A Day at the Beach

Finally on the last day of June, we had some steamy summer weather. What else is there to do when it feels like 105 degrees outside – hit the beach!

Growing up in northern Minnesota, surrounded by lakes, I never fully accepted the notion of outdoor swimming pools. To me, they are giant vats of chemically treated water surrounded by feet-scorching concrete. The smell of chlorine and bleach takes me back to Jr. High gym class where we were forced to wear school-issued orange swimsuits that made everyone look like a floating pumpkin, regardless of their body type. Swimming in the summer means fresh, cool lakes with sandy beaches and no hint of chemicals that burn my nose. I’ll take sand in my pants over burning eyes from chlorine, thank you.

While my almost 3-year-old napped, I packed up about 40 pounds of beach gear. Towels, sunscreen, plastic beach toys, water bottles, life jackets, a chair, one pink and one blue “noodle”, and a few snacks. When he woke up, we (including my 6-year-old, who had been patiently waiting to go since she got up) packed ourselves and the gear into my tiny Jetta for the 10 minute drive to the beach.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with this beach idea. There was a double line and I was car #5 in the shortest line. Eventually, I was the last one there because on this day, the hottest day of the year, I chose to buy my season beach pass, which involved paperwork and a credit card.

We scored Rock Star parking! This meant I didn’t have to pull out the giant stroller from my tiny trunk and pack it with all the beach gear. Naturally, I regretted this decision upon the first whine from the 6-year-old that the pink noodle (the only thing she was carrying) was too heavy. We were mere feet from the beach.

We zigzagged through the towels, umbrellas, and flip-flopped feet and settled in our usual spot between the two life-guard stations. Although it was 3:30pm, I lathered up my alabaster-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed children with SPF 50. You can never be too careful! My 6-year-old decided she no longer wanted to wear any sort of life-saving equipment; she didn’t even want the noodle. Gasp.

Well, at least the almost 3-year-old would be safe in his Buzz Lightyear life jacket, even if he never enters the water. I dumped the plastic beach toys near the water for him to play with; maybe he’ll get his feet wet. I settled in my chair and look for my suddenly-brave 6-year-old among the dozens of bobbing heads. It was hot! Sweat rolled down my back, my front, my face, yet I remained in my chair. My Buzz Lightyear’s face was blotchy-red and his hair was wet (from sweat) so it was time to get him cool. I sat in the water next to him and miracle of miracles, he sat down too. We played in the 3 inches of water making sand castles.

Suddenly, there were random children absconding with my plastic beach toys! Clearly, this gang of beach toy bandits belonged to the chatty mothers sitting next to me. I cleared my throat and looked at them “I don’t mind if they play with the toys, just be sure they play with them here.” Awkward giggling. “Oh, we didn’t even notice, thanks.” Well, pay attention because your annoying cherubs were just about to enter a life of crime.

Up next, another thief, about 4-years-old, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed a blue bucket and ran to the other side of the beach! I went after the pint-size robber like a Keystone cop and caught up with him in the surf. “Excuse me little boy, but that is my bucket.” He put it in my hand without incident, except for the horror in his eyes. Big bad momma, coming for my bucket! You better be scared. And where are your parents?

I spent the next hour fending off would-be beach toy burglars, instead of watching my 6-year-old pretend to be a good swimmer. She found a friend from school who kept her occupied and I only had to yell at her once for going too far out in the water. “No, you may not swim out to that dock. That one is only for teenagers!” (Teenagers who actually know how to swim!)

More and more kids appeared for the toys. I can’t be the only one with this problem. I can’t be the only one that brought cheap plastic toys to this beach. I kept them in a pile near my Buzz Lightyear, who was clearly playing with them. But they hovered and eyed them like prey. “You may play with them, but they have to stay here.” I finally said to two different groups – some of them who were at least 11-years-old. The older they are, the more stealthy. They peered around; wondered if anyone was watching. I am. I’m staring right at you. You can’t miss me; I’m huge.

5pm safety check was the perfect time to pack up and leave. I gathered up the plastic beach toys; almost lost a cup to a kid who said it was his because he found it floating. Yeah, that’s because another one of your kind – the thieving kind, took it out in the water and left it there. It’s mine. Step.Away.From.My.Cheap.Plastic.Beach.Toys.

