ahahahaha

Now, I don't give astrology much more than the occassional bemused smile, but I just happened to read today's horoscope and nearly fell over laughing.

Your horoscope for January 31, 2010
Have you resolved to give your house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom?
Why, yes, actually.
You may have gone to the grocery store and brought home every conceivable type of cleaner.
Ditto.
You're determined not to quit until the house is spotless.
That's kinda my personality.
This is fine, but there are two cautions: first, use natural cleaners. Chemical substances could seem especially harsh today.
It's cool. I bought Latex gloves.
Second, don't try to do it all now.
?
Take care of the worst, then leave the rest.
But I need the prohibited chemicals to take care of the worst!
Tomorrow is soon enough!
You're right. I'll just put my feet up and rest up for tomorrow.

in the backyard

While driving under grey skies, the sun emerged. I cut my errands short in the hopes of playing around with my camera in the backyard - I love the eeriness of sunlight just before a storm.

This was as far as I got.


"Seriously? A garage door? You have me."
"I'm perfectly prepared to bark until you look at me."
"Oh, thank you thank you thank you."
"See? Much better than still life."
"Besides, you really need to work on your action shots."
"No offense. I'm just here to help."
"We might have to do this for a while, actually."
[Non sequiter: "Mamma! Put some clothes on!" ]
"I know how much you love my ears. You're welcome."

He did give me a new favorite photo. I shot this without adjusting the aperature but rather like the result.

Prayer request

Please pray for Wendy. She suffered a seizure yesterday and is presently undergoing tests.

Questions about going vegetarian/vegan

I had quite a few people email me or leave comments about going vegetarian or vegan after this post, and I'm just going to respond to all of you here. Two months later. Bear in mind that I'm probably not the typical vegetarian, for reasons that will become clear as you read.

Did you grow up in a vegetarian household?
Not even close. There was always a diverse supply of meat: mostly venison from bow-hunting and ostrich and reindeer from a local humane farm. Standard fare like chicken and beef was rare until my mother found a shop that carried hormone-free fare, although my she would often serve something like weird like rabbit or emu and say, "it's chicken." Plenty of nature on the walls and in my mother's closet, too.

Do you dislike meat?
Even as a toddler, I hated meat, especially the texture. I have since learned that I inherited a rare and otherwise benign condition that causes my body to hold onto iron, resulting in very high iron levels. Thanks, Grandma! Analagous to how even a dedicated pre-menopausal veggie lady will crave red meat a few days a month, I suspect this likely explains my aversion. It also means I am rather friendly with the folks at my local blood donation center - a little bloodletting here and there is obviously preferable to iron-lowering drugs.

That said, I so love a hearty pot roast and look forward to making beef bourgogne this weekend.

Why did you go vegetarian?
There are, I think, three reasons to go vegetarian: religion, ethics, and health.

Many faiths restrict certain foods or recommend certain diets. Even where a vegetarian diet is not a rule, some individuals choose it out of convenience. For example, because of the prohibition against mixing meat with dairy, some observant Jews will simply choose to avoid all meat.

I suspect that most people go vegan/vegetarian for ethical reasons. We all know that many meat operations do not raise, feed, or slaughter the animals in a humane way. The same can also be said about, say, the care of cows and chickens who provide us with milk, cheese, yogurt, and eggs. I kinda feel that if you're going to cut out meat because you feel bad for the animals, you might as well stop consuming dairy products as well...and no leather, either. It's all the same principle, isn't it? There is also a second environmental/economic facet emerging - briefly, it is more efficient to produce plant foods than meat foods, and maybe those cows are putting holes in the ozone layer.

I have no answers as far as ethics. Sorry. I love leather and cheese and my mink-trimmed gloves.

That leaves health.

It is generally accepted that a meat-free healthy diet is healthier than meat-containing heathy diet. Yes, I know there are caveman diets out there, but let's stick to the mainstream stuff, shall we? Regular consumption of red meat has been linked to a whole host of unpleasant, life-shortening conditions. Regular consumption of veggies, fruits, healthy plant fats*, and whole grains has been linked to all sorts of pleasant, life-extending benefits. I eat primarily vegetarian for health. You've probably already concluded I don't do it for the ethics. I also never got up and went vegetarian. I simply eat what I like - which just happens to not be meat.

Now, I will sometimes eat meat. It isn't very PC these days to say this, but I believe that, save for an allergy or religious conviction, eating whatever your host has prepared with a smile is a hugely important Life Skill. My work life involves a lot of eating out, and not all restaurants have even a single vegetarian entree. I'm loathe to being That Person with all sorts of dietary requests, especially in a professional environment where (usually) being the only female and the only person under 40 presents enough of a barrier to fitting in. On the plus side, though, I've learned that even when a catered event asks you to pick between beef or salmon, you can call ahead and request a veggie entree. It is almost always much better than the meat dishes, though, so be prepared to share! Don't do this at a wedding, but definitely consider it if your work-related event is in another country.

