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.

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.

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

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.]

the activity post

I've talked so much about food. I'm getting bored. Let's talk about activity. As you know, I can't do much with this ruptured disc. I suppose I could go to the Y and get on a bike machine and sit straight up on it. Actually, that's a good idea. Next time.

maybe he can
smell the history

Yesterday, though. Yesterday was a great outside day. If you live in New England, then you probably enjoyed the weather that makes autumn here so fabulous. Temps in the 60s, bright sun, dry air, a slight breeze. I grabbed our dog Helen Keller and walked him around Bath near the Maine Maritime Museum. He didn't care so much about the history, but if you ever have a free afternoon and find yourself in the Bath area, you should pop into the museum and wander the grounds. There's a lot to see--the schooner Sherman Zwicker (an old sardine carrier that you can board; the smell alone is worth it, that old wooden boat salty water smell...mmmm), a functioning and educational wooden boat shop, artifacts from when Percy & Small was an active shipbuilding facility, tours of Bath Iron Works, art galleries, a pirate ship...aw hell. Just check it out. I'm making it sound really dry.

Wyoming
Zwicker in background

I just got distracted when I clicked over to Bath Iron Works. It looks like the christening scheduled for yesterday for the USS Zumwalt has been postponed due to the government shutdown. Been watching this thing getting final build out all summer and was super pleased to discover the name of the captain of this first-of-its-kind, land-attack, anti-aircraft, guided missile destroyer from the DDX class is James Kirk. I'm not even kidding.

So, Mr. Magoo and I wandered about a bit, but as I said, he wasn't all that interested in the history. I took him home and cruised over to Morse Mountain, a short hike/walk over a small hill that opens to the spectacular Seawall Beach, with views of Casco Bay and Seguin Light.

At my pace, the two-mile trail to the beach took about an hour but for the yoga-pants crowd, it's probably more like 45 minutes. And, for the trail runners, it's probably some embarrassingly short amount of time that I won't even venture a guess. If you head to Morse, expect your walking time to about about 90 minutes to two hours overall, more if you include beach walking, which I did.

Pro tip: Late fall means plenty of parking and no bugs. Peak summer means no parking and a prohibitive amount of bugs and tourists. Just keep that in mind if you're planning to visit next summer. And, no dogs allowed. Ever. EVER.

Typically I bring some earbuds to listen to an audiobook or some music, but yesterday I thought it might be nice to hear the birds and ocean and whatnot. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I heard very few birds, no crashing water, maybe a few rustling trees. What I did hear was a lot of this: "And did you know he's drinking again? He's ruining his life and I'm not going to help him. Well, my husband just got a new assistant. Did I mention we're going to Hawaii? It's for my husband's birthday. MOM! I don't wanna walk anymore! Stop it! STOP IT!"

I pulled to the side of the trail and let some yoga-pant ladies ("We're hoping to move there by June but there's so much to do and I need a new car") who were behind me pass and I noted when I glanced at them that they did not acknowledge me or say hello. Hm. As I walked the trail, I noted that nobody passing from the opposite direction seemed to say hello or nod as they passed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm normally walking with my head down ignoring my fellow travelers as well, so I'm being a total hypocrite, but I got curious. I started saying hello to every single person I passed. Every single one. Here's the
tally:

No crowd:

• Yoga-pant ladies
• Blaze orange because he's in Maine and it's hunting season but he's on a private nature preserve so the orange is pointless guy
• Super athletic couple in hipster sunglasses
• Wife of the guy who looks like this guy. She looks like the kind of woman who says no because she can.
• Skinny ladies in expensive sneakers--I got eye contact, but it was brief and the lady looked down after I said hello
• Group of young campers
• Older ladies for whom I moved out of the way as I approached the narrow path to the beach
• Woman hiking alone with oversized walking stick
• Twenty-something girl in aviator sunglasses texting on her phone
• Super cutie couple in retro grunge wear, probably taking a walk after brunch at Mae's. 
• Older gentleman in his vacation plaid with taut shiny skin resulting from too many days on the sailboat without sunscreen
• Teenaged girls holding hands and working through their drama

