Tuesday, December 24, 2013

the price

I've mentioned it before and I'll mention it again: When I get too excited for something, I start to think it probably won't happen. This defense mechanism has been in place for as long as I can remember... sold-out movies, closed restaurants, and no-shows at birthday parties. I'm not complaining about this. I'm certain everyone has seen their fair share of disappointment, and in the grand scheme of things, I'm a bit of an asshole to complain about a canceled bowling trip in 1975 when other people have suffered far, far worse.

But, that's who I am. When I'm excited about something, and it looks like it might really happen, I get super anxious and have even suffered full panic attacks. Once I've regained my composure and realized that, even with the panic attack, the wonderful thing I want to happen is really, really going to happen, I go into full defense and assume something terrible will happen to me or to someone I love, as a form of payment to stabilize the see-saw between good and bad. I'd say I owe a pound of flesh and all that, but I don't know. I'm not comfortable with that reference. I think that's more of a revenge thing, but Courtney Love distorted it. Am I allowed to allude to a pound of flesh if I am thinking of Hole and not Merchant of Venice? You know what? I'm not sure I really understand what any of it means in a metaphorical sense, but the following has always made sense to me in its literal meaning, and it relates not one ducat to what I'm talking about here.
Because you bought them: shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours and let their palates
Be season'd with your food? You will answer
'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you:
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought;
'tis mine and I will have it.
Our kitchen is almost complete. Secretly, I've been working with the notion that my back surgery is karmic payment for such a wonderful and gorgeous room in the house where I live. But, our contractor/builder/worker/thinker Nate Schrock is doing such a fantastic job, I am now convinced my back surgery isn't enough payment.

cadaver bone, mending nicely
I have some super nice internal bling. There's a strong chance I will have some adjacent segment disease. I overcame a wee infection and some swollen weirdness on my neck. It still hurts like a sonofabitch, but the tingling sensation in my left hand is long gone. The scar isn't nearly as badass as I had hoped it would be. And, according to Dr. Nice, I'm on track for normal recovery. He even suggested I might be able to ski in as soon as a month or so, if I promise to be careful.  

In short, I didn't suffer this back surgery. What I mean is, I kept as positive a spin on it as I could. Groom will disagree vehemently. He has definitely suffered my whiny, bitchy, grumpy, and for the love of all that's holy let me out of the house recovery.

Wait. Is it possible Groom is paying the price for the kitchen?

And, now that I think about it, do I owe him a pound of flesh?

Monday, December 23, 2013

Places to find the recipes

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've been trying to get through a pile of freelance work and felt guilty updating this blog when I had other deadlines (or rather...have...other deadlines hanging over my head), but it's Christmas week and who the hell works over Christmas week, except the people in restaurants, retail stores, shopping websites, shipping establishments, resorts, hospitals, and convenience stores. And, of course, the people who don't actually celebrate Christmas, like non-Christians. And me.

I went shopping with Groom last week as the bagger grabbed another plastic bag (yeah, we forgot our reusable bags so what) for our many, many items, I said, "I can't believe how much food we bought!"

And he was like, "Well, you must be having a big party!"

"Nope! We don't celebrate Christmas!"

This guy--who reminded me of a cross between Jebidiah Atkinson on SNL and Lou Todd on Little Britain (You really have to squint your eyes to get there, but smoosh those two people together and you have a bagger at an IGA in a small town in Maine)--this guy, his face screwed up into such an awesome mixture of confusion, shock, and pity. "Whaaaa...t??"

As we were leaving, I couldn't help myself and I wished him a Merry Christmas. And he said:

"Thank you! Merry....uh...have a good...um..."

And then he looked down at his feet.

I'm such a jerk. This is the same place where I noticed the cashier's voice was super raspy so I said, "Oh, it sounds like you're getting over a cold!" To which, she replied, "I had throat cancer and needed radiation. My voice always sounds like this."

And I said, "Con...grat...u...lations...?"

So, I imagine I'm probably a beloved fixture in this community. And, I can't find it, but I'm certain I've told that story already.

Back to all the food I bought at the local IGA. My plan was to cook up a storm during the ice storm. Instead, I slid my way to a friend's condo on the mountain and drank way too much wine, stayed way beyond my welcome, and spent the entire next day in the fetal position thinking about the buttercream frosting she makes for her delicious cupcakes and realizing the only thing that might get me out of the fetal position was access to more of that buttercream. (I know buttercream isn't vegan. I had only a little. And it was totally worth it.)

Now I have a bunch of food that needs cooking. I scan websites and blogs all the time for yummy recipes. I figure it's only fair I share the names of them here. And, I can find maybe 75% of the necessary ingredients at my local IGA, so dinner turns into kind of an educational scavenger hunt. Which is fun. During an ice storm.

Thug Kitchen
This guy cooks up some really yummy, mostly vegan recipes. What I love about this site is that he makes it all seem so easy. He's got this "don't worry about it" approach to cooking and his language is so foul. I love it. Today, I'm making the tamale pie to test drive it before people come over next week. For my guests, I'll have sour cream and cheese available. I'm not mean.

100 Days of Real Food
Although this isn't a vegan site, there are some awesome recipes and ways to cut processed food from your diet. My friend MoMo of Three Daughters Cookie Company is taking the 10-day pledge after the new year; I'm eager to hear more about it. For what it's worth, MoMo whipped up a batch of raw kelp noodle pad thai for me last week. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. And, while I was visiting with her, she took three catering jobs, pulled together a basket of MoMunch Granola for a client, baked a coffee cake and a bundt cake for the local coffee shop, consoled a relative over the phone, and picked up her daughter from school. She is a machine and she has the loveliest family ever

My Whole Food Life
I use recipes out of here all the time. The pecan pie larabars are super easy and an excellent sweet treat.

EatGoodFood4Life
I lived on the almond butter banana granola bars for the entire month of October.

goop
Yeah, I know. I can't stand Gwyneth Paltrow, but this site is worth it. My friend Darcy turned me on to it and even I had to let go of my "Gwyneth is an elitist" mentality. I'm a fan of the broiled balsamic salmon.

The Spunky Coconut
The fact that this site has the word spunk in its name totally outweighs the fact that they identify themselves as paleo. Paleo is the new macrobiotic, right?

Vegan Monologue
Good recipes. Excellent name. And, mama like the drunken noodle.

Mark Bittman
Thank you Mark Bittman for the arugula and chickpea salad. Thank you.

And for cookbooks, I've been leaning on Vegan Cooking for Carnivores (but I'm starting to shy away from trying to fake meat recipes but I am making their tofu spread today), Veganomicon and Vegan with a Vengeance (like Thug Kitchen's guy, these ladies are just punks), and for special occasions Light and Healthy by America's Test Kitchen, which is really fatty and yummy, just not as fatty and yummy as their normal stuff.

