put together plans for Thanksgiving dinner, between menu and hosting and figuring out who'll be there.
I'm gearing up for Module 3 of my Hospice Certification Program, and trying to ready myself for whatever that entails.
I'm trying to organize our winter trip (to New Orleans this year), and figure out timing and housing and travel and what to do while we're there.
I'm pulling things together for the Arisia charity raffle, and trying to ramp up outreach for prize donations.

And all of this amounts to a lot of work, worry, and anticipation without a lot of concrete accomplishment. I'm generally pretty good with delayed gratification, and I like keeping busy... but I also need to keep this in mind when I start asking myself why I feel so frazzled and unproductive at times.

Last night should have been amazing. I had dinner with a handful of friends whom I don't get to see near often enough, and we laughed and joked and talked about games and horror movies and the show we were going to see. And then there was a Postmodern Jukebox concert, and it should have been awesome.

Except.... it was good, but not enough to erase the deaths that have been slamming my community for the past week. And in retrospect maybe loud and crowded isn't what I needed. And why was the guy next to me on his phone for the whole thing, while the person in front of me kept getting up to walk in and out of the concert hall?

And afterwards, it felt like everyone in the hall was there to be actively mean to me. Looking at the merchandise table, someone felt the need to push me and tell me that they were in line and I was trying to cheat my way in front of her. I left, so she could buy her damn t-shirt without my heinously offensive presence, and paused on the sidewalk outside the line of traffic to try to collect my cope.... and someone else walked out, went out of their way to shove past me, and made snarky comments about the apparently heinous crime of standing on the sidewalk. And I just fell apart.

I'm not surprised; between still recuperating from sickness, multiple deaths, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and multiple triggers, I was overdue for a PTSD breakdown. And umbran was there to help me through the worst of it. He wrapped me up and coaxed me into moving and shielded me from the people and kept me upright and talked to me as we headed back towards the T station.

And when we were almost there, cutting through the edge of the Commons, we found the labyrinth.

Someone had chalked a labyrinth onto the walking path. Huge and complex and intricate and waiting. And I started walking it. And a few turns in I felt my shoulders relax and a few turns later I could feel myself focus again, and by the time I reached the center I could see the world clearly again, instead of through the lens that told me everyone was attacking me. It wasn't a perfect and instant cure, but it helped more than I thought anything could.

Arnis says we can move the cars and draw a labyrinth on our driveway, in case it helps in the future - and that, if it does, we can paint it there more permanently. I don't know if it'll help in the long run or if this was just a fluke, but I'll try anything....

My doctor asked me to call him with an update today, to let him know how I'm doing. So I called him, around 1:30pm, and left a message with his answering service (the only way you can communicate at all) telling him that I'm maaaaaybe 20-25% better, that my pain is still very positional, and that I'm still getting dizzy and falling down with any effort or exertion.

At 6pm he finally called me back; he's worried about my lack of improvement. In particular, he's worried about my heart. Enough that he felt that I need a cardiac ultrasound. Immediately. He ordered me to go to the ER tonight, and told me that he'd call ahead to let them know to expect me.

I had to run home (I was on my way back from a euthanasia, so I had to handle the aftercare), but I was at the ER by 7pm. Where I got hung up at intake because they had no record of my impending arrival.

After half an hour of hunting, paging doctors and offices, checking multiple departments and hospitals, digging through stacks of faxes, and generally failing, a note was finally found that my doctor had called, but that the day shift person had failed to write it down anywhere, and hadn't told anyone on the night shift about the call. No worries, though; I was promised that I could be admitted through the ER and get the ultrasound tonight.

So I was admitted to the ER. Where they.... started the entire triage from last week again. Wouldn't listen to a word I said. After half an hour, when I was informed that I would be getting bloodwork and chest x-rays and an EKG, and told them that I had had all of that done RIGHT THERE ONE WEEK AGO and all I needed was an ultrasound, I was told that they don't do that there.

Not at all. No after-hours ultrasound service at all, no urgent ultrasound service at all. All imaging must be scheduled, at least one week in advance.

