Random Brain Dumping

A recent trip to Dallas gave me a glimpse into what it means to truly fall in like with someone.

Years ago, I realized that falling in love in something we have no control over. I’ve never heard someone say they chose to fall in love with someone. They just fell in love. I’ve often heard that the heart wants what it wants.

Love is something we’re also obligated to dispense. We’re supposed to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. We’re supposed to love our family and all mankind.

Obligatory.

What I’ve never heard or read is that you’re obligated to like anyone.

Thus, “like” is a choice.

Like is what I saw in Dallas.

Every relationship is fraught with issues; my relationships with family and friends haven’t always been smooth, and I’m sure there were times when they didn’t like me and I didn’t like them.

A choice.

On my last day in Dallas, as I told my friend how much I had enjoyed spending time with him and his wife, I told him the high point was seeing the interaction between the two of them.

They seemed to genuinely enjoy the other’s company. The spent time together cooking breakfast in the kitchen he dreamed of having, in their retirement home they designed together. They each made sacrifices to get “their” home, the one they see themselves living in until God calls them home. They complement each other in so many ways.

They talk. They laugh.

My friend’s response to my comment about their interaction was that he really likes his wife and has liked her since elementary school. Of course, they love each other, but the like I found impressive.

They like each other.

Like is a choice, and when I grow up, I want to fall in deep like with someone – for life.

A few days after my mother was injured in a hit-and-run accident, I had a mishap of my own, one that helped me understand the value of all 10 fingers.

The day after I visited my mother in my hometown, I was heading out for a horseback-riding lesson and decided to fix a quick sausage biscuit for breakfast. I’ve recently discovered turkey sausage and had found some frozen ones at one of those monster warehouse stores.

The patties come in packs of four, and separating two from the four is simple: Pull the plastic apart. Further separating the two is a bit more of a challenge.

Enter Wolfgang Puck. Well, my fairly new and incredibly sharp Wolfgang Puck knife set.

I’m not exactly sure the sequence of events, but it went something like this: Grab the two frozen patties between my fingers and thumb, jab the knife into the center, voila.

Gushing blood indicated something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

I dropped the knife and reached for paper towels, which I wrapped around the index finger on my left hand. A glance indicated that the I almost was left with no fingerprint and might have ended up with a deformed fingertip, but for some miracle.

My Army first-aid training kicked in, and I squeezed the makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding.

Because the blood quickly saturated the paper towels, I grabbed more, took off and tossed the old. Several times.

Then, I figured I was doing something wrong. My finger was swelling and still bleeding.

Ice. … Ice stops swelling, but since I don’t like ice in my beverages, I didn’t have ice. An ice pack in water would have to do.

It didn’t.

With my hand in water, I called my health insurance company; the representative told me I would have to call a different number. When I explained that I had been bleeding for more than an hour, she looked up the number for me.

The second representative suggested I take my hand out of the ice water for fear of causing permanent nerve damage, and then walked me through the things I had already done.

Finally, she suggested I call 911. Three minutes after I hung up, the medics in their fire truck were outside my house. Oddly, they remembered me from my call months before when I thought I was having a heart attack. Frankly, I had hoped then never to have seen these guys again.

They removed my soaked paper towel, poured saline over the wound and wrapped it in so much gauze that my finger looked like an ice cream bar waiting to be dipped in chocolate. They also wrapped my ring finger, which had a gash at the tip, leaving my middle finger precariously visible. When the ambulance arrived minutes later, the fire/medics indicated they had the situation under control, advising me, as did the health insurance rep, that I could go to an urgent-care center. One was two minutes from my house. Unfortunately, it was closed, so I went to the Grady Hospital emergency room, known for being a good trauma center and usually full of folks needing care.

Two shots to the base of the finger, a scream each time, a passing nurse muttering something about Wolfgang Puck, momentary laughter, five stitches and three hours later, I headed home.

Over the next 12 days, I learned that with only eight functioning fingers, it’s virtually impossible to cup my hands after washing my face or brushing my teeth to hold water; wash the right side of my body, particularly my right armpit (I did learn that my right arm is a bit more flexible than I had known); open jars; type (I’m so accustomed to using the home row keys that I had a hard time with all letters involving the F and D fingers); wash my hair (opening and holding the shampoo bottle while squeezing the shampoo into my hand was too challenging so I learned to simply squeeze the shampoo onto my hair); and many other daily chores.