Yes crowd:

• Big girl in gray sweatshirt and tight jeans rolled up past her knees because it was way hotter on the trail than anyone expected
• Old duffer with big belly and bad limp 
• Chick carrying her surfboard back from the beach
• Guy who looks like this guy. In fact, I got a double "hello hello!"
• Older couple holding hands 
  
• Super heavyset guy with awkwardly buckled backpack and two small girls
• Woman in yoga pants walking with her family (I did not expect her to say hello)
• Big swarthy guy who looked like a linebacker
• Woman with really big hips and bad hair in polyester culottes 
• Two fat sweaty guys talking loudly in a thick Rhode Island accent about the Sox
• Camp counselors
• Family with shrieking toddler, but that's because I gave a sympathetic look and made a crack about how long their walk would be. We had a laugh.

Kids don't say hello--no big surprise. The hipster doofus gangs don't say hello, okay, I get that and am guilty of that too. But, the older retiree crowd with money? Nothing? No love for the middle-aged fat girl in a Two Salty Dogs baseball cap and a gray t-shirt she won't discover reveals her muffin top in a truly unfortunate manner until she gets back to her car?

Oh. I see it now. I belong in that yes crowd. The bad hair, awkward clothing, take the kids for a hike to get them out of the house for christ sake crowd. I'm not a hipster doofus. I'm just a doofus. And the other doofuses recognized me and said hello. The hipster doofuses and the wealthy retirees couldn't even see me because I'm the kid who wears brown corduroy pants to school, joins the SCUBA club to get out of having to do a sport, and plays the flute in the school band.

Whatever. I bet our crowd has way better pie.

The I in Lie

i have no reason to
include this image other
than to prove I've been walking

I lied to a doctor yesterday. And I broke my diet.

I hate talking about real pain. Don't get me wrong. If I'm emotionally hurt, I will shout it from the rooftops. If Groom has to hear "Can we talk about what happened today?" one more time, he might actually punch me in the face. Ironically, that would shut me up.

Yes, I did just advocate domestic violence. But, it's only because I deserve it.

Oh my god, I'm so sorry. What a terrible way to start a blog post. If I start talking about date rape as an occupational hazard, I'll have to shut this down.

Let's start again. I don't like talking about real pain, the debilitating kind, the kind that hurts deep in your bones. I don't need to talk about it. I'd much rather quietly curl up on the bed for a couple of days with my laptop and binge every Netflix show I can find. (Please tell me you watch Orange Is the New Black and House of Cards--Kerry Washington's stupid quivering chin has nothing on that show.)

I just remembered, as I was typing the name of the show Orange Is the New Black, that when I was an associate editor for a magazine years ago, the editor in charge noted that someone on the team had copyedited an article headline and had asked the art department to change the "I" in "Is" to lowercase way late in the production schedule. The editor saw this in the final proof and went bananas, like Captain Queeg with the strawberries bananas.

I'm certain he thought I had done it, but he had no proof. So, he came at me from another angle, accusing me of getting too close to our advertisers, hugging colleagues inappropriately, and in one ballsy moment, implying I was published in another magazine because of my "special" relationship with the male editor. He read my copy so carefully I'm surprised he didn't blow out a disc in his neck. And, he never, ever gave me a compliment or any positive feedback in the seven years I worked there, four of which were under his, for lack of a better word, guidance. His go-to criticism for me? "Stop trying to be funny when you write." He would leave my office and I would think, "I'm not."

"Is" isn't the reason I left that place, but it "is" one of the reasons I abhor that man and will never think kindly of him.

The kicker? I have always known you capitalize the verbs in a headline. It's a proofreading pet peeve of mine. You always capitalize the verbs. Fucker. (Heh. Last word!)

Let's get back to this lie. I had a consult with Doogie Howser the surgeon yesterday about the ruptured disc in my back. Do you know what they do when you have a ruptured disc? The surgeon cuts your throat open and they do a reach-through, pushing the esophagus (gag) and all the throat bits to the side (heugh), and scrape out the (gag) disc bits (blech). Then they take a bone and sort of shove it in there, close you up, and it all fuses together.