What would happen if your future husband were a meat eater?
He would eat meat, I imagine. With limited exceptions, what other people put into their bodies doesn't particularly concern me. Obviously, I'd like my spouse to (1) live a long healthy life and (2) maintain a nice BMI - and I expect my spouse would want the same for me. That means that most meals will be healthy and take into account our individual caloric requirements. Though I rarely eat it myself, I do grill up a mean steak!

Again, this is easy for me to say because I'm not motivated by vegetarian ethics. In general, I think that if someone has a strong conviction about anything - faith, saving the trees, not eating meat - she should tailor her dating life accordingly.

What athletes are vegan/vegetarian?
Mr. Universe Bill Pearl, Robert Cheeke, Desmond Howard, Martina Navratilova, Edwin Moss, John Salley, Bill Walton, Robert Parish, Paavo Nurmi, and Chris Campbell are a few of many who are reported to follow (or have followed) at least a vegetarian diet.

Do you rely on protein bars or protein powders?
Yes, but for mostly good reason and a little bit because I'm lazy. When I was working, many meals were taken in the car and a smoothie (soy milk, protein powder, berries, yogurt, and greens powder) was easier to eat than something like a cheese and hummus sandwich. A protein bar can be tucked into a briefcase and nibbled discreetly, unlike a plate of quinoa. In addition, my blood sugar can plunge in mere seconds, making a quick, neat, calorie-dense snack a necessity. I like Promax protein bars and Larabars, which are vegan and raw and yummy. I also eat a lot of almonds. Neither Promax nor Larabar is paying me, but they should with the amount of business I give them.

Have you lost weight?
I'm not trying to lose weight, but replacing some or all of your meat with something lower in calories is one way to lose weight. You have to do it right, though, and keep in mind that weight loss is largely a matter of calories in/calories out. Snickers bars, cheesy poofs, beer, soda, and tobacco are all vegetarian. If portion control is a challenge for you, then yes, switching to something that is filling but less dense in calories - spinach tossed with a little garlic, lemon, and olive oil or veggie soup instead of a saucy steak or cheeseburger - is a fantastic way to lose weight. Most fruits and vegetables have a low calorie-density; meats do not.

How frugal can a vegetarian diet be if the cost of produce is so high?
It can be relatively inexpensive - even in the winter - if you shop properly. Stick to in-season produce and don't buy anything pre-cut. Off-season, visit the freezer aisle. At my grocery store, a big bag of frozen spinach and medium-size bags of broccoli, peas, and carrots goes for under a dollar. I could probably do better price-wise at Wal-Mart or a warehouse club, but they are inconvenient for me. Frozen berries, pineapple, and mango are cheaper than fresh and reasonably priced at Trader Joe's. Beyond that, I am fortunate to be able to shop at a year-round flea market with cheap produce stalls. I have a large chest freezer and stock up when there is a sale. I also live off my garden in the summer - something I can accomplish in a tiny yard by using grow boxes. Remember that if you buy more grains, legumes, and eggs and less meat, you will likely have more to spend on produce. Do a little comparison-shopping, too. It takes 30 seconds to glance at a grocery circular. Finally, I suggest that getting your RDA of produce has a heckuva ROI!

Does it gross you out or offend to go to a restaurant and have people at your table order steak?
Not at all. Again, not PC to say this, but I firmly believe that anyone who is offended by what someone else is eating needs to grow up.

Do you have tips for making the switch?
1. The fastest way to guarantee that your veg kick will last a week, tops, is to go out and load up on tofu. That stuff is awful. Unless you marinate the heck out of it and fry it or hide it in a smoothie, you won't like it. If you have, have had, or are at risk for certain cancers influenced by estrogen - like breast and prostate cancers - you should be aware that there is conflicting evidence as to whether soy prevents or causes cancer...or both.

2. Treat meat as a side - not a main course. No need to cut out meat completely unless that is what you want to do. Or just use less meat. Instead of a steak per person, slice up half a steak and serve over a salad, finely chop half a typical serving of chicken into a soup, or sprinkle bacon over a bean soup.

3. Explore faux meat products, but don't view them as a necessity. Personally, I love textured vegetable protein and garden burgers (which, unlike veggie burgers, don't strive to iminate meat). The rest of the stuff is hit-or-miss. Some of the meat-imitating products - sausage, bacon, etc. - are packed with salt.

4. Pick up a few veggies cookbooks from your library or browse for individual recipes online. If a "tasty veggie entree" sounds like an oxymoron to you, a cookbook is a must.

5. Find a nice friendly spice shop or explore the spice aisle. Especially if you're not used to eating plain veggies, learning how to spice up bland foods is a must. Try to do it without salt or much butter if you can. I use garlic, lemon, red chili pepper flakes, fresh basil, chives, pepper, thyme, and parsley a lot in my kitchen.

6. Be mindful of protein - but also realize that most Americans believe they need much more protein than the average American needs.

7. Experiment and have fun!


* Unless that eggplant is baba ganouj, in which case the speed at which I can polish off a to-be-shared-sized appetizer will terrify amaze you.
** I guess I could do a whole post on fats, but remember that your brain is largely cholesterol. Cholesterol-lowering drugs, for example, often cause short-term memory issues for that reason! Your brain needs fat to function. Your body needs fat to absorb certain vitamins and minerals. And fat doesn't make you fat - eating too many calories does that.