It would have been super helpful if they had told my doctor this when he called. Or me, when I came in. As it was, I'm at risk now of being rejected for future procedures because the end result was that I now have a record of showing up with chest pain and then departing without being seen (because I see no reason in repeating the same tests that were non-diagnostic last time). And I still don't have the test I need.

The only option they gave me was to be admitted overnight in the hopes of a slot opening in the morning, if the ICU docs felt it was crucial. At which point I decided to just come home, because I can be here and be slightly less miserable. I've left a message with my doctor's answering service, letting them know that I wasn't able to get the test they requested; hopefully they'll be able to find someplace that can do it sometime over the next couple of days.

But.... big fail, Lawrence Memorial Hospital. And I'm tired of being broken.

Last Friday I woke up feeling like I was having a panic attack. Stabbing chest pain, pounding heart rate, trouble breathing, all that fun stuff. I pushed through work, where the techs took decent care of me between visits and the other doc made sure I was monitoring my heart rate and pulses, and after a few hours when the breathing wasn't getting any better I realized it wasn't panic.

Okay, I figured; it's probably just a bizarre manifestation of my seasonal allergies. They usually show up as coughing fits, but stuff changes sometimes and shortness of breath makes sense as an asthma/allergy sign. Once I got home I dug up my (expired) inhalers. No help. But hey, they were expired.

So I spent Monday arguing with my doctor's office trying to get them refilled ('but why do you want a refill on a medicine you aren't taking?'). I was finally able to pick them up Tuesday.... and they were still no help.

Yesterday morning I got an early appointment with the NP at my doctor's office, who insisted that I seemed fine to her. Lungs clear, even though I was having to pause for breath after every few words. Strength "normal" (note to self - having medical professionals assess for weakness by checking grip and bicep strength after 2 years of circus arts leads to skewed results). I was told to take Claritin and I'd be fine.

That night, when umbran saw how I looked and sounded, I went to the ER. It's amazing how quickly you get triaged when you go in with chest pain and shortness of breath. And after 5 hours, 2 EKGs, chest x-rays, unsuccessful nebulizer treatments, extensive labwork, and the ultimately diagnostic low-tech test of my doctor asking me to lean forward and see if it stopped hurting, I got my diagnosis.

Pleuritis and probable pericarditis. For which the treatment is, unfortunately, 'be miserable for a while.' With a side order of 'don't do too much,' and cringeworthy doses of prednisone.

I've managed to reschedule all but one of my house calls for today, cancelled my private silks lesson, and called out from tomorrow's relief shift. I'm tucked into the sofa with a crochet project I haven't picked up in months, a stack of Astro City comics (thank you hungrytiger!), and only a moderate sense of guilt that I'm not working on my certification program or cleaning the house or... much of anything other than breathing. And drinking. So much tea. Stupid prednisone.

At least I finally get to fulfill my wish of being a languid tragic Victorian damsel.....

Ever since we brought our current pair of cats home as kittens three years ago, they made it clear that they had strong preferences in their people. Harlequin - the long-haired black fluffball - is daddy's little girl, running around the house peeping at umbran to be picked up or to have a toy thrown, and climbing on his chest whenever he holds still; Harrison - the lanky orange male - is mine, climbing into my lap whenever I'm working and making sure I never need to climb the stairs without an escort.

We didn't plan this or try to sway them this way; it just happened. Each of them will tolerate the other human if their person of choice isn't around, but it's pretty clear from their demeanor in those cases that they're settling.

Except....

For the past couple of weeks I've been having an even worse time sleeping than usual. In particular, I've been waking up in the middle of the night sick and panicked and generally miserable. And each and every night, every time I wake up, Harley has been by my pillow in less than a minute. And she curls up inches away from me, and purrs as loud as she can, and stays there until I fall asleep again (at which point she presumably returns to her preferred position, balanced precariously on my husband's side).

I don't know what pushed her to start doing this, or why she's suddenly deigned to grace me with her love and support, or how she even knows that this helps. But anyone who says that animals don't have or understand emotions, or that cats don't care about people like dogs do, can tell that to my fluffy little protector....