Fortunately, the friend of the 6-year-old left too, so there was no drama when I said it was time to go; except when she ran off to rinse her feet but left her flip flops back in the sand. Buzz Lightyear was bothered by his wet swim diaper, so we dragged our sweaty selves and the 40 pounds of beach gear into the rest room to change, which was sweltering because the hot-air hand dryers turned on/off for no apparent reason.

I started the car for the air conditioning (like you would do in the winter to heat it up) and I packed my beach cargo and kids in. I was soaking sweaty wet; wetter than I had been in the last hour sitting on a beach.


If and when I do this again, I will label my old, weathered plastic beach toys with a giant black Sharpie. “Do Not Touch. Or Steal. Unless you’re one of my children. Who knows manners and knows how to ask to play with things that are not theirs.”

Rodents Among Us

EEK A MOUSE!

If you look closely at this picture, underneath the travel coffee mug you will see on the left side a long tail and on the right side, a pointed nose. Yes, it is indeed a mouse.

A few months ago we discovered the presence (in the form of droppings!) of mice in the cabinet where we keep the trash can. A few days later, we heard some wrestling noises coming from there and my very senior cat stared at the cabinet doors for hours. Slowly but surely, we accepted that we have unwanted vermin in the house. We set traps for three nights in a row and caught two large-size mice. We also plugged the holes in the walls of the cabinet. The evidence of mice was gone.

Two nights ago my husband admitted that he thought he felt something brush across his feet one early morning while making coffee and wasn’t sure if it was his pant leg or something more sinister. Later, mindlessly staring at the TV, I was distracted by some activity just to the right of where I was looking. I focused on a tiny brown mouse scurrying ACROSS THE STOVE, ONTO THE COUNTER! OH MY GOD! My husband rushed into the room just as the varmint was slinking into the seam at the back of the stove. He didn’t believe me that is where the mouse went until I held up my fingers, “The thing was thisbig! They are small; they can mash their bodies to fit into anything!” My first instinct was to turn the oven on BROIL, but quickly ruled that out for fear of scraping burnt mouse out of my oven. That night we set two more traps and went to bed early. We were afraid of being on the same floor with the rodents, but not before witnessing a miraculous event; my 18-year-old cat mustered up enough strength to chase something (no doubt a mouse) unsuccessfully across the floor. It was the fastest I’ve seen him move in years!

The next morning, both traps were victorious. A large-size and the small-size variety of the average brown house mouse were dead from snapped necks, lying under the flipped-over wooden traps. Fortunately, I have not been the one to see and/or dispose of any of the carcasses.

Later that day, I spotted another unwanted mouse family member on the stove and when I screamed he ran back to whatever hole he came from. So we set more traps. We were under siege! These rodents were brazen and obviously desperate because they were coming out during the day with plenty of activity around – including the cat and dog who were both on high alert. I feared the worse; there is a nest, a colony full vermin living someplace I can never see or get to in my house.

I called an exterminator, who couldn’t come until the next day because I was calling on Sunday. I didn’t care about the cost; I could no longer live like this.

An hour later, I heard winces and muffled screams coming from my husband. He beckoned me to the kitchen where he stood covering his mouth and his other hand was pointed at the sink. A tiny little mouse was trapped. We all stared at each other. Paralyzed. “He’s kind of cute,” I said. “Not when he’s in our sink,” my husband answered. “What do we do?” “I have no idea.” So, naturally, I did what any modern girl would do and grabbed my iPhone and snapped this picture. The mouse made the decision easy for us and crawled into the garbage disposal. I grabbed a bowl and put it over the drain hole and put the travel coffee mug on top for weight. Little baby mouse will stay there until a professional retrieves it. And yes, we did consider flipping the switch on, but the idea of a bloody ground-up vermin was too much to reflect on. Poor husband was getting himself a cookie when he discovered the menacing mouse and later my 2-year-old, who witnessed the incident, surmised that “daddy was scared of the cookie.”