1. I'm messy. Really, really messy. I do ok until something happens - usually a mad search for a specific article of clothing - and then it is Hurricane Allison. I lose it. All I want to do it tiptoe around the piles of stuff, crawl into the one free chair, curl up, and suck my thumb. I am still suffering from C.H.A.O.S., big time. (That's Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). People are always suprised to learn this as I have lovely modified Type A personality, a sterile and totally organized work area, and a penchant for cleaning and organizing other people's environments. I'm tempted to find My Root for this problem, partially because I'm a "why" person and partially because all that Rootin' around will let me avoid cleaning for a little while longer...

2. I am embarrassed and a little ashamed to say that I have developed a strong addiction to the ridiculousness that is Jersey Shore. Thank you, Hulu, for such fine programming available at my convenience. Snooki and I are actually quite similar: short, long dark hair...well, that's where the similarities end, actually. I'd still like to have a little pet Snooki, though.

3. If I ever have a girl, she's being homeschooled until age 40. Boys will throw down and get over it. Girls are a million times worse.

4. I watched Julie & Julia around Christmas. I had no clue Julia was such an interesting person with such an interesting life! I bet we would have been good friends. A very dear friend of mine also watched the movie and also felt the same way. While I wish I had that wonderful, warbly voice and leave it at that - I don't much care for French food or butter - my friend is obsessed with (1) learning to de-bone a duck and (2) making beef borgonone. Neither of us is quite sure how to pronounce the latter, but I do love pot roast...which is saying a little something something as I rarely eat meat. I had the great joy of helping her select a large dutch oven last night and will hopefully have the great joy of trying out a special bread recipe in it!

5. Speaking of foodery, I've been making dog food from scratch for about a month and rather enjoying it. It all started when I ran out of their food over the holidays and didn't feel like driving in the cold weather uphill both ways in the snow to the only pet store in a 20-mile radius that sells our brand. The plus is that I know they're eating well. The minus is that they love it so much that I caught Jack trying to open up the fridge.

6. Coco'nut had a birthday. Like Jack, she is also ten years old. She spends most of the winter miserable and huddled under a blanket, but I did pull her out for a play date.


7. Hope your week is off to a good start!

If I'm not around for a little while, it's because I have a few housekeeping matters to attend to.

Picture credits.

vintage jack

I have put myself on FlyLady's CHAOS plan.

That's Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome.

And look what I found! Mmm, I smell puppy breath!


Ok. Back to reading the Sunday paper snacking Watching Jersey Shore cleaning!

OFV #3

OFV: Get me outta here!
OFV #1: When you gotta go...
OFV #2: Delusion

I don't like to see anyone needlessly suffer. I'm a helper and a giver. I'm a doer and a problem-solver, though I do know when to propose a Plan of Action...and when to listen, when to offer no more than a shoulder and tissues, and when to keep my mouth shut.

I struggle with the mouth-shutting part, but the very good Lord practically pries open my jaws and applies a generous amount of superglue whenever I am around my immediate family. And when I do speak, the tone miraculously comes out perpetually light, even, and calm.

The day after Chistmas, my father arranged to have my brother's tire and car looked at by a mechanic friend. All we had to do was remove the flat tire, put on a temporary donut, and get it to the mechanic's - a 15 minute drive - within 4 hours before he closed shop for the weekend.

Returning from a morning walk with Jack, I found my father running around the house in a mad panic, looking for a missing car jack. "Why not just call AAA?" I cheerfully asked as I filled a water bowl. He gave me such a pained, miserable Look that clearly said, "making a 2 minute phone call is infinitely more stressful than doing this myself." The Look was 0% "I'm a man; AAA is for pansies" and 100% "making life more difficult keeps my heart beating." I let it go. My mother suggested that my brother should help look, as it was his car. A string of expletives followed and my mother returned to her breakfast. I waited until my brother went outside to smoke, did an unsuccessful search of the basement, and asked my mother where else I should look.

Again, I'm a helpful sort of person. And, in any case, I'm pretty sure that helping someone look for a lost item is sorta kinda what family members ought to do.

She gave me an identical pained, miserable look and launched into a 5 minute lecure on how none of this was going to work, the mechanic was closing in 4 hours, and there was no decent solution in sight.

I waited until she was done, giggled and said, "Mom, I understand, but all I want to know is where I should look." Another 5 minute lecture that failed to produce an answer. I again made the wholly unreasonable suggestion of AAA and was promptly told to shut my mouth as I was stressing everyone even more.

Eventually, the jack was found and my father ordered everyone but my mother outside to help. Now, the car is a small Civic...but it was pointed nose-down on a steep driveway. We three childdren tried several times to lift up the front a few inches so my father could put up the jack, and the car barely moved. I said, "hey, Dad, if we can't lift it we can always call AAA." No response save for the kind of patronizing look you give a toddler who gifts you his favorite toy car when your real one gets totalled. My mother came out to help lift too, and though I kept myself calm and composed on the outside, I just about burst out laughing inside. Yeah, the strength of an 80lb woman is clearly going to make a difference.