I need to drink a glass of bourbon to outweigh this annoyingly earnest post about eating healthy. I'll get on that, right after I take this tablespoon of cod liver oil. You know. For my health.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

end of year list

Who doesn't love an end-of-year list? Since my recovery from back surgery feels like it's been taking about a year, I've compiled a list of my top 15 discoveries.
  1. I talk to myself. A lot. And, I mean a lot.
  2. I have an amazingly gracious and generous pile of family and friends.
  3. I am terrible about writing thank you notes. 
  4. I am not very good at taking showers every day.
  5. Groom is very good about not mentioning that I'm not very good at taking showers every day.
  6. Reality television is vapid, insipid, and vitriolic.
  7. I love reality television.
  8. I do not have a single female friend resembling any of the Real Housewives.
  9. I like to spend my spare time thinking of celebrity doppelgangers for my friends. If you are reading this and we are friends, it's very likely I have come up with a doppelganger for you.
  10. My celebrity doppelganger is either Jane Curtin or Dianne Wiest.
  11. I have a sit-in-bed shelf life of about seven days before I cannot watch another television show or movie, and I can no longer sit quietly and read a novel.
  12. But, graphic novels are always awesome. 
  13. I will sit and watch just about anything on YouTube
  14. Parker Posey is excellent in everything she does. 
  15. I love Jennifer Lawrence.
The scar on my neck is healing up nicely and isn't nearly as badass as I had hoped. I head into my post-op follow-up tomorrow and I'm hoping Dr. Nice says something like, "Your recovery is miraculous! You can go back to work full-time! I hear Sunday River has gotten over a foot of new snow this week! Go skiing any time you want! Now get out of here, you scamp!" (And, yes, I now have him messing up my hair by rubbing the top of my head.)

What he's likely to say is, "Hmmmm....things look pretty good here. You're feeling okay? Okay. Well. Great. Let's stay on this. Give us a call if you experience any new pain or symptoms. NEXT!"

And I will leave the office, get in my car, pull onto the highway, think about the doctor's appointment, and punch the steering wheel because I forgot to ask when I can start working out again. 

Heh-heh. That's ridiculous. I won't forget to ask.

Bonus track:
   16. I have indicated otherwise, but I am not looking forward to working out again. 

Thursday, December 12, 2013

off the drugs, high on life

My favorite smoothie:
juiced apple
banana
almond butter
flax seed
one ice cube
Enough of this lazing about, drinking smoothies, and watching TV. I went back to work this week. Since I work from home, it's not as challenging for me as it would be for someone who has to shower, dress, drive to the office, and sit at the computer all day trying to get some work done while people stop by and ask how they're feeling. Those people, the ones who work in an office, have to wait...I don't know...three weeks before they can return? Something like that.

Overall, things are going well. I had some weird swelling that made me look like I had a goiter on my neck. I took a picture and sent it to my friend who works at spine doctor's office and, get this, Dr. Nice called me himself to talk about it. That's the second time he's called me directly. I've never talked to a doctor on the phone before. Ever. And now I've talked to a doctor twice over the phone and not because I insisted I talk to him but because he called me. #mindblown

Now I'm taking these giant antibiotic horse pills that smell like...sorry, I have to say it...diarrhea. I'm supposed to take them four times a day, which translates to every six hours, but there's no way in hell I'm getting up at 6am to take a pill, unless that pill is a painkiller (I mean, come on, right?) so I'm taking as many as I can while I am awake, which is sometimes four, sometimes three. But, the lump, which was the size of a small fig is now the size of a pea. It's always food, isn't it? Is that to make the grossness and bad news more relatable and friendly? Is it misdirection, like a magician...I mean illusionist?

"Sir, you have a tumor the size of a lemon." I love lemonade!
"Your cyst is the size of a melon." Let's meet for brunch!
"We detected a growth the size of a grape." What do you say to some wine?

I feel like I may have stolen that riff from David Sedaris.

I stopped wearing the cervical collar over a week ago, so I no longer try to reenact Joan Cusack's water fountain scene in Sixteen Candles, and I'll admit I snapped a shot of myself for a friend when I realized how difficult it was for me to eat a bowl of nuts and berries I had procured for a snack and had to balance precariously on my lady shelf.

I still have surgical tape residue stuck to my neck (gross) and I'm having some difficulty swallowing. I'm assuming it's from the endotracheal they shove down your throat when you have surgery. I, of course, have been referring to it as intubation, only because I watched ER every single Thursday night in the '90s. I used to wait tables at The Good Table (speaking of brunch) with a regular Thursday night shift. I would drive home after work before my friend Linnea, who also worked at The Good Table, would drive over in her shitty ass Saab (sorry Linnea) and we would head to Amigo's for the long haul. She showed up one Thursday night and I ran down to the door and waved at her to come inside. I was watching the episode from the first season where this adorable couple comes into the ER because the very pregnant wife has a UTI but it turns out she has eclampsia--what killed [Downton Abbey SPOILER ALERT] Sybil--and I was visibly sobbing when I opened the door to my building.

"What's wrong??" she asked from the street.

"She's dying!" I shouted before leaving the door ajar and running back up the stairs.

For those of you who are too young to remember when ER was the most exhausting show to watch because so much happened at once--or, for that matter, for those of you who don't remember the show ER at all--it's sort of like Grey's Anatomy with more action and less...mcdreamysteamy. The hottest guy on the show was George Clooney and let's face it. He's funny and all, but he isn't the be-all and end-all.

But, this episode...jeez louise.... It's almost 20 years later and I still remember it so vividly. I even remember the husband was played by Bradley Whitford, but that could be because I remembered him from Revenge of the Nerds II.

Yes, I can see what I wrote there. Yes. Revenge of the Nerds II. The sequel. Yup. And I just realized the guy from Thirtysomething who played CJ's boyfriend on West Wing, the show where Bradley Whitford played Josh, was one of the lead nerds. I feel much better after working that out.

Side note: Why are people still making tribute videos to ER?

Second side note: What happened to Bradley Whitford's face?

sad delicious cake
What were were talking about? Right. I'm off the Oxy and I'm back to work, part time. I can handle sitting at the computer for about two hours (with breaks). Otherwise, my back gets all kinds of angry with me. I took a break from work yesterday and took a walk instead--about 1/4 of a mile, but it was freaking freezing out and most of it was uphill. Both ways.

I strayed from the vegan nonsense while I was recovering from surgery--I ate scrambled eggs and my in-laws visited and cooked up some scallops in butter with cake for dessert--but for the most part I'm sticking to the plan. What bums me out is that I had a perfect excuse to eat what I wanted and the Oxy made everything taste like a tin can. Not fair. Now that I can taste things, it's lentils and chickpeas again. Which are admittedly delicious if you add kale that's been sauteed in coconut oil with a giant spoonful of mango chutney plopped next to them. But, I would still choose cake 4 out of 5 times.

For the record, this post took me three days. I might need more recovery time. I think I'll take Groom's most recent advice. Literally

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

new look

I hope this doesn't disorient people, but I changed the look of the blog. That mountain in the background didn't really apply anymore since I achieved my goal to build my strength up and the bright blue was starting to bum me out. A former co-worker and, now dare I say it, friend Jimmy asked me to give his super sweet blog a quick review and I remembered how much I prefer white space. His blog is nice and clean. And since he's the catalyst for this change, he deserves a shout.

