Exploding-Head Syndrome – Atlantic

via How to Defuse Exploding-Head Syndrome – Atlantic Mobile.

Holy cow, it has a name, and I haz it! For years, I’ve woken in the morning to the sound of a loud doorbell that isn’t really there.

It sounds like a particularly benign manifestation of a generally benign condition. Yay?


One year ago today

Exactly one year ago today, after more than a year of
and two-week-waiting,
I saw this:

Positive home pregnancy test (HPT)

Three weeks later, my wife and I saw this:

Twin ultrasound at six weeks gestation

And in late October, the world saw this:

New mom holding twin babies in hospital

And now everyday, I get to see this:


Life is so strange and so good. Who needs Valentine’s Day with a February 13th like this?

Birthday, Part 1

My birthday didn’t start out well.

To begin with, it fell on a Monday this year, which is not a day known for its devil-may-care attitude or raucous parties.

It had been raining, and cloudy, and raining for days.

The Saturday just prior, I attended my last grandmother’s funeral…in the rain.

My lovely, shy Nana

Her life lesson from beyond the grave: let people take your goddamn picture every once in a while, or else your family will be forced to use your 20+ year old Glamour Shot, because no more recent photo could be located.

Then, back to birthday Monday, I waited with KK while she had her sprained wrist x-rayed, then drove us all over, in rush hour traffic, to get a part for the pool pump that had broken Sunday evening.

And they accidentally kept her credit card, and we had to go back and get it (hurry! in rush hour!) because they closed at 6pm.

And we found out this morning that it wasn’t even the right part. But I digress.

On the way back from the pool store, KK reminded me that the iPad mini she’d ordered for my birthday wouldn’t arrive for another week. (Joy.) This time, she let slip that she was having it engraved — something I’ve never had done before.

Before I could stop my morbid self, I said, “But that means I won’t be able to resell it.”

The Apple ladder is how I’ve managed to afford my last iPhone, and I’m planning to sell my iPad 1 (practically an antique!) to pay for most of the Mini. It’s how we not-richies get the goods, right?

So then KK got on the phone and tried to cancel the order.

She tried to return the only birthday present I knew I was getting, before I even got it.

I might have cried, there in the interminable rush hour gridlock.

Luckily, they wouldn’t let her cancel the order. I think they said she’d have to wait and return it? But by then, I can throw my body over it to stop her from doing so.

When we finally got home, I started making dinner, and KK went to run some “top-secret birthday errands.”

I really didn’t want her to go. I was so afraid she’d come back with some balloons or something so obviously last-minute, back-up birthdayish, and I’d have to pretend to be cheered by it, but really, it would just be that much more depressing. Right?

I needn’t have worried. (When will I learn?)

First, my bacon-hating sweetheart showed up with this card and present.

And an armful of these, so I got to play Miss America right in my own living room. Bra-less and tear-stained, but I got the wave down pat.

They even SMELL good!

While I put the finishing touches on dinner, she turned the bouquet into this.

My latest addiction is the rice krispie treats that Publix sells in their bakery (BOGO this week, yo!). I ate a box a few days ago, and right before KK went to run errands, I asked her to bring me two more boxes (while they’re still on sale, of course).

Even so, I was surprised when I asked where she’d put the krispies, and she handed me this instead.

And then she said, “I bought all the krispies the store had.”

It was only 3 boxes, but isn’t that the most romantic thing to hear?!

Birthday Part 2 will take place this weekend, with all the best Pals (on Saturday) and the parents (on Sunday). I know we’re going to have a blast, and I needn’t have worried, etc etc. Even so, it was really lovely to let KK save the day in a way that only she can.

How old will you be when you’ve spent half your life with your beloved?

(I’m so tempted to write “…with your LOVER,” because that grosses us both out so much, but I’ll refrain. This is a meaningful occasion, if not a somber one.)

Answers will vary, of course. We have no control over when our loves will pinball into our lives, and I’m still not sure how much control we have even over maintaining them once they arrive.

But for the sake of argument, my answer: 32 (33 in a week).

I am 32 years old, and last night I had the pleasure of celebrating 16 years with my wife.

This lady and I can lay waste to some charcuterie and cheese.

(Remember the Charcuterie Towers from our wedding dinner? I can’t find a picture, but they were awesome.)

I liked that when the waiter brought out my (surprise customized) GIANT peanut butter cup dessert, he asked, “Uh…is it 16 or 91?”

I laughed, because it feels like both, in the best way possible.

Here’s to the next 91.

Wordy Wednesday: I thought dream interpretation was supposed to be subtle and nuanced

This would be a Wordless Wednesday post, but I didn’t get the camera I wanted for Christmas. Instead, welcome to the first Wordy Wednesday post, where I celebrate by spewing out a longer post, with “longer” arbitrarily defined as “over 1,000 words.” This whopper clocks in at an uncomfortably long 2,009. I should probably have saved it for a Therapy Thursday instead.