So much can be said about Miss Jean Louis - epic poems have been written in praise of her tireless efforts on behalf of the endangered elopus, murals have been painted in tribute to her pulchritude, and I know of at least once city that has been renamed in her honor after her endeavors to save all of its children from a tragic epidemic of mundanity.

But today I would like to speak of one of the lesser-known periods in her life. It may come as a surprise to those who have followed her endeavors, because our beloved lady does her level best to hide her light under a bushel, but Miss JL did, in fact, spend her first three years after college as a Professional Jackalope Wrangler for Ringling Brothers Circus, at the same time establishing the Underground Railrun that eventually helped smuggle these precious and brutal creatures back to the safety of their prairie homes.

It was at that very circus, when she was but a girl, that Miss JL first fell in love with the noble jackalope; in fact, though she has never confirmed this rumor, many maintain it is why she ultimately went on to obtain her PhD in genetics from Moreau University. In any case, the young Jean was at a loss for how to aid the poor brutal beasts. Luckily for them, her determination is matched only by her patience and cunning.

After completing her first degree (in Pre-Cambrian linguistics, as we all know), Miss Jean Louis returned to infiltrate the circus, first presenting herself as a cotton candy sculpture artist and knife-thrower's target. Over time she endeared herself to the jackalope husbandry team, through her charm, wisdom, and her realization that the only treat those bloodthirsty beasts love more than the flesh of their foes is, in fact, fresh-spun cotton candy molded into the shape of tiny petit-fours.

After endearing herself to both the jackalopes and their captors, Miss Jean worked tirelessly night and day for over a year to find others as dedicated as she to the plight of feral mythical beasts and their exploitation. Together with such champions as Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Angela Lansbury, she formed the Jackalope Liberation Army and dug a series of literal underground runs to free the poor abused chimeras from their circus habitats and return them to the prairies of their youth.

(It must be admitted, though, that this was made easier by the fact that the jackalopes themselves did most of the digging; the hardest task of the caregivers was steering them. Left to their own devices, the animals were more inclined to tunnel under sorority houses and playgrounds.)

All in all, the efforts of the JLA were a resounding success, and over 3 years more than 400 jackalopes were successfully reintroduced to the wild, leading to the epidemic of black plague and the gang wars between feral cats and antlered bunnies that plague the midwest to this day.

It was during her time in the circus that Miss Jean Louis also discovered her deep and abiding passion for flying trapeze and her tragic allergy to sequins, but those are tales for another chapter....

So. Ghostbusters 2016. It's a thing. A kerfluffle, maybe even. It's also, in every possible way, pretty darn amazing.

Is it the best movie ever made? Nah, it'll take a lot to reach that bar. Was it perfect? No; it still has room to grow. But neither was the original Ghostbusters, and I still love the hell out of that one. And the existence of this version doesn't erase that one; nor does it ruin it or spoil it or do much of anything to it except complicate Google searches for it.

What it *does* do, though is finally fix the situation of not ever seeing a character or characters I can identify with in movies. I have lost count of the number of times I've come out of a theater after watching an otherwise-awesome movie with umbran, wondering aloud why they couldn't have made ONE of the background/second-tier scientist characters female. This? This was an entire movie of smart girls being smart at each other. Eating pizza and goofing and being excited about learning things and showing off their niches without kicking other people for their lack of expertise in that area and not once bringing up 'when are you going to have kids?' or training a man who will ultimately do their job for them.

And it's funny, and it's cool, and it's GOOD. It's good enough that I kind of want to go see it again.

Oh - and to everyone who's Just Seriously Concerned About Remakes, and wants to know why it couldn't just be a sequel? Because having it be a sequel would erase most of that legitimacy. In this story, the women are self-made. They learn and discover and invent and become entrepreneurs on their own merit. In a sequel, they wouldn't *earn* their positions - their roles as ghostbusters, and their legitimacy, would be handed to them my guys who did it first, no matter how smart or talented they were. This story - where they blaze trails and succeed on their own merits - is a better story right now.

These are the characters I've been wanting since I started watching movies. I can only hope there are more to come....