My friend Noah had a similar surgery, except you have to replace my injury being a result of "aging degeneration of the spine" with his "wrestling with a bear or jumping off a cliff to save a beautiful heroine," and you have to replace my "should I get a second opinion (yes, by the way)" with his "interviewing 12 doctors before choosing the best one he could find in New York," and replace "some tingling in the arm" with "total paralysis down the entire left side of his body," and finally replace "fusing two vertebrae together" with "replacing the damaged disc with a super special cutting-edge synthetic disc."

Otherwise, same thing. But, he equated the tingling with sticking a 9-volt battery on your tongue. Yes. Nailed it. That's what it feels like. Like I'm constantly getting an electric jolt up my arm. The pain, I can deal with. The jolt, I need that to stop. So, I'm electing surgery. And, I'm likely going under the knife soon.

But, where did I lie? The doctor asked me a bunch of questions. It was like he was interviewing me for a job or more like we were on a first date. Where do you live? What do you do? What's your favorite color? Do have any pets? What's your sign? It was all very interesting. I think he was trying to see whether I favor my neck or my arm. I don't favor my neck, other than to have good posture...mostly. I do favor my arm.

The thing is, I was raised Irish. You hide that shit. Nobody should see your pain. Ever. And I am not stubborn about it. So shut up.

So, while I pushed hard on the tingling in my arm and made it very clear that I want this tingling to go away, I never really mentioned the pain. Lying through omission doesn't bother me (see "Irish" above), but when he asked whether I feel pain in my arm, I shrugged it off. Looking at my MRI pictures, he noted that the disc has ruptured on both sides and seems to be pushing on nerves on both sides.

"And, you don't have any symptoms on the right side?"

What I should have said was, "As a matter of fact, my arm does hurt, but it doesn't tingle. And my shoulder has been sore and weird."

What I did say was, "No."

I know why I said no. I didn't want to be all, "Well, now that I see that and you mention it, yeah, I totally feel pain there." (You have to read that statement in a falsetto voice.) And, yes, I know it's a valid response. Again, see "Irish" and "stubborn" above.

It doesn't really matter. When he slices me open, he's going to take it all out anyway and fuse it with bone.

And, yes, of course I asked where the bone is coming from. His response made me laugh. "We borrow it from someone."

In short, donate your body to medical science. It's a good thing. And, read Stiff if you really want to know what happens to cadavers. I just hope I don't get weird dreams or start experiencing someone else's memories. 

babies

As for my vegan-ish-pecatarianism? I met some friends at Ports of Italy (It's closing for the season soon! I had to!) and had a delicious halibut snuggled into a blanket of pistachios and floating in a pool of butter and oil with a side of buttery vegetables. As I've said, I will order the best thing I can, but I'm not going to be strident. I did split a delicious baby octopus salad (little babies) in olive oil and balsamic, which was mostly safe except for the salty olives and capers, but I'll tell you what. I did not order the lobster ravioli in buttery sauce or the beef carpaccio or the caprese salad with all that yummy mozzarella. (Yes, I know I can eat around the cheese. But I won't.)

butter

Today, I plan to venture to the farmers market to see if I can avoid the cheeses and meats and sweets and breads as I shop for vegetables. Then, I might try to take the blind dog for a walk. (Ah HA. There's the reason I included that picture of the dog above!) Then, I might hike (hahahaha....it's not a hike) Morse Mountain. I wonder whether I'll accomplish any of that.

where's the beef?

Today, as I was searching for some ding-dang dagnabit seitan (denied at Shaw's in Bath and Brunswick, denied at Hannaford in Brunswick, denied at Morning Glory, denied at Bath Natural Market), I had a bit of a talk with myself. This had turned into a Quixotic mission of epic proportions. (Oh, hello hyperbole...really? My search for vegetable protein that cooks like meat is the same as an iconic saga, perhaps one of the most groundbreaking novels of its time, that spoofs romanticism and chivalry while paving the way for discussion about psychological breakdowns in modern society and generating years of allusion and tribute? Really? It's that important?)