The impossible task was flossing my teeth. Ugh. I know this is gross, but I didn’t floss my teeth for 10 days.

I felt so … unclean.

I got my stitches out on the 11th day, and my index finger has become a barometer of sorts. When it feels like a razor is slicing it, I need to go indoors … and put on my coat. (Oddly enough, the Wolfgang Puck knife set is so sharp that I never felt the initial cut.)

Since the accident, I haven’t attempted to separate frozen turkey sausage patties, and I’ll put them in the refrigerator before I do cook them.

Three days after the accident, I got up the courage to touch a knife so that could add veggies to my lamb stew. Believe me, I’m much more careful now.

The best thing to come out of this situation is that I have a new best friend: the person who invented the plastic, single-use, greenish-blue thingy that has a handle with a U-shaped head and an inch-long piece of floss. While at the same superstore warehouse where I bought the turkey sausage patties, I saw them.

I bought a pack of 360.

A few weeks ago, a hit-and-run driver broadsided my mother’s car, with the accident causing Mother’s vehicle to flip several times, landing on its roof. Two things saved her life. A third closed the case.

On a Friday, hours before I was to start work, I got a text message from a sister that Mother had been in a wreck and was in the hospital. Around 10:30 p.m. the night before, she was driving home after picking up a nephew from work.

She was about two miles from home when a white or silver car plowed through a traffic light and hit her ruby red Buick on the driver’s side.

About a year ago, Mother had decided to get a “new-to-her” vehicle that would have few if any maintenance problem. She got it for a steal since my oldest brother is a car salesman.

Not only was the car in excellent condition, it had OnStar, and the service had offered a special to new owner of preowned vehicles. She signed up.

After the vehicle stopped flipping, Mother and my nephew found themselves dangling upside down. A miracle by itself, as Mother hadn’t always buckle her seatbelt. She’s gotten better over the years.

Before the impact of the collision had a chance to wear off, Sherwin, an OnStar representative was on the line, addressing Mother by name, saying he had an indication of a collision and promising to send help.

That exchange, Mother said, was just like the commercial, and Sherwin stayed on the line until help arrived. My nephew was able to escape his seatbelt but couldn’t get Mother out because her door was smashed in.

An ambulance and police soon arrived, followed by a tow truck. My nephew was seen at the hospital down the street and was released. Mother had a brain clot and had to remain hospitalized for 24 hours.

She and my nephew are OK now, but both are in pain. The insurance company totaled her vehicle.

Pain, however, didn’t stop my 75-year-old mother from becoming a sleuth.

When Mother went to the salvage company to claim the contents of the car, she found an item that wasn’t hers: the grill of a Kia, in the back seat.

Last week, two weeks after the accident and after hearing nothing from the police, Mother went back to the crash site, driving a rental car the insurance company supplied. She drove in what she considered the most logical path the hit-and-run may have taken.

She ended up at another salvage yard and went up to one of the workers, inquiring as if she were looking for spare parts. Conversation ultimately turned to Kias, and the man showed her to one that happened to have been white and missing its grill.

Since it was at the end of a row, Mother slyly said the vehicle must have been there awhile. In fact, the guy told her, it had come in so recently that it hadn’t been processed for parts yet.

Mother called the police investigator to report her findings.

Police arrested and charged the Kia owner with myriad offenses. She claimed to recall hitting something but didn’t know what.

Right. She hit something and quickly tried to get rid of the vehicle. She left the scene not knowing if those in the Buick were even alive.

I’ve heard all my life that seatbelts save lives. My mother learned that, too.

She’s also looking for another vehicle equipped with OnStar.

Ten years ago, I heard a psychologist say that every time a child saw a newscast of a plane crashing into the Twin Tower, that child likely thought every building in the world was being attacked.

Children probably didn't realize that what they saw was a rebroadcast of the planes hitting the buildings or the buildings falling down, the psychologist said.

I’m not a child, but I can’t watch the footage of the planes hitting the buildings or the buildings collapsing.

Each time I see the footage, I’m terrified all over again. I’m angry. I’m flabbergasted. I’m sad.

