Saturday, December 25, 2010


Ah, traditions. We have a few. Most I can do without. Like the the blow-ups on the lawn or Hubby dressing up as an elf. (Yeah.) But there is one...a very special one...I couldn't do without.

Every holiday season, in the week before Christmas, we pack the kids in the car and head down to Boston. We visit the Frog Pond. We walk the Common and run through the lighted walkways. We pet the police horses, do a little shopping, and of course, grab a Starbucks eggnog latte, or ten. And then we work our way over to the North End, for it's there that Mike's Pastry lives (and can I just say, if Walmart is Hell on earth, than they are Heaven on earth.)

So, cooler in hand, we buy our Christmas chocolate chip cannolis. Enough for me and Hubby, and one for Santa. Because Santa, he doesn't want stupid cookies. No. He wants chocolate chip cannolis (heavy on the powdered sugar) from Mike's Pastry. 

And this has been the way. And all has been well. Until three years ago, when we walked into Mike's Pastry and there were only 2 chocolate chip cannoli left. Panic erupted. But what can you do? So we grabbed the last two and ran for the NH border.

That night, as we set out the milk and carrots, Bob looked at me concerned. 

"What are we going to do? We don't have enough cannoli for you and Dad and Santa."

I turned, pulled the box out of the fridge, and handed it to Bob. 

"Here," I said. "Dad and I don't need them. Santa can have these."

That's when a blood-curdling shriek erupted from Hubby, and he flew into the kitchen and snatched the box out of Bob's hands.

"You can't do that!" he said. "How can you waste our cannoli on Santa Claus like that?" He spun and thrust them back into the refrigerator. "Santa will just have to find his own cannolis. These are mine!"


I know.

Have no fear. I recovered the cannoli from the fridge and we left it for Santa, and he was incredibly pleased with our sacrifice and generosity. And Hubby, well. I figure one of these days, maybe, someone, like me, should take pity on him and have "The Talk" with him. He's getting a bit old for this...

So I did. And I thought it went well. Really well. Until last night.

You see, this time of year a local radio station has young children call in and speak to Santa*. It's delightful, hearing their excited voices as they count off their wish lists and assurances they will leave lots of cookies and milk and carrot for the reindeer.  It's also entertaining, these extensive wish lists and how Santa promises that if they've been good they'll get exactly what they wished for Christmas morning.

Apparently it's also perplexing, because as Hubby loaded the dishwasher while listening to that night's broadcast he turned to me, his face contorted in confusion.

"I don't get it," he said.

"You don't get what?"

"How does Santa manage to get them everything they want? And how does he know what they will be getting? He's just one guy."


I love that man. I do. So much. For being so wonderful and kind and believing in magic long after others have grown cynical to life.  Lonnnngggg after. I don't have the heart to explain it again. And really, maybe it's better that way.

I wish you all a Christmas filled with love and hope and faith, and magic and the knowledge that sometimes it's just okay to believe long after others have stopped. I wish you all lots of chocolate cannoli too. Especially me. I wish it on me. A lot.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

*Parents call the station and all requests are prescreened by staff before Santa actually speaks to the child. Therefore Santa is capable of speaking quite confidently on what each child will be receiving...

Friday, December 24, 2010


Twelve years ago:

I ignored the doctor as he spoke, at how his holiday-themed bow-tie was blinking. I blocked out the twittering interns clustered at the end of my baby’s bed. Instead I stroked his tiny, delicate fingers, careful to avoid the snaking tubes and wires.

“Let's see how he's doing later this afternoon. If there's some improvement. But right now I can't promise yet that you'll be home in time for Christmas,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I acted like his words rolled off me. Pretended I was strong.

“Do you want us to get your husband for you?”

After three days in the hospital he didn’t need that. He deserved his break. However brief.

“No, I’m fine.”

They shuffled out. The monitors beeped, then hushed. I stared down at my son, at the blood-stained bandage swathing his head. Only six-weeks-old, he was a stranger to me. I was still getting to know this fragile creature, and the bruising and swelling from his cranial surgery made him indistinguishable. It left me too scared to pick him up, so afraid I’d hurt him further.

My breathing hitched. I shoved my chair back and stumbled for the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind me, and I slid down the cold tile wall as tears began to spill. I ignored the dark, the stench of bleach, and cried.