At any rate, I had a talk with myself. I texted famous Mo of the original seitan to tell her I was striking out--she mentioned by the way that Lalibela Farm in Bowdoinham makes a terrific tempeh, which is not to be confused with seitan--and during our text conversation, I started to question why I wanted to find this seitan so badly. Was it because I wanted meat that badly? Not really, although if this--block your eyes, fellas--PMS doesn't turn into full-blown M soon I'm going to scream. Was it because I was irritated that I couldn't find seitan in lower midcoast Maine? Possibly. Was it because I have a lot on my mind and putting the dog in the car, going for a walk, and then driving all over tarnation for two hours allowed me to switch off my brain? Partially.

But, the real reason I wanted to make a dish with seitan was because I wanted Mongolian Beef. That's all it was. This weekend, I walked past the old Empire Dine & Dance and my friend pointed out that it reopened as a high-end Chinese restaurant called Empire Chinese Kitchen. I've read the articles and heard the buzz, but it wasn't until I was walking by and looking in the windows that I thought, "Brilliant."

Next thought, "I bet they make an amazing Mongolian Beef."

I only thought that because the first time I ever had Mongolian Beef, I was staying with my brother in DC and I imagine it came from a high-end Chinese restaurant in a tony little part of the District.

We had a really long day and I was exhausted, most likely slightly hungover, and definitely hungry. Brother's boyfriend--we'll call him Taye--walked in the door with those unmistakable Chinese food containers and spread out a buffet on the dining room table. And there, in the middle, shining under the well-appointed and tasteful dining room chandelier, sat a plate of glistening steamy crispy perfectly seasoned Mongolian Beef. No noodles or rice. Just meat and onions. It was the most delicious thing I have ever eaten.

And I have never, ever eaten it again. Oh, I've ordered Mongolian Beef. But I've never eaten what I had that night again.

You might ask why I don't ask my brother's boyfriend to tell me where he purchased this ambrosia. I'll tell you why with one story:

While they were vacationing together somewhere sunny (most likely Miami, am I right?), my brother and Taye were sitting on the beach together, basking in the sun, reading, scrolling on their smartphones, chatting about dinner plans. Taye said to brother, "Hey, I wanna marry you. Can I marry you?"

My brother, rather sensibly if you think about it since it was such a flippant proposal, responded with, "Well, I don't know whether I'm ready for that kind of commitment yet."

To which Taye said, "What do you mean? It wouldn't be that long."

My brother, probably a little perplexed, continued. "I just think we have some things we need to work out before we decide to spend the rest of our lives together."

There was a pause. A long pause. Taye stiffened.

"I asked you whether I could bury you."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the beginning of a long list of reasons I love my brother but I can never, ever ask his ex-boyfriend Taye where he bought that delicious Mongolian Beef.

Well, this blog post was going to be about my epic journey to find seitan. I finally did find it at Rising Tide in Damariscotta (Yeah, I was hiding from everything if I drove all the way to 'Scotty for seitan), and I did make Mongolian Beef. Turns out, I was craving the salt and garlic. And peas. And broccoli. And a big pile of mushrooms.

The actual "beef" part? Meh. It wasn't what I hoping for.

lost in translation

No seitan. I've seen it all over the place, but the one time I want to actually cook it to curb my craving for meat, I can't find it. Granted, I looked only at Shaw's and the local IGA, but the Bath Natural Market was closed and I didn't want to drive all the way to Morning Glory. Instead, I bought a mushroom burger and smeared a bunch of avocado on it. Toast up some whole wheat bread, roast a few string beans, and I was in business.

I realize I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want to eat and then translating it to something I can eat. I should probably treat this like learning a new language. The goal isn't to hear the words, translate them in your head to your native language, and then respond. The goal, when you learn a new language, is to hear the language as it is and respond accordingly. Right now, I'm taking my preferred English and twisting it into some sort of Spanglish.