Finally, finally, finally, and with a pained, miserable look my father decided that maybe AAA isn't so entirely unreasonable after all. A tow truck arrived within 20 minutes. I ventured that as we didn't know that there wasn't damage to, say, the car's steering or suspension, perhaps we ought to have to car towed to the mechanic. I was thinking along the lines of safety, but my mother's snappish response made it crystal clear she thought I was thinking more along the lines of fouling up...something. I let it go.

Once the donut was on, my father went outside to start his car. The plan was to have my father and brother drive to the mechanic in separate cars just in case my brother's car had to stay at the mechanic's until the next week. My brother informed my mother that he simply had to get back to Boston and would get a new tire put on at another time. Now, the general rule with donuts is that they should not be driven more than 50 miles or over 50 mph or with anything heavy in the vehicle. They are designed to be get you to a mechanic, and that's it. Yes, we all know someone who drove for months on a donut, but that is really more of a very fortunate exception than the rule. My brother's plan was to drive about 200 miles on the highway with several hundred pounds of music equipment in the backseat and trunk. In the snow. I calmly noted that I wasn't entirely sure that was a safe idea. He blew up, my mother started screeching, and all but screeched to me, "see what you did now?"

In my head I retorted, "As much as I want his miserable, ungrateful self out of the house, I'd rather he not die." What came out was a calm, even "Ok."

Jack had been following all this insanity as one would a tennis match, by the way. I sighed and grabbed him for a quick bathroom break where I explained to him that I knew his ears hurt because mine did, too.

My brother and father had been gone no more than 2 minutes when my mother got a frantic phone call. Less than 1/2 mile from the driveway, my brother's car suddenly lurched to the side of the road. He was in a ditch and unable to get the car out. My father was ahead of him and hadn't noticed. My mother was panicking OMG OMG OMG and looked ready to faint or vomit, so I grabbed the phone from her. This conversation follows:

Me: Are you hurt?
Brother: None of your fucking business.
Me: How badly is the car damaged?
Brother: FUCK. YOU.
Me: Can you give me an idea of what position the car is in? Face down?
Brother: NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.
Me: Let's try again. How deep is the ditch?
Brother: FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCKYOU.
Me: Where exactly are you?
Brother: FU-
Me: Click.

My mother asked me all the same questions I had asked him. I told her I had hung up on him but that he had to be somewhere on the long private road connecting the neighborhood to the town street. I rounded up some kitty litter, two shovels, and put them in her car. I also told her that if his car suddenly lurched and pulled that there was something wrong with the car beyond the tire, and that I was getting AAA back on the phone. At no point did I ever think of saying "I told y'all so!" but, looking back, it would have been justified. She told me to just stay in the house as I was already causing more problems.

Fortunately, I figured out looooong ago that none of this should be taken personally. I find it all amusing. If I thought about it too much, I would find it capital-S Sad - the kind of Sad that hurts your heart more than a breakfast of butter washed down with bacon grease - which is why I avoid that kind of thinking. I curled up with Jack, giggled, called a friend who has actually witnessed my family in action several times, giggled, and eyed the liqour cabinet.

After a while, my father returned. My brother and mother were parked and waiting for AAA. At this point he mentioned that he doubted the tire blow-out story and said that whatever he hit must have done some damage to the steering and suspension as the"ditch" was a half-inch difference between the paved road and the dirt shoulder. Eventually, AAA came back and towed the car to the mechanic, who said there was some significant non-tire damage and he would give it a better look the following week. By now, it was late afternoon and my parents were exhausted.

I would be, too.

Sometimes, stress can't be avoided. Heck, life is stressful. My theory is that if life is already so serious and so stressful, why not try to make decisions that are reasonably calculated to minimize stress?

Allow me to illustrate.

This is me. Or, rather, these are the kind of decisions I strive to make:

And this is what my parents do. I try to go A-B, they go A'-B:

Again, I hate to see needless suffering. But I've come to the sad conclusion that some people thrive on chaos and stress and misery. They claim to hate it, but, subconsciously, it is all they know. And letting go of all you know - even if it is slowly killing you - is scary. Terrifying.

I proffer orange mocha frappucino. They see this:

It's insane. It's sad. But, at the end of day, as much as I want to solve problems, force-feed them Ativan, or shriek, "you people are crazy and you make everything ten times harder than it should be!" I've learned that people rarely change. It is usually not the case that they don't know how to change or that they don't know that change will benefit them, but rather that, deep down, they fear it.

Fear sucks.

saying and doing

To recap, four weeks ago I learned that what I thought was a small burst blood vessel was suspicious pigmentation. Eye cancer can be associated with skin cancer. My fair skin, blue eyes, and nearly black hair don't exactly help. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the fabulous genes. Moreover, my grandmother died months before I was born, and I knew one thing about her: she wore a glass eye. I soon learned she died from a rare eye cancer that swiftly - as in a month - metastaized and killed. She traveled several hundred miles to be under the care of the same rockstar oncologist I've been seeing. Her cancer is not supposed to be genetic, but here I am with a little bit of naughty cells struggling wih impulse control.