The tl;dr: 

I had some nightmares. I looked up what they might mean. They meant exactly what I imagined they might. Failure sucks.

The last few months, I’ve been dreaming up a storm. Good, bad, and otherwise — they’ve been more vivid, more frequent, and more memorable.

I slept horribly last night, which means lots of being awake alternating with nightmares. The deluxe package!

"A perturbed young woman fast asleep with a devil sitting on her chest; symbolizing her nightmare." Stipple engraving by J.P. Simon, 1810, after himself. From the Wellcome Library, London

“A perturbed young woman fast asleep with a devil sitting on her chest; symbolizing her nightmare.” Stipple engraving by J.P. Simon, 1810, after himself. From the Wellcome Library, London

Nightmare 1: Waiting to board a flight at an Iraqi airport. Me, a shifty Iraq-ish au pair-slash-suspected-secret agent, and identical twin baby girls who (mostly peacefully) suck on pacifiers the whole time. Our flight number was four digits and mostly made of 3s and 4s, like 3343, and so were most of the other flight numbers I saw while looking for ours.

The airport walls were made of pine paneling, which felt dated, cheap, and not exactly confidence inspiring.

I was most upset because I didn’t have my flight drugs, Valium or similar — in real life, more necessary than my boarding pass!

The babies never cried at the same time, or for more than a few seconds at all. They didn’t have much hair. They weren’t obviously mine or not mine or anybody else’s. They didn’t require any care, and the au pair was one in name only. Nothing happened, nothing resolved.

Nightmare 2: In a big commercial airplane, getting ready to either land or crash. I’m more uncomfortable than the people around me. Some terrifying ups and downs, and engine noises. I squinch my eyes shut and wait for it to be over, come what may. Just be over already.

Lots of spacious sleek silver modernity in the plane and at the airport I can glimpse through the plane window. We finally land, surprisingly smoothly, but nobody claps or even acts like it had been a big deal at all.

Presumably life went on and people deplaned, etc, but I woke up for the last time before anything notable happened.

My favorite interpreters weigh in

AuntyFlo says:

Sitting in an airport: suggests that changes will [be] imminent. You have a desire or need for adventure.”

“If you are waiting for a plane it means you are not being direct enough in your approach, and that you know sometimes in life people walk over you….Being in a waiting room indicates your uncertainty about a project in your waking life. ”

“To dream of a crying baby indicates that it is time to heal your inner self.”

“When one dreams of a Pacifier there is an energy of needing to be taken care of, to have someone giving you something which is going to feel like sustenance, which is going to bring you comfort….the world has become too complicated and you must find a way back to peace. You have put too much on your plate and you need a break.”

“For Women: When Numbers appear in the dream for a woman, this is a sign that she has become overly organized and that has made her world a difficult place to live. ”

In a dream state the airplane means that you may need to take off a new project, it can also be a symbol of fear.”

Landing at the airport: representation of feeling lonely around others.”

Tony Crisp, meanwhile:

Airports: “Refers to making new departures; changes, hoped for or real; desire or need for adventure.”

Abroad [Iraq]: “Your feelings about that country, or the view or associated feelings you have of it; being in or moving toward a new or changed life situation.”

Brown: “As a mood this can depict gloominess, dullness or even depression….Brown in regard to objects can show them as being old or worn.”

“In general [drugs] relate to whatever you associate with the particular drug. For instance aspirin would connect with your attempts to deal with pain.”

Three:  “is symbolised by the triangle, and represents a unity of the positive and negative to create a new condition. Thus we see it as mother and father bringing forth child, which is a mixture of both but different from either. So it might represent family. Creativity out of opposites or opposition. …A perfect number according to Chinese….Also a favourable number associated to the childbirth and to the birth. A sacred number of the woman in the Mayas.”

Four: “The symbol of four is the square or cube, representing stability, materialisation, earthiness, strength of a physical nature, permanency. It is the symbol of the four points of the compass; four elements…four functions….Four often, perhaps in the form of a square, depicts a sort of physical harmony, a wholeness.”

Twins: “several possibilities when you dream of a twin or twins…The first one is that it is part of you that has got split off from your main development….Twins can also represent duality, conflict, or two sides of an issue, but also the emergence of something new, something that was denied, that you were born with, but never acknowledged as part of yourself.”

Spy [the shifty au pair]: “Suspicion; underhandedness; secrecy; something you could be in trouble about if you were found out.”

Difficulty landing: “Difficulty achieving goal or making it real in a down to earth way; anxiety about where life events are taking you; feeling out of control or not being in control; difficulties or fears about being in someone else’s hands.”