Instead of craving "meat," I should think about what I want within my new parameters. My friend Mo, who introduced me to seitan, mentioned yesterday that tuna is a good substitute for meat....oh for crying out loud. NOT a substitute for meat, but rather a delicious meal and a delightful treat, filled with protein and Omega 3 and B vitamins and selenium and I'm pretty sure it cures cancer.

That reminds me, I was at a conference a few years ago, having a meal at a churrascaria (dollar) with a gentleman from Australia who had just berated me because I was asking him too many questions about Nauru, a remote island hundreds of miles off the coast of Papua New Guinea. The island was rich on phosphate, thanks to some birds that left behind super guano, and the residents of the island mined the hell out of the place. They made a buttload of money, ate a bunch of fatty imported foods, destroyed the health of their island and their bodies, and it had become this awful wasteland. Here's an article from the New York Times from 1995, but I was talking to this man when they were at the point of full devastation. Judging by the country's website, it looks like they're mining again.

This gentleman from Australia told me in the most condescending and dismissive voice that I need to get out more often, maybe think about traveling more. I'm not sure what he meant by that, but it was very definitely insulting. In response, I widened my eyes and asked him whether it's true the toilets flush backwards "down under."

But, I thought of this today because, as we were eating all that Brazilian meat carved from sticks onto our plates, I said, "Looks like I need to spend a little extra time on the elliptical tomorrow!"

My new Australian friend hissed, "You Americans. So obsessed with food and its relationship to the body."

So, here I am obsessing about what I can eat and about the nutritional benefits of tuna. I had it in my head that tuna is bad. Maybe because I think it's delicious so it must be bad. Maybe all the mercury talk has gotten to me. Maybe because it looks like steak and feels like steak and sort of tastes like steak, I have it in my head that I shouldn't eat it. But, you know what? It's fine. Thanks Mo.

I really appreciate hearing from people who know about food. I like to cook. I like to experiment. And this is an entirely new culinary world for me. I'm excited to think about what I should make for dinner and to learn techniques for adding flavor without adding my favorite flavor-enhancers: butter and bacon.

Now I want a BLT.

salmon days

coho salmon, mango salsa

My friend Mo made me a salad with seitan on it once, way back in time, like when I was still living on Ramen noodles and baked potatoes. I was so poor, I considered it a treat if I could walk down to the bagel place attached to Green Mountain coffee next to the Nickelodeon Theater on Temple Street in Portland and afford to get a sesame bagel (toasted) with butter. On even better days, I would have enough money to purchase a slim paperback novel from the cheap rack at Longfellow Books in Monument Square. Books for a dollar. Brilliant.

And now I see precisely how white I am. Let me sweeten the pot: I would buy only classics, like Pride and Prejudice (Oh Mr. Darcy!), Of Human Bondage (Poor Philip!), Sense & Sensibility (The long-suffering colonel!), The Scarlet Letter (Whore!), Great Expectations (Estella, you bitch!), Jane Eyre (Who is in the attic?!), and House of Mirth (Why, Lily? Why?). I think I need to go listen to NPR on my way to the farmers market where I can purchase organic foods and hand-woven dish towels, the proceeds of which benefit refugees from Somalia. Maybe I'll swing by the cooking store to refill my decanter with artisanal olive oil and pick up a new Le Creuset dutch oven.

Let's go back to the seitan. I'm craving red meat. Hard. Right now. Gentlemen, block your eyes and skip down please if you're reading. I have the worst PMS and all I want is meat. More specifically, I want steak frites from Solo Bistro Bistro Bistro with sauteed mushrooms in a red wine reduction and a side of steamed spinach. And a Manhattan. And then a glass of super chatty full flavor in your mouth red wine. Make that two glasses. Hell, give me the bottle.

Gentlemen, you may come back now. But, you have to answer me one question: Why are you reading this?