Mostly, I’m terrified.

Not that we will be attacked again, even though that does scare me.

I’m terrified that someone could have been so sinister as to hijack a plane and crash it into a building.

A plane.

I hated flying before 9/11. Now, I’m terrified to fly.

Yes, I’ve flown since then, but each time, I’ve been terrified.

I hate bouncing around the sky. I hate that someone I don’t know is in control of the plane. Now, I hate the thought that the plane could be hijacked and flown into a building.

Ten years ago, I was in my office, with the television on NBC’s “Today,” watching Bryant Gumbel do a segment with Martha Stewart, when the first plane hit. I remember walking into my boss’ office and telling her the news and suggesting she turn on her TV. She’s a New Yorker and knew the towers well.

I remember that federal workers were given the option of leaving or staying in the office. We both stayed but were both dumbfounded as the morning went on. I’m sure no work was done by anyone anywhere in this country that day.

A month later, my boss and others in my Army Reserve unit were on active military duty.

In November that year, I was to attend a work-related conference in Washington, 11 hours away. I drove a rental vehicle, refusing to fly. I recall sitting in my hotel one evening and seeing what appeared to be a dilapidated building in the distance. As I focused, I realized I was seeing the side of the Pentagon that a plane had flown into.

When I left the area a few days later, I wanted to take a picture of the Pentagon as I drove by. I couldn’t bring myself to look that way, let alone stop.

Last year, I did go to the Ground Zero Museum in New York’s Meatpacking District on West 14th Street. I can’t write about the experience, but I didn’t go alone. The stories, images and remnants stir raw emotions.

Go there. Experience it. Take someone you love with you.

When I fly now, I’m careful to pack only things that the Transportation Security Agency says are OK to carry on. I’m conscientious, but the type of person who would use a plane as a weapon or who would put a bomb in his underwear or his shoe doesn’t think that way.

Logic tells me that if someone is devious enough to hijack a plane or put a bomb in hidden places, they may try different tactics next time.

I wonder how carefully passenger luggage is screened. I wonder how carefully airline workers are screened. I wonder how carefully pilots are screened. I wonder if the screeners know what they are supposed to be looking for.

I also wonder how those who survived the collapse of the Twin Towers fared emotionally and psychologically. I wonder about the family members of those who didn’t survive. I wonder about the New York firefighter I interviewed who lost co-workers at ground zero, and who may have lost his own life but for being off that Tuesday. I wonder how those born on Sept. 11 celebrate their birthdays on this day so tied to terror. I wonder how long enemies will go tit for tat before the wars end.

Mostly, I wonder if I will ever feel safe flying again, or if I’ll continue to have the mind of a child and forever see that plane hitting the first building as if all buildings in the world were being struck by hijacked planes.

It’s been 10 years, and I’m still terrified.

Recently, I had a scare: chest pain that woke me up at 4:30 a.m. Then, fear set in.

All week, I had been extremely fatigued, and had had shortness or breath and a racing heart. These symptoms were not new, as I have at least two medical conditions that can cause both: borderline hyperthyroid and a vitamin B-12 deficiency.

Thus, I did not seek medical attention. One day, I laid down during my lunch break and felt a bit better. Other days, I became a couch potato. It’s amazing how much junk is on TV these days.

Did you know that Jerry Springer still has a show? (I didn’t watch it, though. Really.)

Anyway, when I woke up with pain in the left side of my chest and left arm, in addition to the other symptoms, odd thoughts went through my head: Had I pulled a muscle? Wow, I need a haircut. Should I call 911? Be sure to put on clean and matching underwear in case you have to go to the hospital. (The last one is the voice of all mothers.)

Just the day before, I had researched my symptoms and had found several references to these symptoms and heart attacks in women. Apparently, many women have heart attacks that go undiagnosed because their symptoms aren’t always the same as those of men.

Yes, there may be chest pain, but they may also only experience shortness of breath, extreme fatigue and heart palpitations. They may experience what seems like indigestion.

One thing that the articles stressed was that if you think (Think!) you’re having a heart attack, call 911.

Don’t think away the experience. Apparently, women tend to overanalyze their symptoms, which could cost them their health or maybe their lives.

