FMD is smoooookin'

Yikes, it's been awhile. Things here have been busy, but in a not totally crappy way, considering. It seems my entire state is on fire, ‘tho – so that’s a bummer. And speaking of things flaming, the “Big Gay Weekend” occurred in San Francisco and the world has continued to turn and sunrises still happen and all the uptight folks that are convinced that their marriages will somehow be made null and void by allowing “those people” to marry are still, in fact, legally wed. Show of hands - don't ya' think that those uptight folks are just a little disappointed? I mean, it'd be an excuse to get out of a not-so-great 30-year relationship, wouldn't it? "Sorry - we can't stay married 'cause guys can marry guys now so I'm outta here." Another romance goes up in smoke.

And my Aunt’s health is also going down in flames – another bummer, but not altogether unexpected. She DID finally get to go spend time at her lake home, which is where she is now … with my Uncle and all kinds of well-meaning guests. (You know the kind – lovely folks that wanna keep ya’ busy and make small talk to make sure that it doesn’t FEEL like they’re not just there to see if you’re still alive buuuuut … meanwhile there's a giant elephant in the room no one wants to talk about – and it is wearing your pajamas – and you’re busy feeding the beast peanuts. Annnnd I’ve officially killed the metaphor. Letsee what other mayhem I can cause ...)

Continuing the whole “fire” theme I’ve apparently lit here (get it? Lit? Fire? It’s a joke, son.), July 4th is just around the corner and, for the daughter of a firefighter, that means …

JAM!

Yes, true statement - “Frankly, My Dear …” jam is gonna be in full-force in a matter of weeks. I know that I’ll be making apricot, will likely make some strawberry and, if the local berry farm comes through for me, I believe raspberry and blackberry will also be on the menu. Like years past, I have a payment idea in mind, and wanna lay it down for ya’ ...

I’m gonna make big batches of jam until, basically, it’s no longer fun for me. I’ll post photos, or something, and will let you know the flavors available. You’ll find a local fire-prevention related charity in your neighborhood, county, city or state – and will donate some random amount of money to it. Then you’ll send me a note saying “hey – I sent money to this great place that does such and so, can you please send me some jam?” and I’ll do so.

Proof? I require none. Your word is good here. How will you know the jam will be worth whatever money you’ve donated? Heck, I have references. They will back me up like a house afire.

Wow – somebody stop me. I’m on fire. Seriously – I’ve exhausted my quips.

Ok, I'll stop.

Day 14,610

In My Breakfast with Hobbes (originally written on June 26, 2007 ...) I described how I typically spend my birthday. It is, if you read through that post, traditionally a solitary event.

The introverted nature of how I spend “my” day is not because I have no friends, and it isn't because my family is remote (either physically or emotionally). I don't even know when I started celebrating my birthday alone, but I feel it is my right to spend this day as I see fit. (Interesting side note: WHY I feel entitled to this is puzzling to me. It isn't as though I DID anything to earn this so-called "right". In fact, I damn neared killed my mom and myself when I was born.)

It is a story that I've been told for years - when I was old enough to care to know, or to ask. I'd known that I was a c-section baby back when c-sections were NOT something scheduled for the convenience of anyone. They were used as emergency actions only - and I was in need of emergency action. Babies and mothers have an unwritten communication ... when the child is prepared to be delivered (or when a mom is prepared to deliver said child), notice is served by either causing massive discomfort (in the form of contractions) or by *ahem* lobbing a "water balloon" outside of Mom … either of which serves as an "I'm ready" notice to the parents and the kiddo.

If sitcoms are to be believed, either of these “notices” trigger 21 1/2 minutes of hilarity and amusing actions that result in 30 seconds of actual physical labor and a final "awwwwww" reveal moment where the newborn is shown, nicely cleaned up, save for a little grape jelly on the crown of their perfectly shaped 3-month old head. Roll credits, cut to commercial. I’m here to tell all y’all – it ain’t necessarily so.

It should surprise no one to know that I didn’t BECOME non-graceful at a certain age – I was born this way. As much as I can say that I’m a Catholic, or a ferociously private person, I am, always have been, always will be, and started out on this day many years ago as a klutz. I arrived two and a half weeks early, and was very underweight because, as it turns out, I was all kinds of tangled up inside of my mom. I won’t go into details, but my mom and I conspired and successfully wrecked the entire back seat of my grandparents car, along with several blankets, the hall carpet at my folks’ home, and the arrival carpet at the doorway to the ER. Upon my mom’s arrival to the hospital, the doctors had the Chaplin in the room, “just in case”.