My take

I agree with the consensus that it feels like my life is going nowhere, as indicated by all the waiting and airport imagery and difficulty landing.

Or, as I bawled at dinner last night, “My scenery never changes!”

Oops. I hope KK tipped the waiter extra. (PMS was part of it, but still…)

The context: I set two big creative projects for myself last year, and neither one came to anything. At all.

The smaller project failed because I knowingly gave away, to someone else’s project, the time and energy it would have taken to complete my own. Their project was mostly successful, I think, but because it wasn’t my project, it ended up being hollow and unrewarding (to me). On top of which, of course, I didn’t get my own project done either. Lose/lose.

The big one has failed to fruit for absolutely no good reason, due to no one’s fault whatsoever, and that’s supposed to make me feel better.

It doesn’t.

But having these two big go-out-on-a-limb, try-something-new things fail, Fail, FAIL has made my life “a difficult place to live.”

The deadline for completing the smaller project has passed, but the bigger project will limp along for a little longer. My sticking with it for over a year now is nearly unprecedented. I’d like to see something for my considerable efforts.

For everyone’s considerable efforts.


I’m a naturally careful person. I don’t like surprises, and I’m comfortable taking only very calculated risks.

And that’s worked fine in the past, to create a string of accomplishments (however mundane) and achievements (however modest) that equal “not a failure at life by most objective standards.”

I’ll take it.

Stylistically, I was a born generalist. Even as a kid, I’d pick a new hobby every few months — learn about it, get proficient, and move on. Here are a few I remember:

  • entomology
  • magic
  • clowning
  • mapping and beating The Legend of Zelda (on the first Nintendo)
  • beating Tetris on the Gameboy
  • playing piano
  • trying to rollerskate backwards
  • assembling my little sister’s “some assembly required” Christmas presents on Christmas Eve after she went to bed
  • reading many, many different book series
  • working my way through the adult non-fiction collection at the big public library downtown, starting at the Dewey 000s [I didn’t read them all, but I skimmed most of them]
  • building a notable antique toy collection
  • researching, analyzing, and compiling product and service reviews so I could advise family members on prospective purchases (back in the WAY pre-Amazon and Yelp days)
  • many, many different arts and crafts
  • going through the trash at the Post Office to read other people’s junk mail, trade publications, and newspapers from far-off places
  • memorizing poetry
  • building houses of cards (3×5, not playing)
  • taking apart and reassembling small appliances and electronics
  • learning to score baseball
  • learning all the rules of major league baseball so I could become the first woman MLB umpire
  • climbing trees
  • teaching the squirrels in the backyard to take peanuts from my hand
  • building better tadpole catching tools
  • babysitting
  • cooking
  • any many others that I can’t think of right now.

All told, a steady self-directed stream of projects. (Where’s my Nobel?)

In the process, I left a lot of unfinished projects, and my mom always bitched about it: “Why should I buy you this kit? You only made 3 of the 10 from the last one!”

But I knew intuitively that learning enough about most things was, usually, enough. Had I finished the last kit, my 10th thingamajig would not have been any better than the 3rd. So why beat your head against the wall when there are so many other things to learn and do?

This translated into my adult life when I struggled to hold out through entire semesters in college — getting an overview in a month or two was usually enough.

Pushing through a whole four years’ worth of semesters? I barely made it.

For my first 4 or 5 years’ of working after college, I couldn’t stay anywhere more than 9 or 10 months (range = 6 weeks to barely-10-months). Never fired, whatever that’s worth, but I learned each job in a few weeks, and when there weren’t more challenges coming down the pike, I had to pick up and leave or wallow in eventually-suicidal stuckness.


So with my innate need for a good balance of novelty and achievement, you might be able to see how this stuck-in-a-failure-rut-ness is really wearing on me.

I’ve been reading about buddhism some, about the slippery, sad slope that is attachment to outcomes.

Rationally, it makes sense, and I’ve seen it play out with my MS experience. If I expect to feel great (normal) and I don’t, I double the feeling-bad burden when I cling to the belief that “no, really, I SHOULD be feeling fine.”

Better to accept the reality that I hurt/tingle/crawl/collapse, step up the self-care, and move on/be still. Simple, not always easy, but it’s another tool in my coping toolbox.

But as much as I’d like to, I’m having a helluva hard time applying the same benign detachment to This Big Project (TBP) and its string of failures.

Because the nature of TBP, the primary metric, includes a very specific outcome.

To get semantic, I do not want to try to do TBP. (If I did, I could have successfully hung up my spurs after a few months.)

Instead, I want to do TBP.

It’s an all-or-nothing proposition.

And so far, it’s been 100% nothing.

And even my dreams are noticing.