I look forward to reading about his adventures this winter. Plus, his girlfriend is named Jorie, which made my friend Tanya of My Lovely Sentences remark that perhaps Jimmy's girlfriend is named after Jorie Graham, a poet I had never heard of so I looked her up and read this particular poem first and it made me think of boating and fishing and marriage and pragmatism all at once. And I fell in love.

Speaking of pragmatism, looking at Jimmy and Tanya's blogs, I'm starting to think I should have gone with Wordpress. I did zero research before starting this blog. I just started typing.

And that's all, folks.

Well, not really. I'm too lazy to look up whether it's supposed to be "Jimmy's and Tanya's blogs" or "Jimmy and Tanya's blogs," and "the blogs by Jimmy and Tanya" is just too much. So, can I get a pass from the grammar police if it's incorrect? Thanks.


Wednesday, December 4, 2013

I shouldn't be doing this

This post goes out to all the people who have had surgery and need to sit quietly. I'm a huge fan of crawling into bed and watching whatever Netflix has to offer. I typically choose a genre or an actor and run with it for days. I've seen every episode of Weeds, Breaking Bad, Black Adder (including that horrible time travel one), Doctor Who, Charmed (yeah, whatever, shut up--and I tried to look up the funniest Charmed scene, but all clips were, like, 4-6 minutes long, which leads me to believe that Charmed fans are crazy, so double shut up), Touched by an Angel (see Charmed), The Office (and I know that blooper clip I just linked is 18 minutes long, but I could watch Office bloopers all day, which makes me realize just how crazed Charmed and Touched by an Angel fans really are), Mad Men, Rome, The Sopranos, anything with Ryan Gosling (except The Notebook, can't do it), anything with Steve Carell (here's part two of the clip I link to his name), every Mission Impossible, Iron Man 1, 2, & 3, The Avengers, Captain America, every Hulk movie, and a really depressing black comedy called Visioneers with Zach Galifianakis, who is perfectly cast in that part but seeing him also reminded me with great joy that my brother bought me a dickie as a get well present. My bout with pneumonia has ruined all streaming period dramas I can find on Netflix, but I continue to look for ones I haven't seen, such as the Billie Piper movie version of Mansfield Park (as opposed to the Frances O'Connor version, which I had already seen, and not to be confused with the BBC series from the early '80s). Billie Piper also happens to play Doctor Who's companion when the absolutely wonderful Christopher Eccleston was the Doctor. She's carried throughout the series and showed up as The Moment's conscience in the 50th anniversary episode, which I had to watch twice because I was so hopped up on pain meds, I couldn't figure out why there were three Doctors and why they were all locked in the Tower of London together.

Wow. I totally Jack Kerouac'ed that intro paragraph.

And, I just turned a name into a verb.

I am boooooooored. And I'm not supposed to be sitting up, never mind typing on a laptop, so if you know Groom or see him in the halls, don't mention this post to him. I just want to get back to work or go do something. Oxycodone makes me really restless, but my brain gets so goofy, I can't really do anything. I totally tore apart a flower arrangement the other day because I couldn't sit still and I can't leave the house.

Groom is a saint, dealing with the dog every morning, coming home to make lunch, walking the dog in the afternoon, going grocery shopping, dealing with the laundry, making dinner, walking the dog after supper, and then sitting with me to watch reruns of Arrested Development until he falls asleep--god, he must be so bored with his life right now. Every time I walk up from my basement recovery room, I have flashes of Boo Radley ("Hi Boo!") and Flowers in the Attic. I'm this person secreted away and not talked about. If someone named Jane Eyre ("I must shut up my prize.") shows up, or more appropriately and even worse, if someone named Mattie Silver shows up, I might lose my mind entirely. Lordy. We have the snow for sledding and Groom has an Ethan Frome limp already. Hm.

All right. I have to sign off. I overdid it the other day, which means I walked the dog, I sat up for too long, and I received a visitor. That was too much. Yesterday, I slept until 1:00 in the afternoon and was running a fever by 6:30. I'll admit I was in pain and therefore I was unable to meet my goal to be off the Oxy by yesterday. Today, I'm just taking Tylenol. Yeah. These crazy ramblings are coming from a sober person.

This is what recovery really looks like. Nobody talks about the boredom.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

recovery

after drugs
before drugs
I'm slightly more coherent today because I'm weening off the pain meds and all. (The song I linked there is more appropriate for what I'm talking about, but I want to share my favorite Ween song as well. Gets me every time.)

Let's talk about surgery, shall we? Hmm? I've never been put under and with the exception of a a few (eight, to be exact) pieces of my cervix being removed when I was in my early 30s, I've never had any major procedures done.

out of my league
Right now, I feel like I've been in a car accident. Actually, I feel the way I did after I was showing off with some friends and skiing at mach 10 (which is like, mach 1 for people like Lindsey Vonn). Three of us were racing down the hill, cutting each other off, and jumping into muck on the sides of the trails. I don't generally do that. I'm a huge fan of Safety First--just ask anyone who hung out with me from 1998 to 2003. I believe my "Safety First!" alter ego's name was Pat Sanderson. If you ask me to dust that character off sometime, I promise I will. All I need are some fake teeth and a closely-cropped wig, preferably dirty blonde in color.
look at devivo's smile though

I digress. I jumped into some muck behind my friend Caroline, a carefree and daring skier. While she bailed immediately because the snow was super cruddy, I carried on like a champ and went ass over teakettle. I never dumped any speed, so I did a tumble/cartwheel at the same rate as the person skiing next to me. (The DeVivo I mention in this post here.) Other than a little smack to the ego, I was fine, but I couldn't walk for days. That's what I feel like now.

If you're headed into surgery soon and you're looking for some advice about how to act and what to expect, you may or may not have come to the right place.

Here are some tips I got from other people:
  • Drink plenty of water. (I failed.)
  • Don't drink any water, and I mean NONE, for at least eight hours before going under the knife. (Success! But then the anesthesiologist nurse couldn't find a vein for my IV and I now have a bruise the size of a sand dollar on my left hand.)
  • Don't drink alcohol for a few days prior to the procedure. (I failed miserably and instead got so stinking drunk with some friends that I think I may have tried to make out with Little Miss Bounce a Quarter. Not entirely sure.)
  • Eat plenty of fiber prior to the surgery and after the surgery. (Success!) Seriously. Just do it. An apple, raspberry, banana, flaxseed smoothie with a side of dried figs may not appeal to you, but trust me when I tell you it is far more appealing than what will happen if you don't eat a lot of fiber. I heard a horrific story involving a baby spoon--in the interest of privacy, I won't reveal who told me that story, but I am related to that person. I have not had those issues.
  • Explain to the anesthesiologist that you suffer from motion sickness if, in fact, you do suffer from motion sickness. There is no room for stoicism in the operating room. (Fail! And I suffered the consequences, as did the nurses, PAs, medical associates, and my fellow patients in the recovery room. It's the only moment I was aware of my surroundings while still dosed and it was very unpleasant.)
  • Try not to tell your doctor you think he's dreamy while under medication. (I have no idea what my success rate is. I do recall him standing over me after I vomited and I seem to recall he grabbed my shin and gave it a little shake, which could mean "Oh, you're so drugged up, aren't you cute," or it could mean "Oh my god stop talking you lunatic." I fear it was the latter.)
That's it, really. Once they put the mask over your face, you just have to let go and let surgeon (because surgeon totally thinks he's god). I'm kidding. I don't think my surgeon had a god complex, but I do know he was distractingly dreamy, and he's nice, which makes it worse. He's a nice guy. I hate that.