I thought of my other son, at home, waiting for his baby brother. The mounds of unopened gifts piled under our tree. How I dreamt of my baby’s first Christmas, and all of us together. Nothing had turned out as I’d hoped.

A timid knock startled me, and a wave of shame and guilt rocked me. I held my breath. Waited. Another stronger, more demanding knock rang out. I gave up and climbed to my feet. My back twinged in protest. I swiped at my tears and stepped out.

Santa Claus stared back at me, smiling. A group of teenagers were bunched behind him, huddled around my son's bed, my hometown’s name scrawled across their shirts. Our high school’s choir.

Santa wrapped his arm around me as they begin to sing. I burst into tears again. 

The carolers faltered, but continued. Just softer now. A frown crossed Santa's face, and over them he said, "What's wrong? Do you not want us to sing?"

I shook my head and wiped at my tears again. "It's not that," I finally said. I pointed to the nearest choir member's t-shirt.

“It's that town, that's where I live there. It's home. That's all."

He laughed. Relieved, I supposed. “Oh, that's wonderful! I bet you're going home for Christmas, aren't you?”

All I could do was shake my head again, and he stepped over and engulfed me in an enormous bear hug of fur and white beard and jingle bells.

 “Well then," he whispered in my ear, "it looks like Santa’s brought home to you for Christmas instead."


As I wrote yesterday, we did actually make it home in time. It's never ceased to amaze me,though, how life has shown over and over that even when my hope wanes, when my faith is shaken, things still always work themselves out in the end. Maybe not always the way I wanted or expected or even liked, but it always, always, works out in the end. 

I wish you all a Christmas Eve filled with hope and faith, as well a life overflowing with both.

Thursday, December 23, 2010


If Thanksgiving is a time for appreciativeness, then Christmas is about hope. At least it has been for me.

This year I'm overwhelmed with it. Hope that this cold will FINALLY go away. Hope that Santa will deliver a signed purchase and sale contract on that new house for us. That this home search will end, once and for all. (And you would to if you'd seen the things we've seen: houses full of birds and life-size female mannequins dressed as superheroes, swings hanging from ceilings. Yes, you'd be praying for it to cease too. Truuuuusssssttttt meeeee.)

As I sit here waiting for the seller's final answer after countering the counter of our counter offer I can't help but realize how different this year is--how different my hopes have become.
Twelve years ago today, at this same exact hour, I was sitting, waiting. Soon the doctors would be making rounds. Soon we would know if our newborn son Bob would be going home for Christmas or not. I wished for it with all my heart--that he would be healthy enough to do so now that he was out of the ICU. But it was bittersweet, my hope. And it seemed so shallow.

Only days before he'd undergone neurosurgery. I'd sat there as well in the waiting room, frantic. My baby was only weeks old. It was only days before Christmas. In my protected lifetime, I'd never had to go through something so difficult, and it felt like my soul was about to crack under the fear and terror I was feeling. (Of course, I didn't know then I'd be back in that same room or same ICU with my oldest son. That this would become my life. But then the universe is kind that way, no?)

A woman was waiting across from me. Her face looked so familiar. Finally she came over and introduced herself. It turned out she was my old neighbor. Though she was a few years older, we'd grown up together, lived only houses apart. She'd once been a beauty pageant winner, the leader of the popular girls, someone I'd always been in awe of. She was still beautiful. Almost glowing.

She explained her seven-month-old son was undergoing surgery for a cancerous brain tumor. His second in less than twenty-four hours. The fifth of his short life. His brain had swollen, dangerously so. They weren't sure he'd make it. 

I remember staring at her. At how calm and together she seemed. At the pride that oozed from her as she described her baby and five other children. At her hope that he would pull through this surgery as he had the others. At all their hopes that the boy would live long enough so they could spend his first, and his last, Christmas Day with him.

But she'd made peace with it all. No one ever promised us we'd get a tomorrow, she'd said. So you live and love each day as hard as you can and just hope for that tomorrow.

Her hopes came true.

So did mine. However shallow and bittersweet I felt them to be--hope is hope is hope, after all. We made it home for Christmas, my husband and I and our tiny baby. Just as I'd dreamed. And I learned something I'd never forget, something that would get me through everything and anything that came into my life from that day forward. Even houses full of mannequins. 