Sure enough, even though I was wide awake at 4:30 with chest pains, I analyzed what was going on.

I’m too young for a heart attack. I don’t smoke. I’m not overweight. I exercise regularly. I watch what I eat. Granted, my cholesterol is borderline high, but the good cholesterol (the HDL) is very high, which, I’m told, is a good thing. I have an occasional glass of wine and lately have found a good red one that I like, and red wine is good for the heart.

I can’t be having a heart attack!

Then, I thought of other stuff, scary real-life stuff: A male friend had a heart attack in his 40s. A female schoolmate recently died of a massive heart attack. I was having chest pain. My heart was racing. I couldn’t catch my breath. My left arm was hurting.

I was alone.

I did ablution; I wanted to be sure I was clean before calling 911.

Then, I made the call and relayed my symptoms to the operator. She had me check my pulse: “Put two fingers on either side of your Adam’s apple area, and we’re going to count the number of beats for 15 seconds.”

Twenty-four.

“I’m sending an ambulance. Turn on your porch light, put your pets away and unlock your door. Someone will be there shortly.”

By the time I put on my pants and a top, my doorbell was ringing. I am fortunate that at the end of my block is a fire station with paramedics and fire/rescue specialists. (I guess I won’t ever complain again about hearing sirens at odd hours.)

In the ambulance, but still outside my house, the paramedics gave me four baby aspirin and then three rounds of nitroglycerin tablets under my tongue. As one explained that nitroglycerin opens up the arteries and allows more blood and oxygen to get to the heart, I thought of work. Yes, I thought of work in the back of an ambulance while having what I thought was a heart attack.

What I thought about was the Plain Writing Act, which calls for all federal agencies to write so clearly that everything can be understood the first time. No more bureaucratic language. Nothing so convoluted that the average person can’t understand it.

This paramedic took technical medical terminology – sublingual coronary artery dilator, or something like that – and broke down the explanation into language so simple that I understood it the first time.

That’s the government’s challenge – well, at least one of the challenges.

Anyway, by the time I got to the hospital, my blood pressure had dropped from 130/90 to 90/67, which is in the normal range for me. My pulse was around 60 rather than almost 100. I was still scared but no longer fearful.

Doctors conducted a battery of tests, including a stress test, where I thought of the episode of “The Cosby Show” when Cliff had to have one and had great difficulty staying upright on the treadmill.

I passed all the tests and was diagnosed with noncardiac chest pain. That just means I had chest pain, but it wasn’t related to my heart.

Then another question surfaced.

How do people who go to the hospital by ambulance get home?

In my case, by train and on foot. Exercise is good for the heart.

Seems odd these days to stay at any hotel anywhere that doesn’t have in every room a flat-screen TV, Wi-Fi, cable service, and at least a bedside clock/radio (or iPod docking station, in some cases).

Yet, I find myself at such a place, by choice.

Well, I figured I might not have Internet connectivity or cellphone service. I did, however, expect a TV.

Here I sit, though, at Pisgah View Ranch listening to crickets and birds chirping (That sound crickets make is called chirping, right?). Katydids are abuzz, almost in a mating call and response.

It’s as if time stood still here in these mountains of North Carolina.

In fact, on the property is a two-room log cabin built in 1790, according to the sign. My cabin is slightly larger, is better constructed, and has a bathroom.

When I pulled up, my GPS said, “Your destination is on the right.” That’s the last time my phone had a signal.

I was greeted by the cook, who immediately wanted to discuss my dietary needs, in particular, what I wanted to eat for dinner. She advised me that the dinner bell would sound at 6 p.m.

As I read through the waivers and charges, a wrangler from the barn called down to say she would be ready in 15 minutes to take me out on the trail. Wow, even before I finished checking in, my ride was ready.

Nothing fancy here, and I know some of my friends would not fare well here. A bed, two chairs, a dresser, a nightstand, a luggage rack and two hangers. And windows that actually open.

This is my kind of place – and at least for 24 hours, I’m the only guest here. Talk about service.

I dated a self-professed hotel snob, so when we traveled, we tended to stay in the finest hotel in the city, and although I do remember being impressed that the bellhops and maitre des knew him by sight and called him by name, I don’t recall a chef or cook or anyone taking our meal order as we checked in.

