One of the great advantages of being in the Master Gardener program is early access to the plants available at the Master Gardeners of Santa Clara County's Spring Garden Market. Basically, we have first dibs on all the tomatoes, peppers, basil and salvias available to the public in two weeks.

Not that I know what salvias are.

After we arrived at the pre-sale plant displays, I, of course, having been in a car for more than twenty minutes, needed to pee, so wandered off to the bathroom, before heading back to the plants. In the bathroom, the lighting was strange, and I noticed my vision was a little strange during one glance, and even thought to myself, "Huh, that looked like a migraine."

I managed to head back out to the plants, and get a lay of the land, peppers to the far left, basil to my left, cherry tomatoes to my right, beefsteak behind them, and heirloom far right, before I realized I couldn't see half the face of the woman in front of me.

No, I thought. No, no, no, NO, NO! I have plans for today! I'm going to buy all my plants and plant them. I want to take pictures of this place and my garden before and after. I'm going to plant my blueberries and basil today. I'm going to go for a run with the dogs! I have a tournament tomorrow! NO!

I stepped back into the shadows of the gazebo, stood then, and started crying. 2 minutes later, I couldn't see anything out of the left side of my vision. I stopped crying and just stood there, waiting for someone to tell us we were heading home.

Susan and Abby noticed me standing there, looking no doubt like a lost little girl, and asked me if I were okay. When I said no, and explained what was happening, both of them immediately understood. Susan used to have migraines with aura, also. She said she didn't lose all of her vision as I do, but she understood. Abby also said she understood, as she has had migraines, though not with and regularity, thankfully. She offered to walk me around the area and pick out plants with me.

I was so overjoyed, and thankful. I might not be able to see what I was getting, but I would still be able to get plants!

Abby walked me around, asked what I wanted, found various different kinds of peppers, basil and tomatoes, reading the descriptions, offering suggestions, filling up two flats with vegetables. I managed to spend $87 on plants I couldn't see, but was sure to love when they grew into amazing bountiful food sources.

Susan and the carpool drove me home, Kathleen helped me open the door and shush the dogs, Janis and Kathy brought my plants to the door. I called Doyle and told him I wasn't coming in, took two Excedrin Migraine and tried to sleep.

I must have slept somewhat, because it was after one when someone knocking on the front door triggered a dog barking fit. It was only after stumbling to the kitchen and looking out the window that I realized there was someone at the door, and she wasn't leaving.

What is it with certain solicitors that they think they can hover at your door for five minutes while you're clearly NOT coming to the door, much less going to answer it. This particular solicitor is with some consumer studies group, presumably wanting to ask us detailed questions about our shopping and purchases. What I want to know is why our house has been targeted. I don't want to talk to these people. I don't want to let marketers know what I'm purchasing, allowing them to target me better. I don't care if the results are used in aggregate only, hey solicitors, get off my property, you are not welcome.

I tried to sleep more, but wasn't able to, having woken up, the EM caffeine running through my veins.

I want dark. I want quiet. I want vicodin or codeine or something to stop this pain. I don't have time for this.

On a tally note: 2 migraines to 2 menstruations. Much better than the Migraine Year from Hell, also known as 2004.

A few weeks ago, I regained much of my sense of smell. It came back suddenly, and I am quite pleased with its return.

I noticed the return on a Saturday, when Kris and I were working outside. It seems like we're always working outside on weekends now, trying to catch up with the weeds, maybe actually conquer them. Maybe with a small army, we'll actually succeed. Maybe.

That day, I noticed the smell of the citrus flowers. Those flowers were the most pleasant, most wonderful flowers I think I have ever smelled.

That evening, with Kris asleep as I crawled into bed, I snuggled close to him, buried my nose into his neck and inhaled deeply. The smell of Kris is the most wonderful, most incredible smell ever. Ever. It's the one smell I desperately missed when I lost that sense. I was thrilled to have it back, and fell asleep holding him close.