I also don’t remember exactly how old the other birthday tradition that I have is, though I know it was something that I started doing somewhere in my early 20s. At the time, it was a fairly unique idea, but I know of many people – daughters mainly – who practice it now. On the anniversary of my birth, my parents get a dozen roses. After all … all I did was show up. They’re the ones that did all the heavy lifting to make sure I made it through that day and, happily (and with little thanks to me), so did my Mom.

I don’t know how old a person typically is when they realize that their birthday is NOT, in fact, a national holiday. I’d love to monitor the average child when they come to understand that, on Mom or Dad’s birthday, there are still chores and work to be done, deadlines and phones to answer, bills to pay and food to be put on the table at mealtimes. I guess I like the idea of decorating that table with a token of my appreciation. I get to celebrate my birthday in any way I’d like not because it’s my right to do so … but because my folks helped me through this day so many years ago.

Happy 40th birthday to me, with thanks to Mom and Dad.

Pretty Please With Cherries On Top

As someone who takes pleasure in cooking (and eating), I find that I get specific enjoyment when I come across a food item where I *think* I know what the taste will be, and then experience something a little bit better. Or, in this case, a lot better.

Here we have a few of the ingredients. Pretty basic stuff - flour with salt and baking soda in one bowl, eggs and some flavor extracts in another bowl, and a third bowl with some chocolate chips (in this case white and semi-sweet).

And here is the awaiting mixing bowl, which you can see already has the white and dark sugars and butter waiting. I’ll even tell ya’ that the end goal is “cookie”. So no biggie there, right?

Here’s a small bit of the dough all put together and waiting for me to parcel it out and bake it.

Did ya’ see it? Maybe you should go back and take a second look – because the extra “oh sweet mother of GOD these are incredible cookies” addition is in that dough.

Well no matter - here are the final items – just waiting for a tall glass of ice cold milk.The extra thing is there, too. Give up?
Now you may ask “how can adding something so basic like dried cherries (soaked in Kirsch and Grenadine) make that much of a difference?” It just … does. Pick up the current issue of Bon Appetit, turn to page 22, and whip up a batch and tell me if you don’t agree.

(Of course, my being a “rabid baker” means that you could also ask me to share. They were so dang good when I made them on Saturday that I made three more batches today. Guess I'll be bringing in some treats to work tomorrow.)

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it

I have gephyrophobia. (It’s ok – I wash my hands all the time and I’m pretty sure that ya’ can’t catch it that way anyway.) I’ve made mention of this in the past – I believe I talked about last in September, when I had to cross an overpass I’d never seen before, on foot, during a half-marathon.

Tim, Scott, Mike ,and Andy have all seen me deal with this fear – and depending on the traffic, the vehicle I’m in, the lane I’m using, which bridge is being crossed, what time of day, etc it is, I can be paralyzed and awful about it or pretty low-key and casual. (I’d like to apologize publically to Scott, Mike and Andy for the incident I had while we went wine tasting last time. I’ve become much more adept at crossing the Golden Gate now that I have to do so four times a week. I’ve now done it so many times that I can do it topless *and* with music.)

Oh, and I can cross the bridge, too!

I have some acquaintances who are collecting data for an experiment and they wanted to measure my stress levels on the four main Bay Area bridges. Happily, it was a beautiful day outside - hardly any wind, great temperature, and lots of great sunlight. It was a good day for science and I had nothing else lined up so I agreed. (They thought about testing my coulrophobia too, but I had to draw the line somewhere. After all, these folks are just acquaintances – they’ve never even seen me naked.)

I started off in the morning with my coffee run and a minor detour when I was pulled over by a local cop – who looked like any other average 14 year old – who wanted to make sure I had a current registration sticker. I, of course, do – I just hadn’t put it on my car yet so after he complimented me on my driver’s license photo, he put the sticker on for me and I went on my way.