Know that someone is struggling more, hurting more, losing more. Always. Be grateful for everything you have, and I mean everything, for it is so precious. Always. And have hope. No matter how dark or hopeless the situation seems. There is hope. Always. 

Especially at Christmas time.

I wish you all a hope-filled holiday season. I wish you all a hope-filled life. And meanwhile, I shall continue to hope that Santa shows up soon with that signed P&S before I explode from impatience--because I'm starting to suspect I really might if we don't hear something soon... 

Friday, December 17, 2010

Things I Hate:

Sinus infections and colds. ARGHHHHHHHH.




Things I love:

Angioma Alliance's newsletter. Get the latest one here. And cold medicine. I adore cold medicine.


Thursday, December 16, 2010

Don't You Just Love Good News?

Me too, and this is indeed wonderful news.

Hurrah for Elizabeth on her successful surgery! (Go here.) And our best to her and her family as they start their journey down the road to full recovery. YAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!

Friday, December 10, 2010

Today Is The Day

Just crawling out from under the covers to whisper you all a sniffly and snorty and sickly hello. It has been no fun, this week. Not even donuts could make me feel better right now, so you know I've been feeling realllyyyyyy under the weather.

Like REALLY bad.

I haven't gotten to emails or bills or laundry or yes, even the blog. The only thing I've attended to are my cold medicine stocks. But today, today I needed to poke my head out because today is December 10th.

I know that day doesn't mean much to most of you. But to Elizabeth and her family, it's a very important day. The day that marks a new journey for them. Because today is the day she's having surgery to remove her CM.

They're in my thoughts and prayers today. I hope you, too, will keep her in yours. To learn more about her and her story you can check out her blog here. She's named it "Thankful For Every Day." All I'll say is exactly.And can I also say, for the record, is there a single more adorable child to ever grace a blog header????

My best to them all. They're in incredible hands.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Children

The children's stories are always the hardest for me. Perhaps because they seem the most complicated cases. Perhaps because they hit too close to home. Perhaps because it all just seems so damn unfair. But what never fails to strike me when I hear these tales is how courageous and strong and hopeful they are, these children. Regardless.

This is one such story on YouTube here.

I remember when my son was first correctly diagnosed. It felt like we were alone. Like no one else knew or understood or cared. No one was going through what we were.

Was it true? No. Not really. I know that now. But then things have changed, of course. Everyone has a computer, Internet. They can speak out through blogs and videos and emails. It's easier now to discover you're not the only one.

Easier, however, is a bit like saying you're almost there when you've just finished mile one in a twenty-six mile marathon, isn't it? You've gone far. You just haven't gone very far, and you definitely haven't gone far enough.

The trick, I suppose, is to keep putting one sneakered foot in front of the other until you kick off from exhaustion or finish the damn race.

Our thoughts, prayers, best wishes, and thanks to this family for sharing their story and speaking out.

Let us keep running, eh?

Link provided courtesy of PattiG.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving!

We here at AS want to wish you a wonderful Thanksgiving. But now you must excuse us. We have to go don a pair of stretchy pants and gobble til we wobble. We highly suggest you do the same!

Sunday, November 21, 2010

A Few Announcements...

In case you haven't noticed, I've added some videos to my sidebar. If you scrawl down, as in wayyyyy down on the right, you'll see that not only do I have a rotating video bar for YouTube but that I've also permanently placed videos by PattiG, Project 2020, and a few others beneath it. I just hope you find them as helpful and inspiring as I did.

And speaking of PattiG, I'd say it's way past about time we officially placed her on Angiomas Suck's People Who Rock list here. Agreed?

We can't thank you enough, Patti, for all you've done. You rock. You completely do.

Friday, November 19, 2010

The Project 2020

Have you met Kristie York yet? Please do.

After being diagnosed with a brain tumor, she suffered a stroke as a complication of the resulting brain surgery. She's also the creator of the Project 2020--saving Oregon, one story at a time.

It's one of the most amazing and inspiring websites I've ever come across.

Check it out here. Check out her blog here.

I loved this video. The idea that we learn so much about ourselves from how those we care about introduce us. I'm going to listen better next time, learn about myself next time. And I have to wonder--am I any fun to be around?

Are you?

Are You Fun To Be Around? from 2020 project on Vimeo.