Whoa.


My diagnois can lead to such fun words as "potentially lethal" and "metastasis." God made things happen and, less than two weeks from discovery, the pigmentation was removed by the world's best. The biopsy results say not benign but not invasive...yet. I'm looking at lifelong, frequent eye oncology check-ups in addition to twice-yearly skin, liver, and regular eye exams. And, if it comes to it, chemotherapy is oncology eye drops and radiation by a litle mini impant...though that often leaves the patient legally blind. I continue to pray that there are no metastisized cancer cells lurking elsewhere, paricularly in my skin and liver, but otherwise doing well. (Prayers for my liver and especially my skin and eyes are welcome! I crave prayers for my pretty paper-white skin!)

I've learned quite a lot in the past weeks. And I thought I would pass a small amount of it along. From someone who volunteers with those dying of cancers - witnessing last earthly breaths - and who learned she herself might be looking at a nasty cancer. What to say and what not to say to someone in the beginning stages.

1. Please, when I tell you that I might be looking at cancer, do not make your first response, "but your hair is so gorgeous!" Whether she will lose her hair is one of a woman's first thoughts immediately after she is told to see an oncologist. Trust me. Not a new thought. I know you're thinking it, but keep it to yourself.

2. Saying "call me if you need anything at all" is absolutely well-intentioned. But someone staring down potential cancer feels powerless...and picking up the phone to ask for help only compounds that feeling. Particularly when we are used to being helpers, not helpees. Yes, those of us with control issues fully ought to Get Over Ourselves. In the meantime, try "I drive right by your place every Monday and Wednesday, and it would be no trouble to take you to work those mornings" or "If you get your prescriptions called into Pharmacy X on Y Street, I can easily pick them up for you" or "You know that Friday is taco night at my house. Can I drop off some tacos for you Friday afternoon?" An offer to take charge of something concrete is much more helpful than an invitation for me to phone you. I was so incredibly humbled, touched, and blessed when random folks reached out and said "You're friends with my cousin and I know you're going in for surgery in two days - do you need a ride to/from?" Parents, please, raise children like that. A simple concrete offer like that from a friend-of-a-friend means so much.


3. Do not stop by unexpectedly. Consulatations, second opinions, pre-operative clearance exams, etc. are a job in itself. I might be out or snoozing off anesthesia or recovering from a cry...and I probably don't want to answer the door in a robe and unkempt hair. At minimum, a 15-minute head's up gives me enough time to get out of jammies and wash my face.

4. Please do not bombard me with cancer-themed anything. I'm sure some people draw great strength from cancer-y books and the like. That is fine. Unless you 100% know how it will be received, don't give any books or suggest any groups or mention "survivors". I'm scared and selfish and I don't care about anyone else's story right now.

5. Do not question whether cancer in a particular body part is even possible. Cancer is just misbehaving cells. Cancer is possible wherever there are living cells. People do get cancers that have yet to be assigned a color or afflicted a celebrity. I know. I'm truly happy to explain all this to you! But, please, believe me. That you don't think a certain cancer is possible does not mean that my brilliant, world-famous oncology duo, I don't know, have devoted their careers to a non-existent cancer. Whoops.



Questions and learning are 100% awesome! But insistening that you are far above decades of oncological research is not.

6. Please do not tell me what Dr. Google told you, good or bad. I've already researched prognoses, survival rates, and treatments well into the night. And understand that, at some point, I need to put my trust in one team of physicians...not jet around the world to see the guy in Mexico with a miraculous cancer-curing diet, not get 51 different opinions.

7. Easy on the sweets and caloric comfort foods. I'm already scared. I don't want to be scared and struggling to zip my skirt. Fresh fruit or washed and cut veggies are awesome. A quick "hi, at the store, what are you craving?" phone call is a great idea, too!


8. Give me something to look forward to! A friend did the sweestest thing: she took my car to get a full interior detail (with a q-tip!) job and told the garage to take their sweet time. I'm unable to drive for a few weeks. There is no car in the space to remind me that I can't drive...and I'm totally looking forward to a sparkling car!

9. If there is some kind of big holiday coming up that you usually celebrate together, be flexible. No pressure to appear for a specific date! Offer to, as appropriate, delay the holiday a week or have two different celebrations. Instead of a passive-aggressive "Christmas just won't be the same without you..." try "We're looking forward to two celebrations, one this week and one the next week/month." Please remember that I might need/want to remain in close proximity to my oncologist or a well-equipped ER for a while, that travel can be more complicated than you think, and that holidays can be easily and happily celebrated outside some arbitrary date. I am not deliberately fouling your table settings. Please don't make me explain the complexities to you - just trust me when I say that certain plans are impossible.