The day was uneventful – but we covered quite a bit of ground … literally. I drove over each bridge twice (“up” and “back”). I used my own car, and borrowed a team members’ truck - sometimes there was a car full of folks with me, other times it was just me and a passenger - sometimes we had music, other times dead silence. No results were discussed with me as to how I “did” (it’s not really a pass or fail kind of a thing), and I’ll do this little exercise a few more times with the crew – at other times of day or night and all sorts of varying circumstances – so that the data collected is as reflective of “real life” as possible. Overall though, I’d have to say I was pretty blasé by the experience.

I’m typing this back at home. The next door neighbor has a teenage son who has, apparently, decided to learn to play the base. He is JUST starting out, but I can safely report that he’s mastered getting the amp volume level to 11.

Hmmm … I wonder what my stress level is now?

Extra, Extra ...

I don't read books. No - I inhale them.

I have been known to spend more on books in one month than I have on shoes ... and I'm a chick with sales person from Neiman Marcus who calls me *on my cell* regularly ... so it's a significant thing for me to admit.

I have recently read (and THOROUGHLY enjoyed) "What Would Audrey Do?" by Pamela Koegh. I took the quizzes at the end of each chapter and decided that I still want to grow up to be as awesome as Audrey.

Also, I've read Mary Roach's newest book "Bonk". Mary's "Stiff" was not only a great read, but the cover art (a toe-tagged foot under a sheet) was the BEST way I found to get people to NOT attempt a conversation with me in places where that effort is normally made - like coffee shops and planes. (Take my word for this - buy "Stiff" in hard cover and use that slip-sheet for whatever book you're reading today. It's like solitude guaranteed.) "Bonk" has cover art, too - but two lady bugs "doing it" doesn't seem to be as much of a conversation deterrent as I'd like. It does draws stares but it apparently also encourages conversation ... and really bad pick-up lines.

I recently bought a book by Chelsea Handler, a gal I'd NEVER heard of, just because of the title of her book. (How could I not want to read anything titled "Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea"?) Three chapters into this book I knew that I'd go out and buy her first effort "My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands", and I did so - even before I had finished "Vodka".

I was there to get just one book -"When You Are Engulfed In Flames" by David Sedaris - who is my most famous dear friend whom I haven't met yet. (Strangely, I'm not a fan of his sister Amy - but David? David is a Writing God.) No review on that yet, since I'm still reading it - but the chapter titled "Buddy, Can You Spare A Tie?" had me in tears I was laughing so hard.

I still had "Horizontal" and "Engulfed" in my hands when I saw "Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me". It has 46 "lessons" from people I've heard of and adore (like Andy Richter, Patton Oswalt, and *sigh* my lover Stephen Colbert - whom I've also still never met) as well as brand new heroes like Eric Slovin and Alex Gregory.

(Side note: Each contributor was allowed - probably encouraged - to write their own introductions. Alex's read, in part: "He has a wife, two daughters, and is an accomplished pilot. The people who harp on the fact that he has never flown a plane or successfully operated a flight simulator are just jealous of his innate flying skills, so if you ever find yourself on a plane he's piloting, just sit back and relax. It's all going to be fine." Clearly, I need to find more of Alex's work.)

Interesting to note about "Dumped" was that midway through the book, I came across a business card for "Wing Girl Nation". The back of the card reads "There is an art to meeting new people. WGN provides personalized training that includes the basics and more. Services range from hourly training to comprehensive packages. Social Coaching, Image Consulting, Physical Training, Interior Decorating and Design."

A quick search on the web shows that these folks are for real and - well, I dunno if they had an "in" with the publisher or what - but putting a business card for what is basically a "how to prevent yourself from being a schmuck like these guys" business card in a book about famous-ish type folks writing about being dumped is marketing GENIUS.

... and that's what my reading list looks like as of late.

Cuts Like A Knife

Regular broadcast news programs tell you the news – all the random, mostly depressing crap, “plus sports and weather” and then finish up with a happy story – the “fluff piece”. Clearly this is just to try to make the viewer forget about all the sadness, ugliness, and general nastiness just shown. I’m gonna do the exact opposite here. The good news: No stitches were required.

And now, the rest of the story …

On Sunday, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t wake up from a headache. For the past few weeks, off and on – but mostly on – I’ve woken with a headache of varying degrees. Never a complete raging head-banger, mostly they’ve just been all-day annoyances … ways to make me to move a little slower than I’d like to. I suspect they could be brought on by dehydration. My intake of hot chocolate has been pretty much the same as the winter months and now, as it is warm out, I guess I should lighten up. So I’ve got a bunch of terrific juices now too – ‘tho I’ll admit that I still go through about three half-gallons of milk in about 6 days.

