This is not a whiny emo post about how horrible it is to be allergic to the air I’m trying to breathe.

No, this is an insightful post about carts, horses, chickens, eggs, and biofeedback.

Today I awoke with a runny nose that signaled the beginning of allergy season. I’ve not been dutiful nor diligent in taking my allergy meds (Flonase, Claritin, and the occasional shot of Albuterol) because of late I haven’t needed them. But this morning I dove into them at 7:00am, because I sensed that a full-on allergy attack was impending.

The meds didn’t work fast enough for my liking. My nose ran so fast that it was running what looked to be pure salt water. It tasted like that too, because it ran so fast at times I couldn’t help but get it in my mouth as I struggled to clean the front of my face.

It was 3:00pm before the assorted meds actually DID anything. By that time I’d added Sudafed and some caffeine to the mix. I finally dried up.

I was exhausted, but happy.

I sat down and triaged my email for a couple of hours. It needed doing.

Mid-triage I began to wonder why I was so sad.

Sad?

When did I get sad? I felt like a good friend just died, and I’d been mourning him for hours.

Oh, yeah. The runny nose.

Physically, the sensation of having had a severely runny nose for eight straight hours felt almost exactly like having bawled my eyes out at a funeral earlier in the day. And since that ACTUALL HAPPENED a couple of weeks back, I seem to be taking emotional cues from my physical state, even though they’re completely unjustified by current events and my state of mind.

On the one hand, this is weird enough and cool enough that I want to write about it. (Done!)

On the other hand, this is extremely frustrating. My dried-out eyes and nose keep tricking me into feeling sad when I’m not. They are inducing a sort of mournful lethargy, and oh, look… the day is now gone. GRRRRR…

So. Allergies make me sad. And that makes me angry. (But part of me can still stand back and be very objectively fascinated by the whole thing.)

I have some nova-style smoked salmon, which is essentially raw fish with a bit of smoke to it. My oldest daughter asked me to show her how to make sushi.

What I know about making sushi can be summed up in two words: EAT OUT.

What I can guess about making sushi is a much larger body of information. I got to feeling creative this afternoon, so I prepped the rice (which I cooked wrong, burning the bottom, but the rest of it was sticky enough so it’s okay), and made some rolls. Two of them were inside-out rolls (that’s the last time I bother with that) wrapped around some clam-and-mayo salad. One of them was a regular roll wrapped around smoked salmon.

With the help of Chef Google I made some tempura batter, batter-dipped all three rolls, and deep-fried them, just like they do for some rolls at my favorite sushi place.

What can I say? Sushi is comfort food, and deep-fried things are comfort food, so the plan seemed very comfortable.

Worse still, it WORKED. Kiki loved it. I loved it. Patches and Sandra liked it.

The best part is that the salmon in the middle was still raw. Mmmm…. raw.

My friend Hal passed away today. He was checked into the hospital yesterday with stroke-like symptoms, and never woke up. I wanted to rush over to the hospital to see him when I heard, but they weren’t allowing visitors.

I wanted to be able to say goodbye. It’s hard not getting that.

Hal was around 30 years older than I am. We worked together at WordPerfect Corporation — he was managing a support team that neighbored on my own box in the cube farm, and I remember having lots of fun talking with him. He was bright, and quite wise.

A few years back he moved in to my cul-de-sac, and I loved having him as a neighbor. My kids love playing with his grandkids, and he and I sometimes had the chance to sit on his porch and speculate, muse, and discuss.

Back in July of 2004 he lost his son Ben to suicide. I remember blogging that in LJ, and I remember talking to Hal at length about tragedy, and especially about losing my own parents long before I expected to. I remember stumbling across a memory of Ben almost a year later, and wondering whether I’d stepped on a landmine, or into a patch of flowers.

I remember the dutch-oven chicken Hal made last year for our cul-de-sac’s barbecue. It was some of the best chicken I’ve ever had, largely because some of it was on the raw side of undercooked. I guess I’m a sucker for raw food… I wouldn’t let them throw mine on the stove.

I’m going to miss Hal, but I’m sure that over there on the other side he’s meeting up with old friends and long-lost family members whom he has been missing for much longer. It’s reunion time, and I’ll not begrudge him that.

I’d like to think that he’ll get the chance to talk to my Dad. Hal’s death reminds me of how much I miss my parents. I’m not in any hurry to go see them, mind you. I’ve got too much to do here. I just wish I could talk with them about stuff from time to time. Hal was a good enough friend that he got to stand in for them occasionally.

Can’t see the keyboard through the tears. Time to stop.

So… today I turn 40.

(I’ll give the leap-day jokes a miss.)

Statistically, this is probably a little past the half-way point for me, at least in terms of life expectancy. Since my dad only lived to be 56, and his dad died sometime in his 60’s (maybe early 70’s) I can be accused of optimism if I call 40 “half-way.”

In terms of physical ability I’m also past the half-way point. Oh, I may be able to push back the clock a little bit through healthy living for the next twenty years, but there’s no going back to age 25 (not without blood-nannies, or something similarly techno-miraculous.)

All of this might be kind of depressing. It’s also a very inaccurate way to look at things, since the only person for whom any of this is true is me. It’s a very selfish perspective, and it’s not worth dwelling on. Let’s consider some others:

My oldest daughter has had 12 years of shared experience with me. Even if I only live to be 56, this birthday is still a couple of years shy of the half-way point from her point of view — more if you account for the fact that she doesn’t really remember the first three.

My youngest son has had 5 years with me. If I live to be eighty (look! Optimism!) then the times we’ve already shared as of this point represent only one-ninth of the times we can share going forward.

Sandra and I have enjoyed fifteen years together. If we get another forty, then obviously today isn’t anywhere near the half-way mark.

I suppose the oldest of my siblings, who joins me in her forties next year, can claim that this is pretty close to half-way for the two of us, but she’s the only person I’ve known for that long (okay… there are aunts, uncles, and cousins OLDER than me for whom the halfway point has long since fled… but let’s not dwell on that right now.)

And now let’s consider you, the reader. How long have you known me? Maybe five years? Perhaps eight?

I plan to keep cartooning up until the end. If I hold true to that (and the indications are that I will) then you and I haven’t even hit the 20% mark. I may be “mid-life,” right now, but I’ve got decades in which to continue building worlds in my head and then telling stories about them. This ride isn’t half-way over. It’s barely started.

That’s my happy thought for my Birthday this year.