The next day, a portly, jovial man carrying two industrial looking buckets knocked on the door and said he was here to take care of Mr. Jingles and all his friends. “Good, because have I got a surprise for you,” I said and explained about the mouse in the disposal. Smiling, Mr. Exterminator asked why I didn’t turn it on. “Instead, we are going to drown it,” he said and turned on the hot water. Great, boiled baby mouse!? He went down in the basement to distribute the bait – a delicious mixture of bird seed and poison. I watched the sink start to fill with water and wondered if any was getting under the bowl. I lifted it up a bit but apparently it was too much lift because suddenly a tiny wet mouse jumped up at me and I screamed like a little girl! I grabbed a spoon and started batting at it to keep it from getting away or worse, jumping on me! Mr. Exterminator came up from the basement grinning and asked what happened. I could not put two words together but he figured it out and said he’d handle it. I left to collect myself in the next room and I knew he was finished when he asked for a plastic bag. Bye bye Mr. Jingles.

He distributed another dozen or so mouse-death dinners around the basement and kitchen and clarified that these “dinners” are meant to be eaten by the parents and regurgitated to the young. Great, I’m going to find dead mice all over my house?! Mr. Exterminator explained that we live in MouseTown, a name he christened neighborhoods located near nature preserves. He has a client near me he services regularly because she keeps feeding birds and we all know how mice love to eat birdseed! He pointed to our birdhouse and said to get rid of it and told me to fire my cat. Eventually we’ll have to plug up all the holes we see in the basement rafters and behind cabinets and the stove to block their entry. He pointed to an opening in the foundation of our garage that seems to be the likely culprit for allowing the vermin invasion. He poured some poisoned powder in the hole and if all goes according to plan, when the mouse enters, the white talcum covers their fur so when they groom themselves it’ll kill them. I guess I didn’t know mice lick themselves too?

As he was leaving he wrapped his hands together in the air and exclaimed “What a great day already, hand-to-hand combat with a mouse.” The best $175 I have ever spent.

I realize the poison doesn’t work over night, but I’m hopeful that I won’t see anymore vermin running across my counters anytime soon.

Spring is here!

Time to pack away the puffy-down winter coat and fur-lined boots.

While it is the ugliest time of the year with brown grass and black snow, it evokes a sense of reawakening after a long spell of winter dormancy.

Soon green buds will emerge on tree branches and hosta bulbs will peek out from the brown ground.

Birds sing and fly all over the back yard! Time to put food in the bird house.

Melt, drip, melt, drip, melt, drip. Flood!

Rake up soggy leaves and clean up missed dog doodie.

No more fleece sweaters or slippers. Layers for quick removal.

Plan flowers and summer vacations.

We missed you, Spring!

A few thoughts about bullying.

Bullying. Teasing. Taunting. Ridiculing. Ribbing. Messing around. I’m just playing with ya. I’m Kidding. Just Joking. No matter what you call it, it’s mean. Pure and simple. While the teaser may think it’s all in fun (what’s wrong with a bit of good-nature ribbing) I can assure you that the teased do not always see it that way.

When does it cross the line? When does “joking around” cause children to kill themselves? These are questions no one can answer – not the victim or the victimizer.

Too many recent suicides are a little to late to get people up in arms over this seemingly senseless rite of passage. Right or wrong, every child experiences some level of bullying. When does innocent joking cross into cruelty? Every child reacts differently. Personally, I don't deal very well with teasing, no matter whom it comes from or how innocuous it is. As an adult, I’ve learned to smile and change the subject. As a child, I usually burst into tears. As a teen, I learned to not let it show that it bothered me, instead I quietly cried myself to sleep.

I have an unscientific and not-based-on-facts theory that kids with older brothers/siblings, tend to adapt better to a bit of teasing. These kids learn early and accept it as the way it is. Perhaps it is a form of humor. It is also accepted and evident in sports because it is where they first experience it outside their family. Not that I have or ever will be a member of a sports team, however I get the sense that it is a part of team building and sportsmanship – a little bit of joking around might be okay. However, as kids grow up and realize the power they can have over another human being, this mild form of bullying can be taken too far. Specifically in the case of hazing, a notorious unauthorized price of admission for many fraternities, sororities, and sports teams.

