I was scared today.

We returned to The Cinerama for a second attempt to see The Matrix Reloaded. I was scared that anything I might eat or drink would increase my chances of another esophogeal reflux attack. I was scared that every little muscle twinge or feeling of warmth in my chest was the first sign. I was scared that my fear would trigger an attack.

Last Sunday, the ED resident told me that esophogeal reflux feels just like a heart attack, except that the pain doesn't radiate. (The first time I had one, I did think it was a heart attack.) I read later that a vasovagal reaction (which accompanies my reflux attacks) feels just like a panic attack. I will agree with that.

But I made it through the movie just fine. I agree with Kurt that it suffers from what most movies in the middle of a trilogy suffer from - the need to act as a bridge that continues the first movie and sets up the third. Therefore, most middle-movies tend to drag. And this one did drag in places. But Reloaded did all right by me. The "burley brawl" didn't impress me as much as I expected it to. (Maybe because I was expecting to be impressed.) The freeway chase did amaze me, though. It's funny - I knew the chase was mostly computer-generated, but I found myself cringing at each near-miss, nonetheless.

Our microwave has been working every day this week.

There was a flyer in our apartment building, from one of our neighbors, asking for any information relating to the break-in of his car last Sunday.

Phillip's been driving into work every day this week. Whenever he drives in, I ride with him, and then walk from his desk at 42nd & Roosevelt to my desk at the Medical Center.

(I used to wait for the free shuttle bus, until one day I discovered that it isn't as far as I'd once imagined. As big a fan of public transit as I am, I usually enjoy walking more than riding.)

Tuesday and Wednesday, I followed my typical walking route: a bee line down 42nd Street, then across busy 15th to the University campus, then a zig-zag semi-random walk through campus to the Medical Center.

Yesterday, I tried a new route. I turned off 42nd at University Way, past not-open-this-early shops, then walked around the base of Schmitz Hall, then up the pedestrian bridge over 15th to campus.

This morning, I tried a newer route. I turned off 42nd at Brooklyn Avenue. I walked along Brooklyn, past a University building of unknown purpose, and past the intriguing Ethnic Cultural Center. Brooklyn Avenue, I discovered, is heavily tree-lined between Lincoln and Pacific. The morning air was already heating up, but the shade was cool and tingly. I passed scary loaves of white bread being loaded into Stevens Court. I crossed busy Pacific Street and followed Brooklyn until it ended at Boat Street. I turned onto Boat Street, along the cool breezes from Portage Bay, and thought about what a lot of plant life there is in this part of town. I passed a team of boat builders, and wondered what it must be like to work at a job that actually produces something you can see and feel and smell. Then I entered a doorway in the back of the Health Sciences building, and realized I was sad that my walk was over.

I had a rare treat on my ride home today.

A few seats ahead of me, a man was singing an African-sounding song. He was just sitting there, singing to himself, loud enough for me to hear him clearly, four seats back, but not loud enough to disturb anyone. (Although I could see that a few other riders somehow managed to be disturbed.) All the way from the Medical Center to Thomas Street, he sang non-stop. I could tell from his confidence and the rhythm of his song that he knew his song and he knew what he was singing - he wasn't just throwing out random i-yi-yi-yi's. Whatever he was singing sounded like a plea to somewhere far away, but not in a sad sort of way. It was rather beautiful. I wanted to let him know how much I was enjoying his music, but it was slightly crowded on the bus, so it wouldn't have been an easy matter to scoot up there and give him a friendly nod. I hoped he'd still be on the bus when my stop came, so I could thank him in passing, but his stop came long before mine.

And he was gone.

On some days, I just can't get in the mood for the same old game of 20 questions that gets repeated at least a dozen times a day.

"Hello," I say to the person standing in front of the check-in counter of our clinic.

"Hello," says the person.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so," answers the person.

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I don't know if I'm in the right place, or not."

"All right, let's find out. Do you have your medical card?"

"No. I forgot to bring it."

(This is the time the phone starts ringing. I put the caller on hold.)

"OK, what's your name?"

"James."

"And your last name, James?"

"Smith."

"Yes, you are in the right place."

"Do you see me on the schedule?"

"Yes. You're scheduled for nine o'clock. You can have a seat."

(I start to pick up the call on hold.)

"Do you need this?" asks Mr. Smith, as he hands me a printout of his appointment - which includes his name, medical number, and time and place of his appointment.

The title of this blog refers, of course, to my commute. I use my daily commutes to do something other than rush to work and rush home. My commutes are never something I feel the need to just get over with. Most days, I actually look forward to them. In the mornings, I take a peaceful walk across campus. I look at things, think about stuff, and, yes, feed squirrels. In the afternoons, I catch up on my reading, or my writing, or I just relax.

This morning, the walk felt especially nice, despite feeling unwell (still). It was warm in Seattle, so I didn't have a coat pocket to keep a bag of peanuts in. So, I carried the bag in my hand. That may have been a mistake. I tossed a peanut to a squirrel. The squirrel picked up the peanut and looked up at me. Suddenly a dashed line shot across from the squirrel's eye to the bag of peanuts. An exclaimation point flashed above the squirrel's head. I'm used to squirrels following me from a distance as I cross campus, but this squirrel actually chased me. As fast as I walked down the path, the squirrel ran faster after me. I tossed the squirrel two more peanuts. That stopped the squirrel. (Yes, I know I was just encouraging the squirrel's agressive panhandling.)

I won't be feeding any squirrels today. I'm taking the day off from work to recover from yesterday.

Phillip moved the crockpot, and the microwave doesn't work anymore. Riddle me this.

We skipped church this morning to see The Matrix Reloaded at The Cinerama - the best movie theater in Seattle, or anywhere within a hundred miles of it.

As I was backing out of our narrow parking spot in the back of our apartment building, keeping my eye on the right mirror passing inches from that supporting post, I nearly hit one of our neighbors, who was stupid enough to walk across the path of a vehicle backing out of a narrow parking spot. A Seattle Police car arrived in the alley. We saw that the moron neighbor had gone out to meet the police office. (Another car broken into?)

I got as far into the movie as the part where the guy with the knife approached Neo, when I had one of my worst esophageal reflux attacks ever (except for the very first one). I left the theater in the back of an ambulance. Phillip and I spent the afternoon in the University Medical Center's Emergency Department. When we got home, I slept until it was time to feed our sugar gliders.

After I fed the sugar gliders, I decided to feed myself a pot pie. The microwave oven wouldn't work. The only button on the key pad that did anything was the "Stop/Reset" button, and all it did was beep. I moved the crockpot (Phillip was cooking a pork roast) from in front of the toaster oven to in front of the microwave. I put my pot pie in the toaster oven, and the microwave started beeping 7s across the display. I pushed the Stop/Reset button, and the 7s stopped. I tried the microwave again, and the only two buttons that worked were the Stop/Reset and the 7. Ten minutes before my pot pie was done, I decided to try the microwave one more time. All the buttons worked as the should. (Did the heat from the crockpot have anything to do with it?)

I'm wondering if we shouldn't have skipped church.