His PA showed up after the surgery and I nearly fell out of the bed though. This PA, whose name was Dr. Valentine (Really? REALLY?!), was suuuuuper dreamy. He did a few tests to make sure my neurons or whatever were firing correctly. He ran his fingers down my arms and asked, "Do you feel any pain?" I enthusiastically shouted "No! I don't! No! No pain!!" He ran his fingers along my jaw. He tested the strength in my hands and wrists. And then he ran his finger down my inner thigh. "Can you feel that?"

Here's where it gets dicey. I squeaked out a tiny little...yes. My friend Liana asked me, "Did you tell him where you felt it?"

And that's why I want her to be around for the rest of my life.

I instructed Groom to hand me back my wedding ring at that very moment. A little reminder for us all that looky is fine, but no touching.

Next came the patient navigator whose sole purpose is to make sure you're comfortable. She will answer any questions you might have and make you feel special--something I already had going for me after Dr. Valentine (seriously) stopped by. The PN went over my chart and asked me some general questions, including "Have you ever taken Oxycodone?"

I paused. I looked at my brother who sort of smirked at me. I looked at my hands. I finally told her, "I don't know how to answer that question." Of course I've had Oxycodone. I'm a member of the pill generation. Christ, I was drinking beer when I was 10 and taking speed at the age of 12. I forget what we called those speed pills. I wanna say we called them Valentines, but that might be my drugged brain looking for a sweet little connection.

To the PN's credit, she shrugged it off and told me since I hadn't had any trouble with Oxycodone in the past (other than giggling myself into a puddle on my brother's couch one night), I probably wouldn't have any trouble with it now.

Finally, the surgeon with the dreamy eyes came in and checked on me as well. After a quick review, he got a sweet and slightly mischievous look in his eye. I'm thinking...what? I looked down to make sure I had my wedding ring on. What?

"Wanna go home?"

F*CK YEAH! So, I didn't have to spend the night at the hospital. Bonus. I felt like I passed some really hard test.

And then it all hit me. If you've never had surgery, this will be news to you. You're going to feel fine for a few days. I was ready to run a marathon. That's because you are so hopped up on pain meds and numbing agents, you don't know. You just don't know. I had the surgery on Tuesday. By Saturday, I was outside taking a walk. By Saturday night, I thought I was going to die. Just keep that in mind. It's all livable and I do not for one second regret having this procedure done, but the recovery is long, a little painful, and very boring. Part of me thinks they prescribe so many drugs in order to keep you docile and incapable of doing any damage with your bored self.

This is like a short acknowledgements section here, I suppose. I told everyone to stay away from me when I was headed into this surgery. I thought I was doing everyone a favor--making it so they don't have to deal with me and my weird back situation and grumpy nerves. I purposefully (purposely?) chose my surgery for this week, Thanksgiving week. I knew people would be busy, and that was my way of letting them off the hook.

My brother, of course, bamboozled me and showed up anyway. He's just that guy. I was slightly irritated at first (and I know you'll read this, brother, so keep reading). In the end, I was extremely glad to see him. He was very helpful, especially since Groom was hiding a head cold and some serious tooth pain from me and probably needed the help. I think brother was in cahoots with my friend Liana who hosted everyone the night before the surgery since she lives about 30 minutes from Maine Med and her house is extremely dog friendly so we could keep our Mr Magoo shell of a dog there (Thanks Don!).

Even though I mentioned to anyone who asked that I didn't want people around me, I also mentioned that I wanted flowers. I love being surrounded by flowers, which is in direct contrast to the person I was when I was a teenager. I hated vases of flowers back then. These days? Bring it.

I was so pleased and tickled to see an orchid (with a clever note) from Joan, an edible arrangement of fruit and kale (which was all turned into smoothies) from the Brunos, giant flowers that I can never remember what they're called from Hollander, a crazy pretty arrangement in a bamboo vase from Liana, and a pile of tulips from the Coens in San Francisco.

When Groom and I returned to the condo, we found vegan broccoli soup, hot & sour soup, and tomato soup courtesy of Shelley--who remains in my mind as that little bowl of chocolates everyone loves to see on a stressful day. Whiton and Galen had already pulled together a collection of Deadwood DVDs and a pile of graphic novels, but she had the fortitude to come see me the day after Thanksgiving as well. Shelley spent an afternoon listening to me ramble on about I don't know what. And, Callie arrived with a handful of gossip magazines, which were perfect because I can't concentrate on anything more complicated than the back page puzzle in Highlights magazine. I can't even watch the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary episode, which aired last week, because my brain can't follow the wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff at all.
recovery room with daniel craig. hello.

Groom is upstairs pulling dinner together for me and he periodically checks in on me in my recovery room, which is super cozy and inviting.

I'm uncomfortable, but all I can think is...there are people who really do go through this alone. I requested that I be left alone and that's an entirely different experience. I knew I wouldn't be alone. There are people in this world who have nobody to offend by telling them to stay away. My version of "I want to be alone" is nothing like the people who take a cab to the hospital and somehow make it back to their apartment where they themselves have stocked the pantry and when they go back to work six weeks later, nobody even notices they were gone. Maybe those people want to be alone, but they don't have the choice. I have the choice and just maybe I told people to stay away because I have such a robust support system, I knew I had to put up some parameters. I don't know. That was a weird way of expressing gratitude and appreciation toward the lovely people in my world.

Oops. Getting sentimental. Stop.

the other side

I had every intention of writing a "goodbye cruel world" post the night before I went into surgery this week, full of apologies to the various people I have injured over the years--the guy who always got the lion's share of my wrath at Amigo's when I was in my 20s, the old woman who worked at the shop at the North Shore Shopping Center where I stole a tiny Smurfette figurine when I was in the 4th grade, the guy I made cry at the Free Street Taverna after I pulled him aside to offer helpful advice about his personality, the woman who let me move in with her when I was living in a van and I treated her like she was my understudy. As I was thinking about it, I could sort of see it might start funny but turn into cloying treacle. (Cloying treacle. Look it up, DeVivo.) And, I really do dislike too much sentiment.

Instead, I wandered aimlessly around my friend Liana's house thinking about...nothing.

Now, here I am, almost a week later, sitting in a neck brace with a restless, drug-addled mind, staring at Blame it on Rio on a giant flatscreen TV on the first floor of a three-story townhouse Groom and I rented for the winter. (It's not a huge luxurious place. It's vertical living with thin walls. I'm not complaining, but I do want to clarify that I'm not bragging either. If I'm ever going to brag, it will be about the remodeled kitchen we might have someday. Someday.)

I should probably point out right about now that I'm on an apothecary's cocktail of pain relievers, nerve blockers, and muscle relaxants. I don't know where my hands end and the keyboard begins. And, the line between reality and fantasy is very, very thin.

And I have the worst case of dry mouth.  But, I did get outside and take a little walk today, so the baby steps are working out for me.

