I’m so glad July is over. With the exception of a great time in Oklahoma with Woody Poets, it’s been a long, rough month in which I’ve not only barely traveled, but I’ve barely left my house between record-breaking heat and a new layer to my migraine misery.
The good, though: I had a lovely outing with the formidable Mama Dee, one of my longtime local friends. When I’m sick and make it known publicly, she’s the friend who immediately offers assistance, which I prefer to take in the form of going to lunch when I feel better.
Because I haven’t set foot into the Missouri side of St. Louis much in recent years, I feel a bit like a tourist when I do. When Dee told me to pick a place for lunch last week I wasn’t sure exactly where to begin at first. Then I remembered that I hadn't been to Telva at the Ridge, which is an abomination since it has three things I love: café vibes, tons of fresh flowers (it’s in a nursery), and an award-winning female chef.
Did Dee and I have lunch, then dessert, while hanging out gabbing for nearly three hours? Why yes, we did. Did I take home enough pastries for the next day? Absolutely, because I wasn’t skipping sour cherry scones.
The vibes were perfectly on point, made even better by Dee being friends with damn near everyone and getting showered with love. I was happy to pick up her splash-back.
I was also happy to discover something sloppy that I love. Recently I had a conversation with the bestie, Suzie, about my dislike of Sloppy Joes on all levels from Manwich to “elevated.” They’re always too sweet for me. The exception to the rule now is the moussaka-spiced Sloppy Mustafa Toast at Telva, loaded with chunks of tangy white cheese and a beautiful runny egg.
Dee and the cashier didn’t have to recommend the portokalopita to me for dessert, because I had been thinking about it since the night before when I did my ADHD pre-study of the menu. Cake soaked in orange syrup, topped with whipped cream and phyllo crispies? Um, try and stop me. And yes, I got it with a cappuccino even though I’d had the iced Euro Cream caramel and vanilla latte with my lunch. Dee might have gotten caffeine poisoning by proxy. Apologies.
Because of some road closures and detours, I got an unplanned tour of Webster Groves, the inner-ring suburb of St. Louis where Telva is located. It was a good reminder of how I take great things in my backyard for granted. When I find neighborhoods like Webster Groves in other cities—walkable, loaded with interesting small businesses, artsy, friendly—I start making relocation plans. And yet this one is only 24 miles from my house, and I hadn’t been in ages. What is wrong with me?
Bonus: The drive to Webster Groves had something delightful that I’d only see in St. Louis. On a billboard for a MAGA-loving regional steak burger chain, someone had climbed to great heights to remove the G from “100% grass-fed beef.”
Dee asked me if I’d seen it within minutes of us taking a seat.
Girl, not only did I see it, but I’d already texted friends about it!
On the way home, she reported that the G had been replaced. Such a shame.
I considered another trip to Webster Groves last night. Diesel Island, the local outlaw country cover band, was scheduled to play at the Frisco in the same neighborhood. Suzie and I have talked about hitting their monthly gig there since last summer. Plus, twice in July I had to bail on our plans to celebrate her half-birthday because I had puking migraines. I thought that would make for a pretty great night after all the postponements.
Turns out it was just as well I forgot to ask. The gig was cancelled due to storms, and I was cancelled due to the fourth run of puking migraines of the month.
I’m recovering today, and at least yesterday’s nausea wasn’t nearly as severe as the last two spells. The first spell didn’t knock me out like these last three. I’m watching my hands shake as I type from the combination of low blood sugar, dehydration, and exhaustion I’m actively trying to undo. I’m getting there. Returning to my usual two giant mugs of coffee this morning and keeping them down did wonders. As did eating something that wasn’t white rice, banana, or Jello.
I wasn’t terribly surprised to have a nauseous day this week, because I started vestibular treatments on Tuesday. We’re still tweaking the intensity so they don’t throw me into migraine hell like this. And what “this” level of hell is appears to be migraine gastroparesis, a condition that should be considered a human rights violation. I’ll spare you the details other than to say that this isn’t normal vomiting. It’s vomiting that has a personal vendetta. Appointments have been made to get some help with this bullshit.
In the meantime I hope to be back to normal tomorrow for some tourism in my own neighborhood. My friends Alicia and Paul are hosting a house show for Official Claire, with my pal Edward opening. I’m hoping that yesterday’s spell, like the others, means I have a week and a half or two of feeling mostly-okay so I can go. And I’ll report back because right now, going two miles up the road sounds like a pretty epic journey.
Wanna contribute to my Liquid IV fund?