Being here reminds me – in an odd way – of my stay at New Orleans’ Le Pavillon about two weeks after Hurricane Katrina struck the Gulf Coast but before the water from the broken levies had fully receded.

At the time, most hotels were either closed or were open only to law enforcement officers, emergency workers, utility companies employees and the like.

A fellow Army Reservist and I volunteered to travel to New Orleans to help tell the stories of Reserve troops and their mission there to support the 82nd Airborne Corps and others, as needed.

Our first night there, we slept in our respective vehicles, me in a rented SUV, to keep from sleeping in tents. The second night was in tents with other soldiers. The next few nights were at the Four Seasons Hotel in suites where the carpets had been pulled up because the pool had flooded.

Then, while searching for hotel availability online, I found Le Pavillon, which, before Katrina, featured nightly peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches in the lobby as a nighttime snack.

The price per night was exorbitant, but it was within the per diem rate. The website required full payment up front to reserve the room. We booked two rooms immediately.

When we arrived, we were greeted by police officers hired to live in the hotel to guard the valuables. They told us the hotel was not open to guests, but when I explained how I found the site, I was told to call back later to talk with the manager.

For about two weeks, my fellow Army Reservist and I were the only guests at this once five-star hotel walking distance to the French Quarters.

At Le Pavion, however, no one asked me what I wanted to have for breakfast or any other meal, as the kitchen was not fit for cooking meals for guests. I ate MREs: meals ready to eat. The other soldier and I each had been given cases to take with us.

At Pisgah View Ranch, after my trail ride – on an amazing (and privately owned) Missouri fox trotter named Gypsy that one of the wranglers let me ride because I wanted a gaited horse – I went back to my cabin and freshened up, and then headed to the main house, the one spot on premises with Internet connectivity.

After all, I needed to let someone know exactly where I was, and since I couldn’t call, email was the next best thing.

So, for the next few days, I’ll enjoy this piece of heaven and the sounds of nature, punctuated by the occasional pickup truck (everyone here seems to have one) and barking dog.

I’ll also enjoy the comforts of home … from back in the day, including the mockingbird, my natural alarm clock that woke me at 6 this morning, and the homemade biscuits and oatmeal made just for me.

Let me just get the good news out of the way: Smirk is home.

Since July 3 or 4, she has been in the backyard of a house walking distance from mine. I had driven the neighborhood, even driving on that street, looking for her on the Fourth of July, rather than spending it with family.

Some kids saw her walking up and down the street and coaxed her into the yard. The grandfather bought her some food, and she stayed in their yard.

She’s home.

Now, the bad news: She was being held for ransom.

Shortly after the news went off, but while “Jeopardy” was on, my doorbell rang. It was the neighborhood body repair guy, who had taken the dents out of my truck but who had left part of the hood unpainted. For the third day in a row, he had come to the house around the same time, this time to say he finally finished the truck, but adding that he had found my dog and wanted the reward.

I instantly went from frustrated that yet again he had disturbed my “Jeopardy” time to anxious. Each week since the Chihuahua/Terrier mix has been missing, I’ve been notified of a sighting, each time being a false one.

I didn’t dare get my hopes up again, even as I grabbed my purse and keys.

Two minutes later, we were in front of the house where he said he had seen Smirk.

On the porch were children and a man. I handed the man the flier with Smirk’s picture, and he acknowledged that he had my dog and said the children had really taken to her.

He was prepared to give me my dog until he flipped over the flier, which I had folded, and saw I had been offering a reward. He asked how much was the reward. I told him I only had $20. He countered by asking for $40. Again, I told him that I literally only had $20 and that I was giving it to the body repair guy, who stood nearby, because he was the one who found my dog. He told me I could come back and get my dog after I brought back the $40.

Then, the man started talking about how the children deserved something, especially since they had a field trip the next day. He said the money shouldn’t go to the body guy. The two men argued over who should get the money.

I just wanted my dog, and told the man so. His response was that I should just call the police, then, so that the police could settle the matter.

Really?

When I asked where was the dog, he said she was in the backyard, and as I headed toward the gate, he said he had a Rottweiler back there, too.

All I could think about was this monstrous dog chomping down on this 8-pound critter.