More soon, dear lovely people who actually read this silly blog. More soon. I just wanted to check in to let you know I made it to the other side. Not the other side, like, "stay away from the light Carol Ann" other side. I mean, I woke up from surgery.

That last paragraph there? That's why I'm not writing a full post--I can feel myself buzzing the sweetness tower. (Sorry, Goose.) These drugs are making me sentimental, overly sensitive, and just a little clingy.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

hip hip

My scale is a bad fat liar and a bastard. Not the good kind of liar, like when your friend says, "That person who took your old position at, say, that ski resort where you used to work is nowhere near as fun, interesting, or as smart as you." Or, the kind of liar who says, "Your haircut isn't too short. You look just like Mary Stuart Masterson!"

My scale is the kind of liar that, when I ask whether my pants are too tight, it says, "I'm thinking about ham."

My scale is the kind of bastard that yells across the beach when I feel just fine in my bathing suit, "Nice beer gut!"

Despite my efforts, my scale claims I have lost no weight during the entire month of November. This can't possibly be true. My pants are falling down. My collarbone has emerged from its snug little downy comforter of fat. I can actually see a waistline forming.

Other than Groom, who is legally obligated to tell me I look like I've lost weight, only one person has commented on my weight loss. And she's 98. And she was heavily medicated at the time.

I suppose I should be flattered that nobody is noticing. It means my fluctuating poundage remains unseen when I feel like I resemble the hanker for a hunka cheese guy. But, that's cold comfort.

So, imagine my surprise when I visited the doctor this past week to get my numbers checked. I was certain I would see very little change in my cholesterol. I was so positive my veins were still filled with molasses and butter, I couldn't concentrate--I was wearing only one earring and I know I forgot to put on underwear.

After a tense "How are you feeling" and an ominous "Have you seen your lab work results yet," my doctor revealed that my cholesterol has dropped an overall 78 points since late September. Those other two numbers? The LDL (bad) and HDL (good) have dropped 73 points and raised 13 points respectively. AND, I am within the "better" and "near ideal" ranges.

The vegan nonsense is paying off. The doctor did ask whether I could keep up this lifestyle and I answered with a resounding YES! He was happy for me, but honestly I sort of expected...I don't know...I wanted applause and balloons and show girls and confetti and I really thought a banner would drop from the ceiling reading, "CONGRATULATIONS!!"

Come on, man. I just took your advice and got the results we were looking for! Shouldn't you be excited?!

As it turns out, no. What the hell does the doctor care? While it's probably nice for him to have a patient he doesn't have to lecture, it's also not his body or his life. It's not his problem that I am genetically and habitually inclined to have heart disease when he has a building full of hacking smokers' coughs, renal failure, heart attacks, and flu. In the medical community, I'm considered young and mostly healthy. He doesn't have time for young and healthy.

I'm going to let that sink in for a moment. Young. Healthy.

Speaking of young and healthy, I've spent most of my day prepping my post-op recovery room for the week after my cervical spine surgery on Tuesday. Groom is insisting we purchase a 50" plasma television with TiVo and streaming Netflix and Hulu even though I have insisted for years that we don't need a TV. The bastard.

But, that's the kind of bastard I can get behind.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

surgical precision indecision

I am the strangest type of extrovert. While it's true I prefer to talk things out...and talk...and talk...and talk, I also tend to curl up like a pill bug when something is bothering me all deep down or maybe like a cat behind the couch. I actually don't like either of those comparisons but I'm too lazy to do anything about it.

I'm headed into surgery next week for an anterior cervical disc replacement, which is different from an anterior cervical fusion, which is what Peyton Manning received. Twice.

Show off.

I have been chewing on this for weeks. I suppose, if you're struggling with pain and/or tingling and/or numbness in your arms and hands and you're diagnosed with a bulging or herniated disc in the C-section of your spine, this might help you a little.

First, I had to decide. Do I get the surgery or not? This, I handled through a series of questions:

Did physical therapy help? No.
Did two treatments with oral steroids help? No.
Did an epidural shot help? Hell no.
Am I able to work at 100% capacity with this injury? No.
Is the pain unbearable? No.

Ay. And there's the rub. I can totally live with the level of pain I'm experiencing. I mean, when I went in for my surgical consult, I saw people crying in the parking lot because they couldn't stand their pain. There were people who couldn't stand up straight and people who were begging for relief. I am not one of those people. My left hand is numb and I have trouble holding a pen or a fork. But, I can type and, honestly, I could stand to hold a fork a little less. And, I'm fine with chopsticks for some reason. Which isn't the point. I know.

I realized, the sooner I have this fixed, the sooner I can get back to my life. So, there it is. Surgery decision made.

Second, I had to decide whether I would get a fusion or a disc replacement. This wasn't as black and white as the decision to have surgery. I consulted with my surgeon again. I went online and read about the differences between the two procedures. I talked with an orthopedic doctor. I talked to the guy who cut my hair into a mullet. I read insurance reports and clinical trial data. I talked to people who have had similar operations. I watched YouTube videos (no, I'm not linking anything here...too graphic and as my operation date approaches I'm starting to freak out so I don't even want to see them).

What I learned about fusion vs disc replacement is that they are super similar procedures. For both, the surgeon will make a horizontal incision across my throat (which is so badass I almost can't wait for that scar); he will perform a discectomy (which is a fancy way of saying he'll scrape out the schmootz between my vertebrae); he will insert something between the two vertebrae; he will drill a plate to my vertebrae. And that's where the similarities sort of stop. So I made a pros and cons list.

Fusion
  • The surgeon inserts a piece of cadaver bone between the vertebrae. (PRO!)
  • The bone fuses everything together. (CON!)
  • I could be susceptible to adjacent segment disease because of the pressure on the discs within the vertebrae surrounding the fusion. (CON!)
  • Recovery might be a little longer. (CON!)
  • Insurance will pay for the entire procedure. (PRO!)

Disc Replacement
  • The surgeon places a sort of mechanism between the vertebrae and drills it in place to the outside of the vertebrae...what? (ProooConnnn? I don't care.)
  • Preliminary studies show that maybe there might be some better range of motion after surgery. (Pro)
  • Preliminary studies indicate recovery may be faster. (Pro)
  • Preliminary studies and the marketing department at the places that manufacture artificial discs indicate and promote that disc replacement can help prevent adjacent segment disease. (Though the information gets a pro, the fact that they're shoving it down my throat while it's entirely unproven makes me want to give it a con on principle.)
  • This is so new that I might have complications later, like how all those artificial hips were recalled because people jumped the gun on new technology. And, ew. (CON!)
  • In some of the clinical studies and insurance information, I noticed that Cigna (which is not my insurance carrier) will pay for disc replacement but will not pay for disc replacement if a patient has already had a fusion in another section of the spine. This makes me think insurance companies might start writing policy like that. (Pro)
  • My insurance will not cover the entire procedure. (CON!)
So. My gut tells me, disc replacement it is. And it's scheduled for Tuesday. I go under the knife next Tuesday. I'll spend one night in the hospital and then head home for hours and hours of Dexter reruns on Netflix.