10. Please try to be mindful that I have limitations other than what is obvious. In my case, keeping one hurt, healing eye covered throws off my balance and spatial reasoning. I need help crossing the street but can still work. I am healing, and I can't risk being introduced to new germs...so I will have to decline your child's school play. I am a rawther delicate flower right now and I can't risk any jostling to my healing eye...so I will have to meet your new puppy at another time. Remember, too, that pain medications can make me wobbly. Please don't make me feel like a drama queen! I hate needing help. I hate that I now Have Issues, albeit temporary. I hate that I need to ask you to wash your hands for a full 30 seconds, hate that I can't attend your New Year's bash, hate that the "look left, look right" of grocery shopping leaves me physically and mentally exhausted. When I say "my limitations are X until Date," I'm not kidding. I am probably pushing myself more than I should as it is.


11. That said, get me out of the house as appropriate. Even just for a car ride. And insist I put on some lipstick. Really.

12. Humor! Humor! Humor! I love being called Cleopatra (half my face is wrapped up like a mummy). Do not tiptoe around the big fat gassy elephant. (Far more discretion is warranted with cancers of the reproductive bits, and any humor with gender-specific cancers should be dispensed - carefully - only by those of the same gender).


13. Don't treat me like bad luck and don't make me want to smack the stupidity out of you. Now is not the time to say, "gosh, I've had this weird bump for a few months, but after you...I'm so scared to get it checked out."

14. If you know what I'm going through, reach out with a helpful tidbit. A lovely, lovely woman whom I had met once - the sibling of an office janitor - handed me a box of "Get Regular" tea knowing the - ahem - side effects of painkillers...thus marking the first time I've wept over senna tea.



15. Patience. If I'm being a whiny pain-in-the-arse, tell me. Don't let me wallow in self-pity, either. But - seriously - cut me some slack. Don't treat me like a fragile delicate child, but, remember that pain and anxiety and fear can all make me irritable. The Big C is not a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card. But if I'm uncharacteristically short, please attribute it to pain and/or anxiety.



16. Pray. I don't care if you pray to my Lord or to the bulb in your fridge. I love prayer, or any assortment of vibe-, groove-, or positive-thinking you may send up. Please don't stop. I can buy medicine, treatments, candles, and perfumed bath sets. I can't buy prayer.

OFV #2

OFV.
OFV #1.

A delusion is generally regarded by the psychiatric community as a false belief held so tightly that no amount of reason, illustration, education, or confrontation can convince the individual of its falsity. Most delusions are possible and plausible but quite unlikely to actually occur or exist. It is possible and plausable - but unlikely - for the CIA to tap one's phone lines, for one's spouse to be unfaithful, or for one's parent to secretly plotting one's murder. Even with verification that belief is false - a sweep of the phones, 24/7 surveillance of the spouse - the belief will not change.


My brother is delusional.

Yes, he still believes that he was fired from every single job because every single boss just hated him. And he still believes that he only failed his classes because every single teacher - in four different schools - conspired to make him miserable and/or hated him. But the primary delusion has always been that I have hated his guts forever and do everything possible to destroy any chance of happiness or success.

I've accepted that. To give him some credit, it is actually rather convenient for me and my family: I live more than 300 miles away, rarely visit, and limit visits to 3 days. (I love my family and I love them best from a distance.) The other possible targets would be my parents or my sister. He still lives with my parents and my sister lives 5 minutes away. It is peaceful for everyone to me to be delusion A#1. And I don't take it personally.

And, just to be clear, here is the reality: I have barely spoken a single word to my brother other than "nice to see you" when I arrive and depart and holiday greetings as appropriate for 10 years. I do not give self-help tips. Heck, I don't even offer to give advice because I know how it will be received. Offers to edit his school papers, introduce him to friends in the music industry (he is a musician), and to hang up flyers for his new band in my city all go through my mother. When I was younger, I had no clue why he hated me so much and I offered little peace offerings like cigarettes to a 15 year old and $20 if he made me a mix CD that I already had. I have spent more than 10 years wracking my brain, trying to figure out just what exactly I did. My parents have no clue either. I've just accepted that sometimes some people do irrational things, and that you can't take that kind of stuff personally.

My mother, sister, and I drove up to their vacation home 2 hours north on Christmas Eve with my brother to drive up later and my father early on Christmas Morning. My brother arrived
very late on Christmas Eve when the rest of us were sleeping with a flat tire. He later claimed it blew out just as he approached the entrance to the neighborhood. I took one look at the tire before he got up and thought to myself, "that looks more like he hit something, hard." I kept quiet and, in any case, I wasn't certain. Just to be clear, I don't think there is anything wrong or bad about hitting something - I went through 4 bumpers in 1 year because my, those telephone poles are sneaky! - but I was concerned about damage that would make the car dangerous to operate. Later I learned that my father had the exact same thought, noted tire tracks in fresh snow that veered off the road into a sharp curb-type stone thing, and only brought it up due to the risk the hit damaged more than just the tire. More on that to come...

Regardless of how it happened, I thanked God for giving him tire problems so close to the house. A blow-out on the highway, after all, is extremely dangerous - especially that night's icy highways. The vacation house is in a rural area, with iffy cell phone reception. When we were finally able to rouse him awake late Christmas Day, I remarked how lucky he was to have blown out so close to the house, how scary it must have been, and how he was a very good driver for keeping the car steady after it blew, and how he was a very very good driver for managing to not hit anything after it blew...unlike me, who likely would have panicked and spent the night in a ditch sucking my thumb. No passive-aggression, just a little admiration and self-depreciation.