Embedded video courtesy of The Project 2020. Thanks to PattiG for pointing the way.

Monday, November 15, 2010

We've Got More Holiday Gifts Ideas On The Brain...

In more ways than one.

For my three men, who all sport major cranial scars thanks to their surgeries, I'm getting each one of these shirts cause it's so true:

Buy the t-shirts here yourself.

You can also get this one here. It's a nice touch how you can get it on thong underwear. Ahem. Thanks PattiG for the link:

Or there's this one here. I think it's my favoritest.:

And then there's this one, which I have to thank Crystal for enlightening me to its existence. It says, "My brain is bleeding..." Get one yourself here:

"My Brain is Bleeding" Ash Grey T-Shirt

They also all come in tanks, sweatshirts, water bottles, and on and on. And because they always say charity should start at home...I'm thinking I should get me one of these:

Donut Whisperer T

Whatta do you think, hmmm????

Friday, November 12, 2010

Free Issue!

Go here for a free November/December 2010 issue of Stroke Connection. I just love that article title--"Of Bubbles and Force Fields." Can't wait to read it!

Check out the moving video here by the same title. Thanks to PattiG for the links!!!

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Falalalala Lala La La...

Yes! I'm still talking about presents because it's the season for candy canes!!! And cookies!!!! And Santa Claus!!!!  

Wait!!! I mean giving!!! It's the season for giving. Which means it's time to do that whole dreaded holiday shopping thing...

But wait, now there's a better way to shop than the mall, I swear. It's called iGive, and shopping through their site means a donation for your favorite cause. You know, favorite causes like Angioma Alliance

Your first purchase using the site means a $5 bonus for them, and a percentage of every sale after that goes to them as well. SQUEEEE!!!

You can shop at over 730 stores like Amazon, Travelocity, eBay, Home Depot, and many many more. And oh yes, there's also exclusive coupons and those infamous free shipping deals we love so. 

One can only hope they have bakeries on there. Handy dandy fyi: donuts make great holiday gifts. *hint-hint*

For the 411, read more at iGive here and Angioma Alliance's blog here.

Friday, November 5, 2010


I feel like a Peep smashed under the Wheel of Life.

Granted, it's a huge overreaction on my part. But I'd been told my son's neurosurgeon was retiring next year. It wasn't true, thankfully. Or, well, not exactly. He's stepping down, but he'll still be seeing patients for some time. I was so ecstatic I could have tackled his secretary through the phone when she clarified things for me.

The thing is, it's now occurred to me that he will retire one day and that we'll have to switch surgeons. As in concretely and truly going to happen.

Don't get me wrong. It's not unexpected. We certainly figured this would happen one day, and we'd never argue the man did not deserve to do so. No one gives of their time and and experience and talents as he does. No one.

Nope. No one.

And I know everything will be fine. We've entrusted our two children's brains to him. Their futures, their lives. Our everything. So I know we can trust him to refer us to a new, just as wonderful surgeon once he moves on. And we've been reassured by those of you out there who've gone through similar shifts in care and tell us all's been well.

I just didn't think it would ever really happen. Crazy, I know. But the man is Superman in my heart. My brain is just telling it to snap out it now, these delusions of mine.

It'll be okay. I know it will. (You all said so, so it must be true. )And this is probably a good thing because now that I know this is inevitable, in my heart as well as my mind, we can plan for it. Be prepared for it.

And that fact makes me feel better--being a scha-mushed Peep is not fun. Not at all. But now eating a sch-mushed Peep...that's a different story.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Why, Thank You!

A huge thank you to Marguerite Zelle at The Kindle Blog Report for her review of our AS blog here. She gave us a wonderful "Yes!" Huge thank you's to everyone who's reviewed us at Amazon (here) too. We luff you so.

Our mission is to spread awareness about cavernous angiomas. As long as there's no cure, we have to fight the damn things. But people can't fight something they don't even know exists, right? So every review, every link, helps get our message out there, and we can't tell you how much we appreciate your help.

So thank you. Now...for

Remember, we're on Kindle here. And for our Christmas gift this year, if you have an Amazon account, we'd love you to consider dropping us a review as well. It costs nothing...and, would make us reallyyyy happy. Love us, hate us, it's all good. We just need people to fight. :)

For Those Who Asked...