If you're reading this because you googled disc replacement vs fusion and you ended up here, I hope this information helps you. But, don't beat yourself up over it. If my surgeon called tomorrow and said, "Don't get a disc replacement," I'd be like mkay. I don't know that it makes that big of a difference right now, and the one thing that red-flagged it for me was the Cigna information (bullet #6 above). I'm basing all of this on a feeling that things might trend this way. But, I also wore a poncho in the 8th grade because I thought people would start wearing ponchos, so....grain of salt and all that.

I kind of want to mention one final thing that makes me look like a complete idiot. I knew I had chosen a good surgeon when I called his office to find out more about disc replacements. First of all, he looked up my insurance and contacted the people who make the artificial discs to see if I could get coverage for the procedure. Not his medical associate. Him. Second, he called me himself to talk more about it. He didn't have his medical associate or his nurse call. He called me from his office phone. I've never had that happen before. So, I totally went all Maeby Funke on his ass.

http://gifrific.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Maebe-Funke-Marry-Me.gif

 


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

and it was worth it

Hoo boy. I screwed up. What started as a 12-hour break from vegan-ish-pescatarian-ism gradually turned into a 24-hour break...36 hours...48...an even three days. Fine. It was four.

But I had a great weekend. And, I reminded myself that I am now very careful about what I ingest so I can have such a weekend of pure debauchery. It all started at Katahdin--the restaurant, not the mountain

I met some friends there for cocktails on Friday night. Honestly, that Winnie serves it up right. I'm a sucker for a pretty woman calling me "lovely," as in "Hello lovely! Would you like a Manhattan?"

Yes please.

After delightful conversation and a Manhattan with a sidecar of more Manhattan, we started to walk to Ruski's to see Darien Brahms (check out Jekyll & Hyde. Perfect.) and Chicky Stoltz (listen to Girl Trouble. Brilliant.) with a side of Captain Noah Barnes of the Dolphin Strikers. Since Otto was on the way to the show, I made the executive decision to eat some cheese. It's fine, I told myself. And, you know what? Even if it isn't fine? It would be worth it.

Cut to Ruski's, some delicious music, several glasses of bourbon, and I found myself wandering back to an apartment where Noah and Chicky were staying. Suddenly, I found an egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich on a bagel sitting in front  of me. Well, I didn't want to be rude, right?

The next morning, I was awoken by the chitter chatter of my buddies who both have small children and are accustomed to getting up far earlier than those of us who live most the time alone and work from home.

A quick trip to Local for some breakfast where I ordered a mushroom, kale, egg scramble with a buttery english muffin and homefries, and two mimosas. The fellas ordered yogurt, fresh fruit, granola, and a salad.

Assholes.

And here's where things started to get dicey. On my way back from Portland Saturday afternoon, I started to convince myself that a pile of french fries would make me feel so much better. With a cheeseburger. And a big coke. I kept trying to talk myself out of it but continued driving until I discovered I had pulled into Five Guys. I was sitting in the parking lot staring at the door. It was a busy Saturday afternoon and people were coming and going, pulling in and pulling out. I thought, who's going to know? One greasy cheeseburger with a small french fry. Who's it going to hurt?

Me. That's who will know. That's who it will hurt. I'm not living this vegan/fish lifestyle so I can impulse buy a cheeseburger from some chain restaurant when I'm hungover. Regardless of whether or not it's a locally owned, operated establishment, I started to think about everything I had read about fat content and more fat content. Would it have been worth it? No.

I thought that might be the end of my meat and cheese fest, until I decided to meet another friend at...wait for it...Katahdin again Saturday night. This time around, I wasn't even pretending. We shared a ricotta cheese squash pie, a warm crab pot filled with cheese and cream, and a salad for good measure. For dinner, I ordered the salmon, which had been fried in bacon fat. So. Good. And it was worth it.

By the time Sunday morning rolled around, I was feeling the effects of grease and fat and booze and...in the interest of full disclosure, the cigarettes. I came downstairs to discover a box from On Target Living containing two bags of flaxseed, two bottles of cod liver oil, a jar of coconut baking oil, and a bag of Chlorella & Spirulina tablets (in short, a bag of pond scum tablets). It was like waking up to an angry neighbor who has had enough of your late-night shenanigans or like waking up to a parent as a teenager after stumbling home at two in the morning. The judgment and disappointment coming off that box was soul crushing.

Did I mention Groom is now the head of HR at his company? Yeah, from this point forward, I believe I shall refer to him as Toby Flenderson. But, my Toby now has a bead on all this wellness information and health habit diet lifestyle live longer nonsense. I'm on board, and my poor broken down Sunday morning body was pretty eager to get back on track. Some oatmeal with dates, some water, a spoonful of cod liver oil, a bunch of pond scum tablets throughout the day. All good. And, yes, it was worth it.

In a nutshell:
  • Cod liver oil has Vitamin D, Omega-3 Fatty Acids, Vitamin E, and it's not as bad as you think, but it totally gives you dog breath
  • Pond scum tablets aid digestion, support the immune system, and act as a detoxifier, and I think you know which one of those items interested me most on Sunday morning
  • Flaxseeds decrease inflammation and help lower cholesterol, and I have nothing snarky to say about that
I'm not in tune enough with my body to really notice any difference, but I will say already I can cross my legs with the back of my knee over the front of my opposing knee. I haven't been flexible enough to do that in years. Years. So, whatever I'm doing? I'm going to keep doing it.

Groom...I mean Toby...and I went for a walk Sunday afternoon with dog down by Spirit Pond and I was feeling all smug about being back on track even though I had to cut the walk short because my neck was bothering me from looking down at the path (I was trying to avoid the tree stumps and roots but looking down is no bueno).

Otherwise, still good, still back on track. My brother sent me a picture of his lunch Sunday (bacon donuts) and I smugly sent back a picture of my lunch Sunday (hummus and tomatoes on soy pita with apple slices). I was back, baby.

For the most part, I was feeling better, getting my sanctimonious attitude back, until Toby reminded me we had dinner plans. So, I made the executive decision to stay mum with my hosts about any dietary restrictions and continue with my truce.

We had delightful conversation with some old friends. And bourbon and wine and chicken marbella and chocolate and cookies. And it was worth it.

I thought I was done with the meat and cheese weekend again until I got a text from a friend of mine yesterday afternoon while I was enjoying a nice snack of lentils and arugula. Would I be interested in having dinner at El Camino? I thought I might bail on it until she then mentioned it would include a trip to Drapeau's Costumes of Maine in Lisbon. A costume shop Halloween week in the creepiest town in Maine. Like I'm going to say no to that.

She, of course, doesn't celebrate Halloween but dresses up like a giant dalmation and wanders around Boothbay because she and her husband own the delightful Two Salty Dogs Pet Outfitters. If you're in the area on Halloween, make sure you goose the black and white dog getting accosted by a bunch of children. She'll love that. While you're there, make sure you get all zombie around their dog Coal. He barks at zombies. Best dog ever.

But I digress (and I can't find a clip of Hans Landa of Inglourious Basterds saying, "But, I digress," so I'm giving you this instead). After picking up her costume, we ended up at Enoteca Athena (sister restaurant to the most awesome ever Trattoria Athena) because El Camino was closed. We shared (aka, chowed on) cauliflower fritters, vegetable dolmathes, artichokes and prosciutto (yeah, I fell hard) to start. Then she ordered fish tacos and I got some falafel.