I had it in my head that I could satisfy my craving for flesh with salmon--it's good for you and it's meat and it will satisfy my need to chew on something in a way that quinoa juuuuuust doesn't cut it.  So, I've been eating a pantload of salmon.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out with some friends and after a few drinks at The North Point, we ended up at the Grill Room. (I know. I know.) I glanced at the menu, saw a grilled salmon with cauliflower, and ordered it. Boom. No worries. I was avoiding the red meat.

My friend Kate ordered a grilled flank steak or maybe a hanger steak with a side of mashed potatoes. I was envious but proud that I had made the healthy choice.

When our meals arrived, I noted (with no small amount of pleasure) that my salmon would be served on a pile of butter with cauliflower pureed in butter and some other vegetable swimming in a pool of butter. Kate, on the other hand, was eating a straight-up grilled steak with potatoes. Lessons learned. 1) Read the menu more closely. 2) Sometimes a steak might be the healthier option. 3) I seem to be willing to break my boycott of the Grill Room, the Front Room, the Corner Room, and the new Boone's because the food is typically very good. But, he does sound awful.

shameless plug for client

Last week, Groom and I picked up a wild coho salmon filet from Whole Foods--I don't know that it's necessary to say it aloud, but wild is better than farm-raised for various reasons like fat content, nutrients, antibiotics, general ickiness, etc. Groom painted some honey on it and then pressed some ginger, brown sugar, garlic, and coriander into it. We broiled it and served it with mango salsa, courtesy again of Whole Foods.

ow

Then, this past weekend, I bought up some Ducktrap smoked salmon and we ate that as part of a picnic lunch at the top of Quantum Leap at Sunday River. We didn't hike it, but rather rode the Chondola up--come on, we're not animals. But, we did hike down the mountain. And, I did fall flat on my ass in a pile of mud. And, I was reminded very emphatically that yes indeed I do have a ruptured disc in my back and I need to drink a bottle of tequila, STAT. Lessons learned. 1) Pack hiking boots next time I go to Sunday River. 2) Watch my footing on loose ground. 3) Hiking sucks.

picnic

As the weekend drew to a close, I headed to Portland where I had dinner at a friend's house. She made the most delicious Sicilian-style eggplant and ricotta sauce from a recipe in Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking (such a great cookbook--the braised pork chops with two wines is super easy and super crazy unbelievable delicious). Needless to say, the eggplant dish, albeit vegetarian, was not vegan. I enjoyed every single succulent bite.

black seabass

But, while I was in Portland, I swung into Harbor Fish to pick up some more coho salmon that I had seen on the ice while strolling through downtown/working off my hangover on Monday. Unfortunately, I saw the fish while on my walkabout with my friend and by the time I had returned, it was gone. I briefly considered picking up some black seabass because Groom loves it so much but I'm still weird about cooking/eating a whole fish. So, I went back to Whole Foods to pick up some sockeye salmon. This time I prepped it in order to get over the heebie-jeebies that I always get when touching fish. Same treatment as last week, except that Groom made the salsa rather than purchasing it. Same amount of delicious. Check out the prep pictures below....

not gross not gross not gross

Groom's salsa

125 degrees

deeee-a-licious with stringbean fries

The reason I bring all of this up is that none of this salmon has helped curb my meat cravings. I haven't had meat since I started this vegan(ish), maybe more pescatarian (I am so sorry about that link but I couldn't stop watching it myself), ism, except for one night of Raclette at a dinner party. Raclette, if you're unfamiliar with it, works off the same concept in a lot of ways as fondue or shabu shabu. A grill in the middle of the table with some heat. You toss some meat and vegetables (vegetables, never veggies please) on the grill. You then put some cheese into a little dish and heat the cheese under the grill. Just look it up. It's wonderful. Marvelous. Fun.

I'm thinking about seitan tonight. I don't know. We'll see. I'm supposed to be watching my salt and sugar intake too and I'm failing miserably. I have a feeling seitan is high in sodium. And it feels like cheating. Maybe I'll make some tofu instead.