My 2013 game face:



It doesn’t help that I spent exactly the first two full weeks of the year convalescing with the flu, where every day’s agenda was: meds, rest, fluids, rest, repeat.

I’m finally feeling better enough to trade “meds and fluids” for “a little work and some writing.”

But I’m still kind of miffed that being sidelined kept me from taking advantage of the forward-looking momentum that a new year can bring.

A fresh start, however real or imagined or arbitrary.

Instead, this month, this year, has been more like Extended 2012 Failure Purgatory, and I can’t advance until…what? I don’t even know.

I still don’t know.

Do YOU know?

Tell us in the comments.

Some things I bookmarked this week

A recipe that sounds very similar to a panna cotta I enjoyed at the Field of Greens Festival last month, if you sub a fresh or roasted quartered fig for the tomato:

Cooking reference, for when I’m trying to bake The Right Way, with weights instead of volumes:

If I want to stop calling them chameleons, I’ve got to figure out how to say “anoles.” Problem is, there’s not much of a consensus:

The rest of my favorite links are here.

Nerd Girl, Lesbian, or Just Sociosexually Clueless?

Based on the Gadsden flag available in the Wikimedia Commons | Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported.

Or perhaps another band in my autism spectrum?

I had to run to the grocery store yesterday before dinner because I’d forgotten the guacamole.

The mission: grocery run at 5pm for 4 measly items (guacamole, red cabbage, heavy cream, eggs). Get there, get in, and get out. A counterclockwise perimeter sweep should do it.

The mindset: Licensed to kill. A Navy SEAL extraction team would not have been more focused or grimly determined than I.

The mission leader: I’d been working in the house all day, so I was wearing the same tank top and shorts I’d worn the day(s?) before. I had a film of dried sweat, grime, and grass clippings all over from working in the house and yard and being Really Fucking Domestic. I no longer own a hairbrush. I have never worn makeup.  I do not dress up to run errands.

Are you getting the picture?

I’d managed to get to the store and collect 75% of the needed items in very good time. I started to relax a bit and  opened a carton of eggs to check for cracks when I heard, “Is your hair naturally that red, or do you color it?”


I glanced up and saw that I was being addressed by a smiling, older African-American gentleman no taller than myself.

“I wish this was my natural color! ha!”

Glad that little pleasantry was over, I closed the egg carton and turned to put it in my basket. But it wasn’t over yet. The little man continued, “Because you don’t see it too often! Whenever I see a lady with red hair and ask her if it’s natural, she says ‘no.’ How often do you have to redo it?”

I should have known at this point, but no. I was hooked. “Well, natural red hair is a recessive trait, you know, so you have to have inherited a copy of the mutated gene from both parents to have red hair.”

It was his turn to say, “Huh?”

“It’s kind of rare,” I summarized.

“Oh, yeah. Ha. Hey, that’s a pretty tattoo you got there.”

“Uh, thanks.”



Am I getting…hit on?

If he just wanted to talk-talk, he’d say something topical and neutral about eggs or the weather, right?

How is this supposed to work?

I had only seconds to decide. If I sprinted for the door, I could get myself out fast, but I’d have to leave the basket. Sacrificing the groceries would mean the mission had been a failure. I was torn.

Little Man’s rheumy eyes were trying to twinkle. “It reminds me of those flowers…the, uh…what are they called…”

He faltered, but I was so frozen I couldn’t even think of the type of flower it actually is. You know, the one that was important enough to permanently add to my body. I had a glimmer of understanding into how my mom could forget my sister’s and my name with shocking regularity.

“They’re tall…”

Oh, jesus, he’s still trying to figure it out and I’m standing here like I’m having an absence seizure in the dairy aisle. Closure. We need closure so I can get the hell out of here.

I took a stab. “Zinnias? No, they’re not that tall. Something in the mum family? But taller?”

“No…uh…they…sunflowers! It reminds me of sunflowers!”

“Great! Thanks! You have a good day, now! Bye!”

I grabbed the grocery basket and hightailed it to the self-checkout.

On the ride home, I debriefed myself on the experience. I now have questions I would like to ask the universe and/or my therapist, because this is not the first time something similar has happened.

Why can’t I figure out what’s going on in time to react appropriately? And what’s appropriately?

Why do women never hit on me?

Would I know what was happening if they did?

Does hitting on people ever actually work?

It’s an absolute mystery to me. I feel like the whole hitting-on situation must have been explained one day in middle school when I was out with the flu or a spell of pathological self-consciousness. Being 30-something and still not understanding it doesn’t help, but being married does (a little).

So, a word of advice: if any of you would ever like to indicate an interest in my person, it would probably be best to just spell it out on a gluten-free cake or a $20 bill. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee that I will ever figure out what’s going on.