My friend said the last bite was the absolute best bite of each dish and we realized we were eating so fast that the flavors weren't even fully settling in. That's how good it was. And that's how disgusting I am.

And that last bite was definitely worth it.

Friday, October 25, 2013

crow

Because I can't do much more than walk lately, I am focusing on food. I know. Whatever. Shut up.

I took a bunch of pictures of dinner the past couple of nights and I hate to delete them from my phone before showing you some deliciousness, and some not so deliciousness. I mean, it's hit or miss as I figure out how to make an all-veggie, some-bean dinner taste like a cheeseburger and fries.

I cooked up some broccolini and it was delicious. I had never prepared it before and offered it up as a snack while I made some spring rolls. I was so excited, I exclaimed, "This is my first vegan recipe!"

I didn't expect any follow-up questions, but I should have known better. Groom the Detective pried the truth out of me. The recipe? Throw some olive oil in a pan, scrape in a pantload of garlic, cook at a high temperature until the garlic goes brown, throw in some steamed broccolini, mix it all around, squeeze some lemon on it, and shake a little crushed red pepper over it. I was slightly embarrassed that I had overstated my cooking prowess, but it's always nice to see Groom chuckle.

Doesn't matter. It was perfect.

Then, I chopped up some cabbage, cucumber, red bell pepper, green onion, basil, and fresh mint. Grated some carrot. Tossed some tofu in the leftover oil from the broccolini. And, rolled up some spring rolls with avocado. So good. (The wrappers in that picture above? Not so great. I can't remember what I used last time, but yes there's a difference between rice wrappers. Who knew?)

Last night, Groom cooked up some quinoa with sauteed shallots, carrots, spinach, and green onion. It was meh, but nothing a little Sriracha couldn't help. Plus, we ate some roasted asparagus so I could pretend I was eating french fries.

I realize I'm criticizing a meal that Groom cooked. I should point out right now, he is far more advanced in the kitchen than I am. I'm not afraid to say the quinoa was bland because I know next time it won't be and he isn't easily offended. 

Final item on the menu: seaweed salad from Shaw's.

When I was at the checkout at Shaw's, the cashier looked at the seaweed salad and asked, "Do you really think this is any good?" Valid question. So I said sure, yeah, it's good. Tastes really fresh, it's kind of a vehicle for soy sauce and mirin. The cashier sneered and said to the woman in line behind me, "Gross. To each their own, I guess."

I will admit I had unkind thoughts about that cashier at that moment.

As I relayed the story to Groom while setting the table, I was reminded of a trip we took together to Montana. We had been skiing at Big Sky then took a few extra days to drive around and ended up at a small bar in Livingston, MT. It was one of those bars where everyone was wearing a cowboy hat without a stitch of irony or posturing. The ladies were crowded together separately from the fellas. There wasn't much loud talking except for an occasional burst of laughter from the gals in the corner.

too afraid to stop and take a real pic
We got the record-skip stare when we walked in, but for the most part everyone ignored us. The conversations were happening over us--the guy on Groom's left was chatting with the guy on my right. Eventually, one of the fellas asked whether we had been skiing. It was a fair question since I was wearing a ski coat.

But, I detected an undercurrent of judgement. And, I didn't want that. So, I mentioned that my husband was driving me around Montana to show me the sights because he pops around the state to hunt birds every year.

Boom. The conversation switched to hunting and fishing and...how much the government sucks (uh oh) and how ladies are bad drivers (what?) and people should live their lives how they want (okay!) except for the gays (awww no).

Groom has a better poker face than I do, so I let it be and removed myself from the conversation. I started to watch the ladies at the bar and the lady bartender, who was badass with a capital B. She won me over when she continued to pour more bourbon into my glass without so much as a raised eyebrow, but I almost proposed marriage when she walked out of the kitchen with a plate of hummus.

"What the hell is that?!" shouted one of the ladies. The bartender explained what it was and said she wanted to make different kinds of foods available to customers and that hummus is really good. Almost in unison, everyone in the bar shouted, "NOPE!"

I live on hummus. I realized, even with my manipulative "my husband shoots guns" approach to this bar, I'm just not a man of the people. Groom can somehow make himself fit in, but my pickle face gives me away every time.

As we finished laughing about my irritation with the cashier at Shaw's, I dove into my plate of seaweed salad.

It was the most disgusting thing I have ever had in my mouth. I love seaweed salad, but I realize that cashier I had so ungraciously judged had probably eaten whatever it was that Shaw's was selling. And, that was no seaweed salad.

That seaweed salad tasted a lot like crow.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

in time for the holidays

Sometimes eating vegan doesn't need to have a vegan label. What I mean is, sometimes a yummy dish just happens to be vegan at the same time. I've received plenty of advice and recipes and such from friends and readers, for which I wholeheartedly thank each and every one of you. Dinner the other night was courtesy of Ina Garten by way of my friend with bitchy resting face. Butternut squash salad with warm cider vinaigrette.

I just read that. I should clarify: Most of my friends have bitchy resting face. I mentioned the lovely lady who sent me this recipe here in this post that I am linking here.

I totally channeled Perd Hapley with that last sentence.

This was not called out as a vegan recipe; it was just a recipe without animal products, except for some parmesan cheese grated over the final meal, which any vegan can simply skip. Wait. Let me think. Were any animals harmed or exploited to make this recipe... I don't think so? But, I didn't know honey isn't vegan until I started researching why vegan recipes call for agave and not honey. So, who knows.

That fact, that honey isn't vegan, sets Groom into a fit of nearly violent anger. And, Groom is so nonviolent, he makes Gandhi seem like Genghis Khan. I use honey since my vegan/pesca tendencies aren't philosophical.

the water pump culprit
The recipe arrived via text. I was planning to make some spring rolls for supper, with some boiled shrimp for Groom since he shouldn't have to survive on my nuts and berries. (Instead I have to survive on his. Hey oh!) But GF with the BRF sent me this and I was immediately sold. Done and done.

Let me tell you, this is the simplest recipe ever. I was able to cook it with a broken water pump, which tells you how simple it really was. Yes, our water pump broke this past weekend and we were without water for two days. It was like camping without the weird tree root that shows up under your back at 2 in the morning. And, to answer your question, no, I had not showered since I hiked Morse Mountain.

Hiked. It always makes me laugh to say that in regard to Morse Mountain.

Back to the recipe--man, I get so distracted so easily. My biggest problem in the work place is that I tend to distract people from their work. It's a real problem, which is why I work from home.

While I'm up and distracted, I'm going to say it, what I don't like about this new routine is the look I get from people when I pass on something I can't really eat. It's judgie. People actually say, "A little chicken isn't going to kill you." I know that. I allow things to sneak through all the time, which is why, right now, at this moment, I'm going to pass on the steak or chicken or shrimp (yes, I pass on the shrimp) you're offering me. Then, my meal falls under serious scrutiny. God forbid I eat something that has a flake of cheese on it or a dab of meat juice.