I awoke, fed the cats, and while in the shower, I gave myself permission to skip church. I justified this by recognizing I’d spent MUCH of Saturday saying things like “Dear Lord” and thinking “Please God – don’t let me hurt this person” while I met with my cousins in a “what are we gonna do about the old folks” day-long extravaganza. I read the morning paper, made a mental list (“coffee, laundry, dishes, read gloriously, and ummm that’s it”) and decided to get my day going. It wasn’t even 8am as I headed out the door for coffee. I caught up with my Barista, John, whom you may remember I’ve forever hooked on Captain Crunch last month. “Have you tried Cocoa Puffs??!?” the poor kid greeted me with. (Apparently, I have created a monster.)

I drove back to continue to go through the paper and slowly start on my very short list of stuff to do. About 15 minutes passed when unexpected (but welcome) family-ish related company dropped by. This isn’t unusual … typically it’s a book request, or a specific recording or, mostly, I think he just enjoys hanging out with the cats at a place where no one will ask him any “parent-type” questions. I started a load of laundry, and decided to start on the dishes.

It was a paring knife and I was trying to get off some bbq corn residue – so pressure on the blade was required. Unfortunately, as often the case, the soap was soapy, the water was wet, the knife was sharp, and the human was imperfect. The blade took a short but deep run across the inner right knuckle area of the index finger, turning the running water a lovely shade of crimson. I turned off the hot water, immediately turned on the cold water, put the knife down, and squeezed the cut to force anything out that maybe shouldn’t have been in there. (I may have also made that “stwwwwwcchhhhththth” sound of sucking in air through ones teeth that one makes when one has hurt oneself.)

I waited 30 seconds, watching at the clock above the sink, and looked at the water, which was still streaming red. Hmmm, I thought – that’s odd. It didn’t look like a long cut. I rinsed for another minute, and then took a clean dish towel from the drawer and wrapped it around my finger, putting pressure on it with my thumb. I held the towel-wrapped hand above my heart, and waited a couple of minutes. I peeked – and unfortunately because of the blood thinners I take to prevent my migraines, any clotting that MAY have started immediately ceased. “Hey kid”, I said finally. “How’s about a run to the hospital for Sunday morning grins and giggles?”

I was in and out of the hospital in less than an hour, and again, no stitches were required. Because I was a bright girl and updated my tetanus shots prior to my Gulf Coast work, no injections were necessary. I told the registration staff that I’d be their easiest patient all day, and I likely was. I’m not squeamish on these things, so I helped them force-rinse the wound (which, of course, re-opened it), helped identify where the cut ended and the knuckle-skin began, and held it together while they glued it shut, attaching a piece of tape over the area to keep things together. They added a splint (to prevent me from bending the finger), and wrapped that together (with the hopes of reminding me to NOT bang the finger on the side of things), and sent me on my way. No harm, no foul, and very little overall throbbing.

According to my chart, I haven’t been treated at an emergency room in more than a decade. (“Urgent care” appointments are a totally different thing.) The only temporary effect is that my typing skills have dropped by about 75%, making for some pretty nifty typos (or “tupis”, as I originally wrote just now).

And now – here’s Hugh Jardin with SportsWatch. Hugh?

More Discovery Awesomeness

An open comment to whichever ad agency the Discovery Channel recently hired to do their promos:

http://dsc.discovery.com/tv/nasa/video-player/video-player.html?playerId=1550041754&titleId=1573646994



I hope y'all are getting paid big gobs of money ... 'cause you're worth every penny.

A very happy unbirthday to us!

From the day I purchased Jake, I knew that I’d strive to be careful about his mileage. I wanted to have him for many, many years to come, after all, and in good shape, if at all possible. I’ve achieved my goal, sometimes putting less than 3,000 miles on him annually - as it has turned out average-wise, he sees about 5,000 miles a year.

This is still WELL under the best case scenario for most used cars and, if I were selling him at some point, I’d feel great about that. However I don’t plan on selling him – ever. I’ve even told Tim that if I’m ever in an accident while driving Jake, it would likely be best to just bury the both of us, without bothering to try to extract me. And I’m *almost* kidding about that.