A week or so ago, a teammate loaned me a shirt after practice. He had worn the shirt at practice, so it, too smelled. Since I used it at the end of practice, I brought it home to wash. It surfaced Mt. Laundry tonight, so into the washing machine it went. When I took it out of the dryer to fold clothes, I brought the shirt up to my nose, mostly out of curiosity: had I washed the shirt well?

Well, it didn't smell clean.

Instead, it smelled like a man who successfully competed in an athletic endeavour. It smelled of sweat, and effort, and success, and, well, let's just say, if I weren't with Kris, I know who I'd be trying to have sex with tonight.

Today was my first practice with the local college women's team. Kate is out and about and unable to come to practice, so I was on my own. I used the rules and suggestions from the UPA coaching clinic and, for the first time, actually wrote a schedule of what I wanted to cover in practice. I had high hopes going to practice.

They were dashed pretty much as soon as I arrived at practice.

We had low numbers to start with. Can't really scrimmage when there are only 8 players out.

Most of the players showed up late. I started the practice off with what we were going to do at practice, as per John's practice format, but didn't wait past 9:15 before starting. That meant two or three players missed out because they were late, and weren't as clued into practice as the others. They also missed out on the throwing warmup and practice. I scheduled 9:00 to 9:15 as throwing practice, figuring some players would be late. Those who were missed out on the throwing warmup, which is unfortunate, but I really don't want to encourage ultimate-time any more than it already exists in our culture.

We had distractions. Usually when I start talking, I can keep the team's attention through the first sentence, then start losing them after the second or third. I often try the call and response, or question a player about what I'm explaining. I tried both, but wasn't very successful with some players.

Rather than try to talk over the distracted players, I just kept talking at the same volume, at the same speed, looking up at the distracted players, but not addressing them directly. The second time I did this, and part of the team couldn't hear what I was saying, several players, the ones who are quickly improving players who clearly wanted to know what I was saying, told the talking women to shut up, shush, sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHH! I had very few interruptions after that, for which I was thankful.

And then there was the bathroom issue. Mid-practice, during a water break, half the team left to use the bathroom. Now, I of the world's smallest bladder have exactly zero reasons to begrudge them heading off to the bathroom, it's the fifteen minutes of socializing that frustrate me.

I know the are conflicts. I know there's schoolwork. I understand the balance of life and how too much of anything can be detrimental to one's mental and physical health.

I just wish some players were passionate about ultimate and wanted to play with the intensity and obsession of the recently converted. I don't really know how to inspire that love.

Not yet, anyway.

A client contested an invoice with us today.

0.2% over the quote. $31 over the quote.

Do I really suck this much at running a business, or is this par for the course?

Today, for dinner, I popped something into the oven to heat up. I didn't think much about it after that point, and went off to work on some website or email or post or something that involved sitting in front of my computer, wiggling my fingers and making magic happen.

After a while, I had the sense something wasn't quite right. Tapping gently into the outside of my awareness, I heard an odd sound in the house I couldn't place. Both dogs were asleep on the couch, so they weren't the source of the noise. Neither of them perked up at the noise, so the source was unlikely an intruder.

Was the sound from the kitchen?

Puzzled, I walked back into the kitchen, and looked into the oven. My meal was heating up, but there was an odd, highly metallic smell blasting from the oven.

I opened up the door, and glanced at the melting thermometer on one of the oven racks. The cookie sheet was warped into bands of screaming aluminum, twisted into death throes as the paper around my meal was smoking.

The thermometer read 525°. I had set the oven for 350°

I quickly pulled everything out of the oven, turned the dial to off and left the door open, hoping it would cool into something other than a giant slag of metal.

Great, just what we don't need: another big expense. Time to go oven shopping. Maybe Megan wants to take me with her the next time she goes shopping for her new kitchen.

Clearly a good sense of smell would have triggered a quicker reaction. Trips to the steel mills of Gary have embedded that intensely metallic smell into my memories as HOT HOT HOT DANGER HOT!