Hazing, of course, is an extreme form of bullying. And naturally, it is illegal. But what about taunting a child? Calling him names as he walks down the hall at school. School is a pinnacle of higher learning. It’s a place where kids are supposed to feel safe and flourish, not shamed and humiliated.

Bullying has been around since the beginning of time. It now has an official name – one that everyone unfortunately knows all too well. During junior high and high school I was both prey and predator. My worst offense was name-calling. And my junior year of high school, I was duly paid back for my part in this crime by being called names. A few times, the names were chanted at me from the bleachers as I stood on the basketball court, doing a cheer routine for the team. Yes, even as a cheerleader I was taunted.

To this day, I do not and will not forget or forgive my tormentors, who were a small group of older boys. (Nor do I forget the girl whom, together with a group of others caused much anguish and torment in junior high.) The hardest part for me and I suppose for any kid who gets bullied is the confusion. I never did anything to these kids. I never spoke a word to them before, during, or after this angst-filled time. Trying to understand “why” is what keeps you awake a night.

Yesterday I read an article about a 13-year-old who hanged herself from her canopy bed. She had texted a picture of her naked breast to her boyfriend, which then went viral. She was tormented and teased until she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d show them. The saddest part is that even after her death, she was still being called a whore. This story has so many layers of wrong. Too many to examine right now. But I can’t help wondering about the relationship of this 13-year-old girl and her “boyfriend”. Personally, I would die if my 13-year-old daughter even had a boyfriend, especially one that she felt the need to expose herself in such a way. But more importantly, there is a double standard at play here. While this girl, however innocently she thought sending that picture was, it turned her into a pariah. On the other hand, the boyfriend was probably high-fived. Yep, that was super funny sharing a picture of your girlfriend’s breast. Who's laughing now?

Today’s bullying is much worse because of technology. The internet and cell phones make our lives easier, but our creature comforts come with a price, and I’m not talking about money.

My children are still small, although I now have a Kindergartner. My idealism tells me that I have a few more years before I have to deal with this issue, but reality says this is simply not true. Our kids seem to grow up faster than us. They know more at 5, 10, and 15-years-old than we did. I’m ill-prepared for the emotional warfare of growing up, despite having gone through it. I don’t know what to say to my kids if this becomes an issue. I can read books and do all the things I’m suppose to do, but are we suppose to prepare for this? Should we really have to?

While my mother isn’t known for great nuggets of wisdom, I do thank her for this: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Now, if only more Moms would say this to their kids, maybe they would stop being so mean.

Q: What has been your experience with this issue? What advice do you have?

Time. And some chocolate.

It seems lately that I don't have enough time to read emails. Least of all junk e-mail. Even ones I subscribe to. There are two junk email sources that I get daily, both of which I love. However, they pile up in my email box.

The first (subscribed) junk email I get is called A Word A Day and I've been receiving these daily emails for years. I often read them quickly, however, I don't think I spend enough time with it to let the meaning of the word sink in, so I file it away and figure I'll return to it when I have more time. Which is unlikely any time in the near future. So, there they sit, in my email box waiting patiently for their knowledge to be absorbed.

The second one I receive is a relatively new source for me called The Writer's Almanac, created by Garrison Keillor. The email contains a poem followed by the mention of the birthday of notable writers and a brief synopsis of their life and/or noteworthy events in history that happened on the day. I only slightly admire poetry and quite honestly, I tend to skim over the poems in this email. But every now and then, one stops me and I think that it is too good not to share. I've posted a few poems on this blog from this source and today, I have another one. It's about my favorite pastime. Chocolate. And I could not have said it any better than how this poem does.

Ode to Chocolate

by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.

"Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker, from More. © C&R Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission.

Dogs

All dog owners can related to this poem. It perfectly captures what happens when we take our 4-legged friends out for a walk.

Cleaning up after the Dog
by Jason Tandon

Pull plastic bag from pocket
and wave it like a flag

or diploma. Make sure many people
congratulate your care
for the community.

Check bag for holes.
Double check.

Inspect stool for odd hues.
Greens, blues, blood.

Evaluate consistency.

You don't want to leave smears
on the sidewalk or grass—no prints.