Meat juice? I don't know where that came from.

"So, you're not really vegan then," I hear.

No, I'm not. But, I'm going to pass on that steak for now. Thank you. It's like I have suddenly found religion and everyone else is atheist. I promise you, I will not try to bring you to Jesus and I won't quote scripture at the dinner table.

One trick is to say nothing about my food habits, which is so hard to do because I am an extrovert through and through (and I used to work with an introvert to her dismay). Another trick is to never, ever, ever, use the word "vegan" or the highly objectionable and annoying term "pescatarian."

Wow. I distracted myself again.

With Thanksgiving around the corner, I present to you a pictorial remembrance of the not vegan but it just happens to be vegan butternut squash:

I have never peeled and cut a squash before
toss the cranberries on for the final five minutes
Grocery store-bought shallot (left) vs organic farm shallot (right)
simmer simmer simmer is it done yet simmer some more

then whisk whisk the dressing

moosh it all together in a salad bowl

add cheese for your loved one who can eat what he wants

cut up a lentil cake for some protein--god this plate looks so sad


Wednesday, October 23, 2013

empowerment in a flawed system

I'm obsessed with Miley Cyrus. There. I said it. Don't get me wrong; I am exhausted by the whole VMA conversation, like anyone else, but I have questions. When was the last time you paid attention to the VMAs? Can you name another recent performance? Can you name any other performance from the night of August 23, 2013?

For my money, she's kind of brilliant. We hear less about Justin Bieber and his status as a role model for children but he's doing drugs and dragging capuchin monkeys through airports (Seriously. Really?) and walking around shirtless at strip clubs with his underwear hanging out. Not to be dramatic, but I get kind of a rape-y feeling from him. Somehow that's okay because he's just a boy, but Miley Cyrus at roughly the same age, working within the same parameters of this screwed up system and walking around mostly naked with her tongue hanging out, that's not okay? She's been treated as an object her whole life. Of course she sees herself that way and of course she's going to capitalize on it.

I heard a story the other day about a high level female executive and her dealings with a female celebrity. I considered dropping names, but I heard this story from someone who heard it from someone who claims to have witnessed it. So, grain of salt and all that.

The celebrity in this story was asked to sign a wall of celebrity signatures after doing some live, national interview. All celebrities who arrive at the company sign this wall, apparently. The celebrity in question tagged the wall in hip hop graphics.

The company executive, a woman of the Lean In school, tried to get the celebrity to change it. She then tried to get her employees to erase it.

My friend telling me the story said, "Isn't that the point? When you empower women, you empower all women." For this celebrity, this was empowerment. This was her version of being in charge of her life. This was her version of taking control.

When I was a bartender, I was not above leaning deep into the beer cooler so my skirt would ride up. I was fully aware that certain gentlemen sat close to the sink where I washed glasses to look down my shirt and leer at my version of leaning in. And, though I played dumb when some fellas told me the beer taps were dirty, I knew full well what it looked like when I soaped up a sponge and ran my hands along the pull handles. Those fellas returned every night and spent money in my bar.

It's objectionable, sure. I should have been able to keep people around with my rapier wit and stimulating conversation--and don't get me wrong, there were some fellas who were in the bar for the chats--but I couldn't keep all of them around by keeping their minds interested. I may have cheapened myself by stooping to that level, but that the end of the day, I went home with my brain and a wad of cash. They went home with a head full of booze and a wad of nothing.

The way I was raised, I never thought about the difference between men and women. I didn't know a woman running her own company might be considered groundbreaking or that a woman at the conference table could be distracting. My older sister came home from work once--she was probably in her mid-20s, which would have made me a teenager--and she told me about a guy who had pulled her aside after a meeting to tell her he could see the lace from her camisole in her cleavage. She was outraged. I was confused.

My dad would make jokes about the "weaker sex" or complain he didn't like sharing a bathroom with three daughters, but he never taught me and it never occurred to me that I couldn't do something just because I was a girl. By the time I went to college, this was as the '80s were turning into the '90s, I didn't know there was a difference in definition between the words "feminism" and "feminine." I didn't understand the concept of women not being equal. If you were feminine, you were feminist.

By the time I left college, I understood. Not because I went to some liberal elitist university that pounded some lefty agenda into my brain--I didn't need that--but because a bunch of frat boys and male professors pounded me with the idea that I was an object and that I was only looking for a husband. I learned the difference after I was shoved into a bedroom at a college party and the door was locked. Someone much bigger than I was pushed me onto the bed and my foot got caught in the bottom of the bed frame so I couldn't get up. My ex-boyfriend came into the bedroom and put an end to things and I was extremely grateful because I was extremely scared. My ex-boyfriend, however, accused me of "asking for it" and wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the night.

I was drunk and I'm certain I was flirting with the culprit. But I wasn't asking for anything other than self-conscious, late teen attention. I learned that I didn't want to be in that situation again. I learned that even the kindest man can be seriously misguided about a woman's intentions. And, though I remain conflicted about it, I was finally outraged.

Over the years, I have found myself in compromising situations and I have gotten out of them, but I also pushed the parameters to see where the boundaries really were, to see if all men think that because a woman is alone with a man, she is asking for something. That's the world I lived in.

I believe now--and this is where my young self gets really angry at my old self--unless you want the attention, you shouldn't walk into a barroom of drunken men in a short skirt and expect nobody to hurt you. They shouldn't hurt you. And it's illegal. And anyone who does hurt you definitely deserves to go to jail, because assault is assault. And, while I don't have empathy for men who are distracted by cleavage or a low neckline or a short skirt, ladies, don't be tootching in some guy's face unless you want him to grab your hips. That's what happens. Once you understand those parameters, though my 40-something brain may disagree with your actions, you have a right to do what you want.

As a feminist looking at today's idea of feminism, I'm saddened by how some ladies feel empowered, but I understand it. Well, I still don't understand how taking off your bra for a day helps cure breast cancer or how writing the color of your underwear as a Facebook status update brings awareness to domestic violence, but that's another battle.

I wish I still believed what my younger self believed, that there is no difference between feminism and what society brands as being feminine or being female. I'd like to think there are young women today who don't know the difference, that our younger generation fully understands that women aren't objects, that men and women are equal, and there doesn't even need to be a debate about it. I'd like to think there are enough strong adults in the personal lives of many young girls so they learn that, while sex sells, brains make more money.

And this is why I'm obsessed with Miley Cyrus. I think she might be pretty smart and she's making a helluva lot of money exploiting a seriously flawed system. So, for now, more (em)power to her.

[I've been reading debates and talking to people about Miley Cyrus and sexual exploitation and feminism. No doubt, you've seen all the highlights, but here's one of Sinead O'Connor's letters to Miley after Ms. Cyrus released her Wrecking Ball video, which she claims was an homage to Sinead O'Connor's Nothing Compares 2 U video. (I have to admit, MC's response to the letters was immature.) And, here's Amanda Palmer's response to Sinead O'Connor, which spawned a pile of open letters and blog posts and ridiculous chatter (Yes, I know I'm one of those people now). And, finally, here's Miley Cyrus talking about the VMA awards with Ellen Degeneres and how her album skyrocketed to number one, big surprise.]