On the bad news front, the epidural didn't take. I talked to my friend Sara the RN at the spine place today--I am so glad she called with the follow-up instead of one of the nurses I don't know because I'll admit I got a little weepy and she was able to make me laugh--and it's looking like there isn't much more we can do. I'll be hearing from them again, after the doctor reviews Sara's notes from our conversation, so maybe I go in for another epidural? Maybe we talk about surgery? Maybe I live with this until the symptoms go away?

On the good news front, I lost seven pounds this week and our new kitchen is going to have a beautiful floor.

Quinoa salad

I have been experimenting with food and I've had a million things going on. I do have a bunch of ideas for blog posts and I promise I'll update the blog for real. But, for now, Groom and I just made such a delicious lunch, I want to share the recipe--one, so you can make it too and, two, so I can remember what we did.

A few notes first:
This is a great way to use up leftover quinoa and the slivered almonds add a nice texture.

I pepper and salt vegetables before I roast them, but that's up to you. I find adding a little salt before putting them in the oven makes them roast better. (And, I make sure the vegetables are super dry or they just sort of limp up.) Some people prefer to pepper the vegetables after they come out of the oven. Dealer's choice.

Also, keep in mind that we did all of this to taste, so you can add more tomatoes or fewer tomatoes and if you want to add cranberries or raisins, have at. I don't like parsley that much, so I would use less of that. But, that's just me.

Finally, if you want to cook the quinoa with chicken stock and wine, I won't judge you. 

1 cup uncooked quinoa
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
4 scallions, chopped
1/2 cup parsley, chopped
1/4-1/2 cup slivered almonds

juice from half a lemon
one clove of really good garlic, two gloves of regular, pressed or minced
black pepper
1/2 cup olive oil

two bundles of asparagus

olive oil for drizzle
black pepper
sea salt

Preheat oven to 500 degrees.

Rinse and cook the quinoa in fat-free, low-sodium vegetable stock (one cup quinoa to two cups liquid) for about 15 minutes. Remove from heat, fluff then let cool. Set aside.

Rinse and dry the asparagus. Break the bottoms off and arrange on cooking sheet so all asparagus is flat and not crowded (you might have to cook in two batches).

Drizzle asparagus with olive oil. Add black pepper and a little bit of sea salt. Cook until you hear sizzling--about five minutes. Flip the asparagus and cook until it's roasted but still green. Allow to cool.

Combine lemon juice, garlic, and black pepper in small bowl. Whisk in olive oil to taste (you might not use all the olive oil).

Mix the cooled quinoa, tomatoes, scallions, parsley, and almonds in large bowl. Add dressing and mix gently.

Chop asparagus and add to quinoa.

Voila! Serve with avocado. 

cervical injection, not bad

I had an epidural today. I'm sure many of you reading this have had a procedure like this, but as far as I know I've never been hospitalized and I can't recall ever having so much as an IV in my arm. I'm sure I have, I just don't remember.

I'll tell you what. I was terrified. I'm going to tell you what an epidural is all about so if you ever have to have one, you won't be scared. Pregnant ladies, I've heard what you've gone through and it sounds disgusting and traumatic and awful. I hope you'll forgive my indulgence here. I suspect when you're in the throes of a contraction, an epidural in the lower back to numb the nethers is a cakewalk. And, while I have you here, please stop telling me about the birth of your child. I love you. I do. And your child is a gift. But, stop.

My epidural, if you've been following along (and I won't blame you if you haven't. If I read this blog, I'd just scroll through it for the links), I have this stupid ruptured disc in my cervical spine, in the C-6/C-7 region--that's what the doctor said, "It's in the C-6/C-7 region?" like saying "Yeah, well she probably has a bunch tumors in her head"--I'm quickly discovering spinal medicine might not be an exact science.

I'm kidding, I said that just to be douchie. This shot to the spine? It was very precise. But, let me back up. I was nervous. Driving down 295--and Groom was smart enough to have me drive because had I been in the passenger seat, I would have torn the leather right off the seats--Groom asked me if 85mph was the smartest speed to be driving. I could not pull back on that throttle.