Getaway must be clean.

Prepare to go in for all of it.
Hold breath.
Grab, clamp, reverse bag, twist, knot, cinch.

Smell hands.

Hold loaded bag high in the air,
assure onlookers that Everything is Okay.

If a cop should cruise by,
his crew cut bristling
in the sun,

hold that bag higher,
so he, too, can salute
your contribution.

The bomb diffused,
the world a little safer, a little cleaner,

will not offend the deep treads
of someone's shoes.

"Cleaning up after the Dog" by Jason Tandon, from Give Over the Heckler and Everyone Gets Hurt. © Black Lawrence Press, 2009.


This is my dog Murphy. He drives me crazy. But I still love him. Most of the time.

There was nothing simple about this

Do not be alarmed. This isn’t a play-by-play account of a colonoscopy. One’s back end and its true function isn’t something anyone really wants to talk about, let alone read about. However, I feel compelled to put pen to paper (or fingers to computer keys) and write through this less than pleasant experience.

First off, the fact that I’m only 42 puts me in an atypical colonoscopy patient group. Normally, one doesn’t have this screening until they are 50+ years old. Nonetheless, a family history makes me eligible for this procedure. I use the term “procedure” lightly because on paper it may seem like a simple procedure when a doctor can do two an hour, however it is a major production for the patient.

Many will tell you that the procedure is easy compared to the preparation and I’m inclined to believe that since the “pre-homework” is ghastly. Once I started the prep work, I was useless for about 48 hours. Not an easy task for a mother of two young children.

My father was diagnosed with colon cancer when he was 50 years old and while it is a very curable cancer if caught early enough, his was not. Ultimately, it spread to his lymphatic system and eventually he died from liver cancer; a mere 9 months later. That was about 15 years ago and there was no reason for him to have an early screening since up until then there was no history of any kind of cancer in the family. Nonetheless, the doctors told each of his children to get screened for this cancer at age 40 – ten years before the age of the diagnosis of a parent.

When I made the appointment, I was handed a packet full of information, specifically, instructions of the prep work I had to do the day before the procedure. This involved laxatives – lots of them and included fasting the day before and drinking a gallon of clear liquids. Certainly, not my idea of a good time.

The hardest part was NOT eating. As a stay-at-home mom it was particularly difficult to make food for the kids all day! I was dizzy and weak by 10am. I could drink juice but I’m not a juice drinker – in fact, I hate juice. But I sucked down apple and white grape fruit juice as if it was life-sustaining. I needed the sugar to keep me going. Around noon I had to load up the kids and drive my daughter to preschool. I should not have been driving because I was shaking by this point. I called the mother of one of her classmates to walk her into school because I simply didn’t have the strength to get out of the car, get both kids out, carry the baby, and get her to her into the classroom on time.

When I got home, I put the baby to bed and began to drink the first of the required two 10 ounce bottles of Citrate of Magnesium. A delicious blend of laxatives and lemon and perhaps battery acid. It was clear and a little bubbly and totally misleading. I expected it to taste like 7UP but it was bitter and shocking and I can’t find the right words to describe this most hideous “flavor”. I wondered if it was even edible. I put it on ice as an attempt to deceive myself as I choked it down. I sat on the couch watching mindless daytime TV and gulped it – 5 gulps at a time. I should point out that some may have guzzled it because the taste is so heinous, but I’ve never been a guzzler. Not even in my most heavy beer drinking college days – I could never guzzle anything!

Fortunately my husband was able to leave work early to pick our daughter up from school. He also had to buy more Gatorade. The directions say that during the laxative phase one has to keep hydrated. I bought orange Gatorade, but the instruction sheet said to avoid red and purple drinks. So to be safe, I had him buy the yellow flavor, which, by the way, I hate because it reminds me of all the times I’ve been vomiting sick and had to drink it for the “electrolytes” .