"Fuck you. What the fuck do you know?"

Ah, the first "fuck you" of the visit. I briefly debated making a private drinking game of "fuck you" but realized that would put me in the hospital with a stomach pump before desert. Before the entree. Possibly before the appetizer, but certainly no earlier than the bottom of the bread basket. I think.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," I replied with a smile and in a calm, even tone.

"FUCK. YOU."

And I ducked my head behind a newspaper so my poor mother wouldn't see that I had a little something in my eye.

I quickly pulled myself together. And, once in bed, I wept. For my brother, who has been so sick for so long. For my parents, who have lived with him for so long that none of this particularly fazes them. And for the sad truth that none of this is going to change.

starving artists

I've seen several commercials about the semi-annual Starving Artists art sale, held in multiple locations tomorrow.

Here and here is why you should not go.

Shop here or here instead.

as per request and a giveaway

Someone reminded me that I neglected to include a certain photo in yesterday's tribute.

I was gone for no more than 10 minutes. In that time, Jack opened my child-proofed cabinet, removed an unopened 5lb sack of flour, carried it all the way back from the kitchen area to the dog couch, and went to town.

Please note his little helper to the left, too.
He is a serious carb-a-holic, so I'm sure straight flour was like pure crack to him.
Getting that sticky paste of drool and flour off a cloth couch was Not Fun.
However, I submitted the below picture to the "Marley Has a Mischief" contest last year. Everyone thought it looked like he was giving me a smug little smile. He wasn't - if you know him, you know that is how he looks before a sneeze. We won! First place!


GIVEAWAY:
Part of the prize was money. (I kept that.) The contest folks also send a DVD of Marley and Me. I have zero desire to ever see the movie. It is rated PG and you can read why here. Enter by leaving a comment with a good name (or more) for...a puppy! Because there will be a puppy added to the zoo as soon as I get a job. Puppy will probably be a girl and either be a Dane or a mastiff because one Lab is more than enough, thank you. I'll pick a random winner at some point.

If you want to see cute puppy pics and you're a prayer/sage burner/rain dancer/positive vibe sender, it couldn't hurt for you to pray that I land a job soon :)

Speaking of names, I thought this was too funny not to share. Jack's name is Jack. He is a bad dog. He is a super-dominant Alpha dog which means I am constantly pulling him off other dogs at the park. (Contrary to the rating guidance, there is nothing sexual about it - it is strictly a way to assert one's pack position.) For years, I was yelling, "Jack, OFF! Jack, OFF!"

I've since switched to "Jack, NO!"

Happy Birthday!

Someone has a birthday today.

Number...

TEN!

Whoa.

We're in double-digit territory now, baby.

I met you a little more than five years ago.

And I wasn't too fond of you.

I was a little scared of you, to be honest. You outweighed me and you had teeth.

Today, I don't even think twice about prying open your killer jaws to extricate whatever unmentionable you decided to pull out of the laundry basket and wave around.

You typically choose to do this when a male friend visits.

Moving on.

When I met you, you were a little...

...how shall I say it...
MUCH. And you still are.
But you won me over.
I'm still not sure how.
But I know why.
Yup, God knew exactly what He was doing.

(He generally does.)

While it is possible He thought I owned too many nice things that needed to be humbled with drool and teeth marks...it is far more likely He knew I needed some joy. And laughter. And to learn that life is supposed to be enjoyed. Relished. Lived.
I tell everyone that you will live to 30 just to spite me.
You better.

Happy Birthday, Jack!

cookies

I know, I know: all of you were like, "wow, that Allison is such a good baker. I wonder when she'll post a cookie recipe."

That is coming. For now, just some cookie advice.


I have tried to make cookies. Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, white chocolate cranberry. They all turned into rock-hard pancakes. Clearly, all those cookbooks were wrong. I set about writing various letters to the editors straight away. It is just downright deceitful to promise thick, soft, chewy treats and deliver flattened hockey pucks.


Then I picked up a few bags of cookie mix - the mixes where one need only add egg and butter and water. For the sake of scientific integrity, I tried Ms. Crocker's chocolate chip, oatmeal, and peanut butter. Hockey puck, hockey puck, hockey puck.


For reasons I won't get into, my oven was recently repaired and, in any case, turned out perfectly good bread, so I knew it wasn't the oven.


It was me.

(It generally is.)


Was I adding too much water? No. Over-baking? No. Failing to pre-heat? No.


That leaves...the butter!


Evidently, when the recipe specifies that one take 20 minutes and allow the butter to soften, they mean it. I was just cutting cold butter into pieces and stirring. And failing.


So that is lesson #1: follow the directions.

Lesson #2? I only know this because my cookbook failures led me down the boxed baked goods aisle. Because I'm an over-achiever, I couldn't let anyone think that I would resort to boxed cookie mix. Oh, no. I made little switches that would reasonably lead someone to think the cookies were made from scratch. Replace the tablespoon of water with eggnog. Shake in some cinammon, nutmeg, and allspice. Toss in a few peppermint-flavored chocolate chips. Fools 'em every time!