The man then told me that I couldn’t have my dog back until after I gave him the reward money, that the other guy didn’t deserve it because he hadn’t cared for the dog. He said he would let me see my dog, then I would have to pay him, and then I could take her.

He was holding her hostage, and I told him so. He denied that this was a hostage situation and asked someone to bring Smirk to the gate.

She rushed forward when I called her and tried to get out, but the man quickly closed the gate, insisting on being paid.

Hostage situation. Ransom demand.

He then let her out, and I did something that most folks would know is uncharacteristic of me: I rubbed my dog, repeatedly. I talked to her and checked her for scratches, fleas and the like. I walked her around to the porch so the children could say goodbye to her, and then I opened my wallet and gave him the two $10 bills I had. I certainly would have offered the hostage-taker even more had he not insisted on having money in exchange for the return of my dog.

Once we got in my truck, I told the body repair guy I would give him something on Friday.

I had not seriously considered how much I would offer as a reward for Smirk’s return, but it certainly would have been more than $20, so between now and Friday, I’ll come up with something. Maybe I'll even send a thank you card to the ogre who took care of her.

Recently, I realized that words spoken by those we care about can change our lives – even if the words hurt our feelings.

The first time I can recall words changing my life was when I was in seventh grade. One of the signs that I was nervous, and sometimes bored, was that I bit my nails.

I haven’t a clue how I ever scratched an itch.

One day, my mother walked up to me as I stood in the kitchen biting my nails and said, “No man will ever marry you with nails like that.”

I’m sure her intention was simply to persuade me to stop biting my nails.

What I heard was this: “No man will marry you with nubs and such ugly hands.”

Almost immediately, I stopped biting my nails. I did eventually marry, and I did have longish nails at the time, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with the wedding.

A few years later, Mother, one of my sisters and I were walking home from church, my sister and I up front. Suddenly, I heard a cackling. My sister and I turned, and my mother explained that she had just noticed that the two sets of legs in front of her looked like bird legs.

What I heard was that my mother didn’t like the way I looked.

Yes, my sister and I both were quite skinny at the time; we had inherited our father’s genes, and he was a tall and skinny man, so Mother hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.

The end result was that my sister and I began a competition to see who could develop the shapeliest legs, with Mother judging at least once. That competition continued into adulthood. She had runner’s legs; I had cheerleader legs.

It’s been awhile since we compared sizes; I’m sure I would be the winner if we competed today.

The other day, though, my mother said what might have been among the most painful words of my adult life.

“I see why you and BLANK broke up; he got you pregnant and then didn’t stick around.”

In one of those moments I wasn’t sucking in my stomach, Mother noticed it.

I have always had a flat stomach and recently noticed that I have a bit of a gut.

My workout certainly has changed over the past couple of years.

At one time, I alternated between horseback riding, yoga and Pilates in the morning, and bike riding and horseback riding in the evenings.

Every day, I cleaned my horses’ stalls, which entailed shoveling horse poop, and cleaning water buckets and refilling them, and hauling the shoveled poop out to the manure pile.

At one point, I also walked regularly around Washington on my lunch break, finding shoes that helped me maximize the trek. I even recruited others to walk with me.

My workouts nowadays consist of grooming my horses a few times a week, and walking from the house to the cottage behind my house for work. I haven’t worked out consistently in months.

My legs, shoulders and arms are still toned. But my core? Not so much.

Hours before my mother’s pregnancy utterance, I had ordered a 10-minute workout DVD set from an infomercial to combat the protrusion.

Mother is the most thoughtful, caring and generous person I know, so I know she had no intention of hurting my feelings.

In fact, the reason we were together for me to even hear the pregnancy utterance was because she had bought a play set to put up in her backyard so that her great-grandchildren would have something to do when we had family gatherings at her house. She really doesn’t have room for it in her yard, so she gave it to me so that my grandchildren can use it when they visit.

Again, I know Mother wasn’t trying to hurt my feelings, but she is the most influential person I know. Later, I couldn’t help but wonder how my words have affected her.