Jake will be 8 years old this August, and I’m still just as protective of him as the day I brought him home with me. He is the single most reliable thing in my life – my health, my family, my job, even my friends, to an extent, aren’t always as dependable as he has been. Knock on wood, we’ve never experienced a tire issue, an engine issue, he’s never gotten me HOPELESSLY lost, and we’ve never had any problems with getting undue police attention, either.

At some point before the end of June, both Jake and I will pass what *I* consider to be a fairly significant milestone. He will turn 40,000 miles … and I will celebrate 40 years on this planet. Jake will be rewarded with a day of pampering, including a full inspection, complete detail, and his leather will get treated. Meanwhile, I will also figure out a specific way to reward myself. I have had several ideas as to how I’d like to recognize MY day … some are absolute pie-in-the-sky ideas, and some WOULD be do-able, though I’d need to draft a friend (Hi Tim!) to lend an assist. Mostly though, I’d actually really like to just spend it like I have most of my birthdays … which involve multiple cups of hot chocolate, a warm fuzzy bathrobe, and my annual watching of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”.

Today I received the first well-intended “lunch to celebrate your day” invite … one that I, for political-reasons, will need to accept. And while I know a LOT of people will say “oh well she’s just bummed because it’s a BIG birthday” or “poor thing – alone again on her day”, the truth of the matter is that I actually find little joys in all my days, especially lately. Laughing at goats, “ooohing: and “aaahing” over fancy cars, enjoying purring cats, helping people with grants so they can do really inspiring work, reaching out to dear friends with silly memories … why would I only celebrate these moments once a year?

For that matter – why would anyone?

Show Down At The Cry-Baby Corral

One of the strangest byproducts of being diagnosed with something significant has to be the other doors that open up. It’s related to a change of perspective, I suppose – the “big deals” suddenly aren’t. Likewise permission is granted and excuses are made because of one’s “condition”.

If you’re pregnant, for instance, moodiness is immediately excused, as are nasty eating habits and not caring that your socks don’t match. (I suppose if one cannot SEE ones socks, it makes little difference if they match or not.)

Today, for absolutely no reason at all, I was in a funk. It was nice outside (‘tho a bit breezy for my taste) and the cats were doing their best to keep me entertained, but I sat on my butt all day watching Soprano’s DVDs, eating just horridly-bad-for-me food and avoiding the things I should have been doing … like balancing my checkbook, or cleaning up the kitchen.

Also, I noticed that part of the funk came with a rather big chip on my shoulder. For what it is worth, I am very good about noticing moods in myself and, if there were anyone around to warn “look out – I’m not a happy person today. You’d do best to lay low all day”, I would. Ok, well I did tell the cats that – but they’re cats – laying low all day is kinda their job, after all.

I was reading some various items and continued to find myself thinking “really? That's your biggest problem? Do you know what I’d give to have that be my biggest problem?” I’m not at all proud to admit this, but after the fifth time of finding myself doing this, I realized that I was feeling sorry for myself.

Since “all this” began, I have actively avoided riding on the pity pony around the cry-baby corral. My task, as I’ve laid it out for myself, is to do everything in my power to be sure that my Aunt and my Cousin get through their battles, and then (and *only* then) will I selfishly focus on me (she said, with irony … and pity). Now I have a whole squad of doctors, caregivers, nurses, and medical professionals that have given me the green light to go into full-on breakdown mode whenever I’d like. But I don’t understand what that would solve really. I mean – it wouldn’t change anything … save for making the cats even more clingy to me. (They’re very sensitive to my moods, and seem to know when I “need” to be treated to extra purrs and when it is best to just to get lost.)

At least once a week, I draw a very long, very hot bubble bath, grab a good book, and soak for a few chapters – or until I fall asleep. But today, the only thing leakier than the bath faucet was me. And it came without warning – and with some pretty significant anger … dare I say “rage?” … that I didn’t expect. It scared me and as some may tell you, I don’t scare easily.

I’m writing this at 5:45pm – and I’m still vaguely livid. I’m unsure as to what triggered this “attack”, and yes, it’s possible that it was just time for me to randomly let all this out of my system. Whatever it is, I sure hope I get it together before I try to sleep tonight. I like falling asleep to the purrs.