***
Usefulness of the day: Put a few kernels of (unpopped) popcorn in your salt shaker to keep the salt from clumping.

OFV #1

I thought I would start off the OFV series chronologically...

I packed up the car on Christmas Eve morning and set off for Boston en route to New Hampshire with one very happy furry traveler. We were doing great. I was singing my heart and lungs out to my supercool travel compilation and Jack was loving a week without a single minpin in sight. Somewhere in Connecticut, I pulled over to stretch, get a cold beverage, and use the facilities.

The gas station at the rest stop had only single bathrooms, and, as always, the ladies line wound around the chips and candy and hot dogs and the men's line...well, there was no men's line. And I really, really, really had to pee. So there was a choice: risk potentially fatal damage to my kidneys, risk a "clean up on aisle 2," or just do what I did.

Obviously, I would never enter a non-single men's room. But a single? It is the exact same bathroom with different icons on the front door. And, when you gotta go and it is Christmas Eve and you gotta go and you have family waiting and you gotta G-O, you don't particularly care which icon has a skirt.

I did my thing. I exited. And I got spat upon by the Hasid in a one-person queue for the men's stall.

Spat. Upon.

It missed. But that is irrelevant.

Now, I spend quite a lot of time with a whole bunch of Conservative Jews with very specific opinions on American Hasids: their theology, their blatant unrepentant exploitation of the welfare system...their utterly ungodly and unnecesary meanness to non-Hasids. So I wasn't confused that a purportedly religious person would do...that. Confused, no. Pissed (pun intended), yes.

But I can guarantee you this: I left that fella with zero confusion about how I felt about his actions.

The advantage of hanging out with Jews is that, along the way, you tend to pick up a little Hebew - the stuff sung at Shabbat and the stuff relating to one's degree of marital prowess in relation to the size of one's...prowess.

Ahem.

Not that I would ever let a few choice phrases fly on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Not when I was feeling Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men and such. Never.

I'm a firm believer that, when met with something utterly reprehensible, a less-than-mannerly response is usually - but not always - a poor, poor choice. Something about "stooping" and "levels" and such. But want to experience the exception to my rule? Use the word "retarded" in the wrong way. Use the word "faggot" in the wrong way. Or aim a wad of spit at my head.

Clearly, an auspicious start to the holiday weekend.

I walked back to my car, shaking mostly because I was angrier than I have ever been in my life but also because I was famished and wasn't about to go back into that station for a stale egg-n-cheese. It wasn't until I walked out of the rest stop and into the parking lot that the fact that someone spat at me hit me. Suddenly, I wasn't so angry. I was hurt - that kind of hurt that knocks the breath right out of your lungs and kicks you, hard, in the gut and tickles your eyes into flooding your face with those terrible hot salty tears and generally threatens to reduce you to a red-faced sniffly snotty thing for the next 6 hours.

Back in my car, Jack gave me a sad, mournful look of, "I don't know what just happened, but you're sad and I want to make you happy." He tried to squeeze himself over the center console but instead rested his big ol' block head on my shoulder and snuffled his sweet wet nose through my hair. As luck would have it, the loser who missed the day in kindergarden when we learn to keep our bodily fluids to ourselves parked next to me.

Now, Jack is a Lab, which means he loves everyone, and I have no explanation for what happened next. Among his multiple different types of barks - the "I need water" bark, the "pay attention to meeeeeeee!" bark, etc. - he has what I call his "big boy" bark. I've only heard it twice in my life - when it sounded like the house was getting broken into at 2am - and nearly peed my pants and had a heart attack. Simultaneously. There is no baring of teeth, no raised fur, no menancing attack posture - just a scarily calm warning that someone Means Business.

I heard it for the third time that day.

So did Mr. Loser. And he heard it at the precise moment that Mr. Loser's foot hit a patch of ice, which he didn't notice because the "I mean business" boy in my backseat, um, distracted him. He slipped, causing the body attached to the food to land first on his sorry rear end and then, as he tried to stand and steady himself, back down again.

I guess that's what we call "comedic timing" or something.

And I swear that I can't make this up, but...I promise that by now Jack had a big evil dopey grin on his face. Seriously.

I've said it before, and I say it nearly every day, and I will say it again: the dog is far too smart for his own good. But, when he isn't laughing at my child-proofed cabinets or popping the bread out of the toaster or ...when he isn't doing any of that, sometimes he actually earns his kibble.

I forced myself to resist the temptation to run out and help the man up and hand him a business card . But because I'm a nice person, I paused to be sure Mr. Loser only suffered a bruised rump before driving away.

Hopefully a bruised conscience, too.

But I'm not holding my breath.

tres leches cake

1. Decide to make tres leches cake.

2. Somehow allow a spoon to land in the batter.

3. Unnoticed.

4. Bake.
5. Cool. Retrieve spoon.

6. Have great fun making frosting from very cold heavy cream. Marvel at how a little arm muscle time with the Kitchen Aid can turn a liquid into a fluff!

7. Fill in the retrieval holes with that marvelous fluffy stuff.

8. Do the dishes.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to have done this!