At lunch on the day of the utterance, I asked mother the name of the brown beans that I had gotten from the buffet. Pinto. I told her that I had never liked dried beans growing up because my mother didn’t quite season them well enough but that I had had beans cooked by other people and found that I liked them. Yes, even though I was talking to her, I said, “my mother,” as if by not using “you,” I was softening the words.

What Mother may have heard was, “You weren’t a good cook.”

I shouldn’t have said it. I know better. I make my living dealing with words and know they are powerful.

I called Mother to apologize. She had not taken offense: “Why be offended about something you can’t change?” was her response.

Good question.

Recently, a friend jokingly chastised me for “demanding” daily communication. The more I thought about it, I realized that I don’t demand that from my friends. It is, however, required of my partner.

My thought is that if I’m in a relationship, my partner and I should be involved in each other’s daily lives, particularly if the goal is long-term, perhaps marriage.

Another thought occurred to me, though, as the result of that conversation: I have some wonderful friends, friends I may talk to a couple of times a year, or a couple of times a month, or a couple of times a week, but almost never daily.

That’s OK. Every time I talk to these friends, the depth of the friendship is ever apparent. We connect deeply each time, as if we were in touch daily.

I’ve met these friends in various places: Some were fellow soldiers; others have horses. All share my value system.

One friend and I have a rule (albeit loose) that four days should never pass without us talking. He’s one of my closest friends.

For months, another friend called me weekly on the same day and sang a made-up song that I named “It’s Friday.” The song was so hokey and sweet that I would sometimes let the call go to voice mail just so I could record it. Hearing him singing the song always made me smile, and I so looked forward to Fridays.

Over the past three years, the Friday song has come less frequently. The conversations were infrequent. I was told later that the infrequency had more to do with me being in a relationship.

I realized years ago that close friends are invaluable and that I wouldn’t date anyone who felt threatened by the friendships.

In recent weeks, I’ve had two opportunities to hang out with two of my favorite people.

In one case, while I was traveling, my truck died. During the six hours the truck was in the shop, a friend who was also traveling, drove 30 miles out of his way to spend the day with me. The mechanic’s bill came in higher than I had expected, and my friend whipped out his credit card and paid half. Half.

I was overwhelmed and overjoyed at the generosity of my friend. Generosity with money, but more importantly, generosity of his time. The memory of that moment still gets to me.

In the second case, I spent hours on a porch swing chatting with a friend. The moments were bittersweet. She’s leaving the states heading home and has had to wrestle with letting go of things she loves dearly. I’ve wrestled with being happy that she’s finally getting to go home and being sad that we won’t be able to sit and chat this way any time soon.

She and I are both strong women, but we’re close enough to allow our vulnerabilities to show to the other.

Oddly, even though we have this bond, we may only talk a few times a year. I’ve promised to visit her and her family, and even if it’s three years from now, the connection still will be strong.

The connection, not the frequency of the conversations, is what makes true friendships last. That’s what I value and will never take for granted in my dearest friends.

The Egypt I remember was peaceful, chaotic and dirty.

When I arrived at the Cairo airport and boarded a van bound for a military exercise, I noticed immediately that the country was dirty. I don’t mean filthy. I mean dirty. As in lots of dirt. I had never been in a desert country and was surprisingly taken aback at all the dirt. No grass. Some palms. Lots and lots of dirt.

I noticed on the ride to Alexandria that the buses were stuffed with passengers, and I remember wondering how all those people could fit. I imagined the bus groaning under the strain.

I noticed huge cone-shaped structures behind many houses and later learned that those were pigeon houses and that the droppings were collected and sold as fertilizer.

In preparation for the trip, women had been given a briefing on how to behave in a Muslim country. No shorts when away from the camp. Long skirts and long sleeves only. In September. That meant lightweight, cotton attire.

We were told that Egyptian men didn’t think highly of American women, that they thought us of loose morals and inferior. Thus, we were never to engage the men individually and were never to speak to them directly. I must say, though, that much later, our driver said he was offended that I kept talking to the American men, who served as my mouthpiece, rather than directly to him.

Upon arrival at our Alexandria camp on the Mediterranean Sea, I again found dirt, oddly being watered by one of the Egyptian men who maintained the grounds. A senior soldier ventured that by the end of our 30-day exercise, we would see grass in that area.