By 3pm, I was nauseous and tired and the baby was still sleeping, so I climbed into bed. The phone rang a few minutes later but I didn’t recognize the number so I let it go to voicemail. Watching the blinking red light beckon me to check the message, I realized I hadn’t seen the dog in a while. He’s usually my shadow and jumps at the opportunity to nap with me. I knew the call had to be someone who found him because he’s prone to getting off his chain – especially in the last couple days. I listened to the young female voice saying she found him wandering by the school. I had no recollection of when I put him outside - starvation does that to one’s memory. When I called back and explained where I lived, she offered to bring him home because I was babbling about how was I going to get him. (I was queasy, had a sleeping baby, I shouldn’t be driving, and I am liable to mess my pants any minute – that part I didn’t say out loud…at least I don’t think I did.) She didn’t know where I lived and said she’d call her mom for directions. I called my husband but he was on his way but it would be another 40 minutes before he’d be home. I called my mother-in-law but she couldn’t help. I finally realized this stupid dog was my responsibility and in my delirium I could just about hear the mother of this girl saying “come pick up your own damn dog!”. Which is what I did – extracting the sleeping baby from his warm bed, stuffing him in a coat and hat, pulling on my boots, a jacket, and praying I wouldn’t have an accident in my pants as I drive to pick up the Harry Houdini dog that lives in my house. When I arrived I was relieved that I didn’t make the girl bring him home because she was a lot younger than her voice (11 or 12). No one that age should walk through an unfamiliar neighborhood to return a leash-less dog she found.

When my husband got home I went back to bed and within the hour, I was on and off the toilet for the next 6+ hours. Again, I’ll spare the details – but just let me say this: at times, I had no idea if I was urinating or defecating but more than likely both. In between all that, I drank more water, Gatorade, and the other 10 ounces of the liquid laxative/lemony/ battery acid concoction and per the instructions took a few more laxative tablets to make extra sure I was clean.

In the waiting room of hospital the next day, I laid my head on my husband's arm – I was weak and tired and my head seem impossibly heavy. The nurse led me into the area appropriated named “Endoscopy”. I put on the standard-issued hospital gown and bathrobe and the nurse asked me a dozen health questions. Her first attempt to put the IV needle in my hand failed – as proof by her display of the bent needle, so she gave up and after taping a cotton ball to my bleeding and bruised hand and giving me some ice, her partner stuck a needle into my other hand.

I was wheeled into another room where I met the doctor who explained the process and procedure. Pointing out the computer monitor where I can watch the whole thing in living color! They rolled me on my left side, I pulled my knees up to my chest, exposing my back side and they asked me how sleepy I wanted to be. I said I was ready for a nap and they injected the sedative. Instantly I felt dizzy and closed my eyes and didn’t open them until I felt a blunt object trying to scratch its way out of the inside of my lower abdomen and I moaned “OHMYGOD”. I guess I was warned about this. Apparently the lower part of the colon is curved and the “scope” has some uncomfortable turns to make to get where it needs to be. The nurse held my hand and talked me off the ledge. Once the probe was in further and the searing pain subsided, my eyes stayed open long enough to catch a glimpse of the inner sanctum of my colon. It was nothing spectacular or riveting so I went back to my sleepy place.

When it was over I was wheeled back to the recovery area and left alone to sleep. Eventually a nurse came in to check on me and explained that as soon as I “pass the air”, she could discharge me. The colon is like a flat tire when not in use so they pump in air to inflate it during the procedure. I had no idea how hard it would be for my body to do this (pass air). It doesn’t seem to have much trouble when I don’t need it to. The nurse suggested a few different positions to help me get this done but they didn’t work. After a while, I managed a walk to the bathroom and passed a small bit of air, but it didn’t make me feel better as the nurse promised. Being upright and even sitting made me nauseous and when the doctor came in he said I looked a little green and ordered some anti-nausea medicine, which worked immediately. I also ate some ice chips and quietly “passed air” again. I finally got dressed and discharged. My husband went to get the car and the nurse walked me out as I clutched the printed report of the procedure, complete with full color pictures of my perfectly clean, cancer-free colon.

At home, I went directly to bed and later my husband brought food – the best peanut butter toast I have ever eaten in my entire life. The next day I had no lingering effects. And no, my behind does not hurt as a few have asked. Although the gas pains were still with me the next morning, eventually they subsided and it’s all just a distant, faded memory. One I am destined to repeat in 5 years.