Puh-leaze. DD is no contest for the mighty Starbucks eggnog latte. None. At. All.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Share Your Story...




I don't know what I'm more excited about!!!! The chance to share our stories to help spread awareness of CCMs thanks to the American Association of Neurological Surgeons (AANS), the small monetary honorarium that could be donated to my favoritest charities, or that Starbucks is selling eggnog lattes for the holidays again!!!!!!!!!

I jest. But come on. I wait all year for those lattes. Just saying.

Anyway, my plan? I can sit in Starbucks with my laptop, sip my delightful eggnog latte or four (SQUEEEE!!!!), and enter. Maybe you should too!

The stories. Not the lattes. Unless, like me, you dream of them. Every night. Until they appear again, like magic...

But I'm digressing again. Here's how to enter:

The American Association of Neurological Surgeons (AANS) is seeking stories from neurosurgical patients of all ages to be submitted electronically on its user-friendly online Patient Story Submissions page. The goal of this initiative is to help educate people about the role of the neurosurgeon in treating a wide range of medical conditions and diseases.

Have you or a family member undergone successful surgery to treat Parkinson’s disease, congenital deformities, hydrocephalus, tumors of the central nervous system, low back or neck pain, stroke, cerebral aneurysms, head injuries, or any of the many other conditions treated by neurosurgeons? If so, consider submitting your story and help the AANS reach out to the public. Parents may submit stories on behalf of their children, and family members may submit stories on behalf of immediate relatives.

Submissions will be subject to editorial review by a panel of neurosurgeon experts. Patients whose stories ultimately get posted on the Web site will receive a small monetary honorarium as a token of appreciation. Accepted stories may also be featured in press releases during Neurosurgery Awareness Week, Neurosurgery Outreach Month, or other public awareness campaigns.

Visit to submit your story!

The direct link to this page:

To read past stories that patients of AANS member neurosurgeons have shared, please visit

(Thanks to Miss PattiG for passing this along. Above courtesy of AANS here. Red highlighting mine because those parts kickass. Sorry. But they do. Kick. Ass.)

More Books...


“The book you don't read can't help.”

-Jim Rohn

Really remember:

“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.”

-Mark Twain

“BRAIN SURGEON,” by Lawrence Shainberg
“GIFTED HANDS: THE BEN CARSON STORY,” by Ben Carson and Cecil Murphey

"Brain Storms: Surviving Catastrophic Illness," by Les Duncan

Wayyyyyy down in the lower right sidebar is a list of links to books relating to CCMs. I'll be adding these, but in the meantime, you can check those out too. And if you know of any I haven't included, want to suggest any, or stumble on something out there, I'd love to hear from you! Thanks!!!

(List provided courtesy of PattiG. Thx. U rock. Completely and wonderfully.)

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

We Had Such Hopes, But, Alas...

Halloween had so much potential this year. Arctic temperatures ensuring few trick or treaters and mounds of leftover candy. A marathon of Bob's and my favoritest television show evah--Ghosthunters. Hubby, at home and completely in charge of the candy handing-out duties, allowing Bob and I uninterrupted ghost time. But the most critical detail? We had us a perfectly layered candy bowl.*

Potential tends not to pan out in our lives, though.

First, Bob and I kept getting shushed, ruining our t.v. marathon. Yes. Shushed. By Hubby and BBB. "Be quiet," they said. "We can't hear the television over your constant talking".



We were practicing. To be ghosthunters! We're quite good at it, too, if I do say so myself.

Me: OMG. Did you hear that? Did you?
Bob: Wait, hold on. Listen.
Me: What about that? Did you hear that?
Bob (knocking on table): If you can hear me, copy my knocking.
Me: OMG. Did you hear that? Did you hear that knocking?

Second, those damn trick or treaters went postal on us. Sleet, snow, wind, arctic temperatures, they would not be kept away from our candy bowl. *sigh*

Third, we should never have trusted Hubby to dish out the candy. Never. Did he hand it out personally? Did he limit the amount of candy he let them take, making sure tons would be leftover at the end of the evening? No and no. "Help yourselves," he said. "Take as much as you want." Nope, he had to be really generous.


Fourth, I might have accidentally knocked over the perfectly layered candy bowl. I got excited, what can I say? I thought I heard a ghost, but it turned out to be only the cat. Triple disappointment. The candy bowl was ruined, the cat is many things, but he's no ghost, and it was a perfect waste of cash.