The camp, we were told, was a resort for Egyptian military officers. “Resort,” however, was a misnomer by U.S standards. Think more of a low-rent apartment compound in the United States, and put it on the Mediterranean.

No screens, so we used mosquito nets over the windows. No carpet. Dust everywhere. A small shower, and toilet with a bidet.

Where I grew up, we didn’t have bidets. Out of curiosity, I had to try it. Once.

Because my unit was to transport supplies and equipment for the other units participating in the exercise, we arrived before most others did.

I learned while we awaited their arrival that military veterinarians are charged with ensuring that water is safe to drink and to swim in. We were there about a week before the veterinarians arrived, and they pronounced the sea safe for swimming only days before we were to leave.

The veterinarians inspect the restaurants to let us know if the food is good for consumption. Who knew? I was just happy to know that the pizza place was approved, and that the pepperoni was beef rather than pork.

Our days were routine, and my job was to keep the servicemembers informed of military policy and news, and of news from home. I produced a daily two-page newsletter that included college football scores, a crossword puzzle cut and pasted from a book, and news that I got from the news feeds on ships at the port.

So routine, that a soldier I met from Detroit told me he was bored.

“Think about it,” I told him. “You’re bored in Africa. Your buddies are bored in Detroit.”

The mention of Africa seemed to catch him off guard. For some reason, he had not considered that the Arab country was part of Africa.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m bored in Africa. I’m in Africa.”

The most excitement I had at the camp, since we all were supporting the troops in the exercise rather than actually fighting in the mock battles, was the knowledge that since I had not been given a computer, my one floppy disk used to produce the newsletter infected every computer it encountered.

The information technology gurus didn’t like me much.

Occasionally, we could venture into Alexandria, where I learned that even if the vehicles barely worked, the horns always were in perfect condition and used regularly; walking around there was similar to New York, with constant bumping (sadly, and an inappropriate grope by a stranger); and that seeing people of the same gender holding hands just meant that they were close friends or family.

I learned that headlights are used only to acknowledge approaching vehicles and that they otherwise were not used. After all, that's what street lights were for, our driver told us.

Additionally, I learned that bottles are reused, being washed out with lye before each use. Sadly, one woman in my unit drank her beverage down to the white stuff in the bottle and then turned the beverage over to the veterinarians for analysis. She lived.

With less than a week left in our stay, we got word that we would have to leave the country. Not because of unrest there, but because Congress had not approved the new budget for the fiscal year. Our orders would have kept us in Egypt four days into the new fiscal year, and that was not permitted.

We had to be on U.S. soil by midnight on Sept. 30. So much for the trip to Cairo to see all the pyramids, the Sphinx, the Nile, the papyrus shops, the boutiques.

Then, we got word that a handful of us had a special mission in Cairo early the next morning, that we had to transport something to the headquarters element there. We had to rush to get there but didn’t have to rush back.

Mission quickly accomplished, we at lunch at the restaurant of a five-star hotel in Cairo with a view of the pyramids at Giza. Then, we went to the pyramids, where I gazed in awe at the height of just one corner block of stone at the Great Pyramid of Khufu that dwarfed the 6-foot-3-inch, long-armed man who was in my group. Some of the stones each weighed as much as several elephants.

One block.

While at Giza, I learned that Egypt has more than just the three pyramids I had learned about in school.

Because I had a camera, a camel driver approached me to try to entice me into mounting his animal so that he could take my picture. For a fee. I had no interest, and I let him know. He showed his dismay by trying to run over me with his camel.

We heard how the nose of the Sphinx had been shot off during a war. We visited a perfume shop, where we had to sample hot tea before we could sample the scents.

In the boutique, I saw garments that cost so little that I bought three. After the shop owner told me the price, I immediately agreed. Then, I remembered that I was supposed to negotiate, so I did. I bought three outfits, including one formal gown, for less than $100. Here, each one would likely cost several hundred dollars.

Outside the shop, a boy noticed that I had on sunglasses that he liked, sunglasses I had paid $1 for. He wanted to trade a set of souvenir plates for my sunglasses. Done. Quickly. He later chased the van to try to rescind the deal.

Within 24 hours, my group was at JFK in New York. Egypt was a memory.

Oh, but the senior soldier was right. The daily dirt watering had left us with green grass.