Finally, thanks to Hubby being, you know, NICE, the natural selection process of allowing the kids to pick candy for themselves left us with almost empty bowl of candy. And what WAS left? Whoppers. Guck.

So. Yeah. No ghosts. No good leftover candy. I can only hope your Halloween was more candy-filled. But I did I get to spend the night with the world's nicest guy, I suppose. :) So, all's good. Except:

Bob: How come on every episode of Ghosthunters the ghosts supposedly drain the ghosthunter guys' equipment batteries [sucking up the energy in order to manifest] yet the camera guy's equipment is always perfectly fine?

Huh. Good question. Theories? Anyone?

*Slip Bob some cash and he'll discretely layer the candy bowl. You know, placing our favorites on the bottom, and the yucky stuff, like Almond Joys, on top. It's most genius, ensuring the good candy gets left. As long as Hubby doesn't bust us.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Happy Halloween!

We here at Angiomas Suck wish you much candy and little in the way of nasty trickery.
Now you must excuse us...we're off to indulge in some Boston Screams!!! Mwahahahahaha!!!!


Thursday, October 28, 2010

Caring Bridge

Handy-dandy FYI for today: Banging your head on a desk burns 150 calories an hr. So go nuts. 

It's hard. Staying in touch with everyone. Whether it's a surgery, a medical crisis, or just regular status updates, it can be a huge challenge reaching out to all those you want to connect with. It seems no matter how hard I try, I never juggle it well.


But now there's a new way to stay connected--Caring Bridge. Through a website,  phone and mobile apps, text messages, and even Facebook, you can reach out to everyone you wish.

Does it work? I don't know. I haven't used it yet. But I plan to, and I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime I figured I'd share it with you all too. It seems like it just might be an incredible way to disperse updates and reach out.

To learn more you can go here, and watch the vair cool video.

(A special thanks to Patti for letting us know about this!)

Monday, October 25, 2010

One Moment...

Yesterday--Sunday--it rained on us, Hubby and me. A cold, raw rainfall. The sort that makes your bones ache and hope sink away. Not that it mattered. Our hopes had sunk out of sight long before the drops began to fall. 
We'd spent the day trying to find a new house. Time is ticking, and we need to buy something (anything!) soon.  We'd started with an open house, and then driven around for what felt like an eternity (and I still contend truly was). Nothing panned out. Worse, everything was dishearteningly wrong. Except the rain. At least that came through for us.
I convinced Hubby to finally forget it and give up. The search. The rain. Our sunk hopes. Instead we stumbled into a local bakery, and oh, it was bright and warm and smelled so wonderful. We hunched over two pumpkin cream cheese whoopie pies that evaporated in no more than two seconds-how that happened, I just can't explain. Then we held hands and sighed. Happily. We'll find a house. Hopefully. But it's not every day that bakery makes pumpkin whoopie pies. Oh, no. They are even rarer than the perfect house.
Last week there was a contest. Smith Magazine was collecting stories about one moment that changed their readers' lives for a new book.  The Moment. GalleyCat--a website for publishing industry news--asked people to share their own particular moment at this Facebook link. Serious, silly, short, or a doorstopper,  they wanted to hear others' tales. A free book was even on the line for the winner.  (Check it out.)
I'd been thinking a lot about what I would write, if. Perhaps my moment would be when I found out about BBB's diagnosis. How that changed my entire world, but not before tipping it on its end and then punting it up to the moon and then beyond far past the stars into nothingness, only to let it splat to the ground. Perhaps.
I believe the more likely choice would be the moment, so many months later, when I stood in his hospital room and stared down at the city streets below, at the honking, the yelling, the scurrying crowds, and I laughed. Angiomas aren't a gift. They are nothing to rejoice in and nothing to giggle over. But there is a gift in discovering how simply unimportant yelling and honking and scurrying really is.  No, I'll never forget that moment. 
Which is why we ended up in a bakery. Which is why I figure eventually we'll find a house. Because it's not important. Probably I could have entered that moment. But then I wouldn't have been sitting in a bakery with my husband, holding hands and eating whoopie pies. And really, who needs that. 

So, what was your moment? And when's the last time you snuck off and did something truly important?