We arrived a full 25 minutes early. I'm never early. For anything. Work? No. Art openings? Please. Wakes? Hell no. Job interviews? Career suicide. First day on a new job? Maybe, but not 25 minutes. And certainly never parties. Come on. What am I? A farmer?

If I arrived early, I was freaking out. Thank god my good friend Sara is an RN at the spine place. She came out and talked to me and explained what I should expect. I heard "Mwah mwah mwah IV inserted in your arm just in case mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah NO you can't drink tequila at Eventide tonight mwah mwah mwah you're so pretty."

I can't seem to transition myself into the examining room so I'm just going to put myself there now--best writing advice ever, TW. You can't get your character from one room to the other? Just put the character in a new room. Stop thinking about it.

The person who checked me in--is that a medical assistant? I don't know--asked me all the pre-screening questions like "Are you on blood thinners?" "Have you taken any Advil, Naproxen, aspirin in the past 7 days?" "Are you allergic to latex?"

The doctor performing the procedure then asked me the same pre-screening questions and explained everything that would happen, but again I heard "Mwah mwah mwah injection site mwah mwah mwah maybe some discomfort mwah mwah mwah injecting dye into your spine (COOL!) mwah mwah mwah spinal headache."

Finally, a radiologist came in and asked me all the same pre-screening questions (seriously, what will happen if someone takes Advil?). Then, this woman walked me, half-dressed in an open-in-the-back, no-bra, skin-tags-on-my-back-flapping-in-the-breeze johnny, down the hall to the X-Ray department so they could do procedure under an x-ray. That's pretty badass.

I was flopped on a table on my belly; they opened the johnny and started, I assume, inspecting the vast canvas with which they could now work. I, of course, was twitching and shaking and squeezing my hands into fists like a crazy person. Suddenly, I thought of Silence of the Lambs and how Buffalo Bill would flip size 14 women on their stomachs and cut out diamond-shaped dress patterns from their backs because large girls are roomier. Of course, I started to laugh, which I think they interpreted as crying. I tried to save face by explaining that I was thinking about a movie about a serial killer who sliced big girls in their backs...I think you can see where this is headed and, no, it did not receive the positive response I had hoped for. At best, I came across as creepy.

Aside: That movie didn't scare me when it came out. I was much younger and much thinner, so my rationale was that I would never get in the back of some stranger's van and I would never be a size 14. All that says about me as a youngster is that I was completely without empathy and I was ridiculously delusional and vain.

The doctor was quietly explaining everything he was doing.

• I'm sterilizing the area. You'll feel three circles on your back and it will be a little cold. [That is not a lie.]
• Now, you will feel three circle swipes on your back as I cover you with iodine. [That was a slightly discomforting bit of information, but fully appreciated.]
• You're going to feel some pressure as I inject the Lidocaine to numb your spine. This will be the worst part of the procedure. You might feel some burning." [As it turns out, this was not the worst part of the procedure, but we'll get to that. And, it burned, but it was no worse than the existing pain in my back, which I typically put as a "3," but is probably more like a "2" if I'm going to be completely honest.]
• You might feel a warmth now, possibly in your neck, possibly down your spine. [This information was very helpful because I was starting to think the doctor and radiologist had drugged me and were now both urinating on my arms, like when Seinfeld thought he got molested by his dentist played by the uber-talented Brian Cranston, which then makes me think of this skit from Straight Up! with Chick Stoltz from waaay back when. The warmth is amazing but disconcerting if you're not expecting it. Now you are.]
• And, now I'm injecting the dye so we can see where things are going. [Again, that is really cool.]
• Annnnnd, you'll feel some pressure as I inject the drug.
• And we're done. [seat rolls back, latex snaps.]

That's it. You get tossed onto a gurney and wheeled into an awkward little recovery room--point of fact, the best recovery room on the planet is a colonoscopy recovery room. Oh, I must have had an IV for that procedure. Spinal recovery? Meh. It's not awesome in there. But, Sara showed up with some Cheezits and a little bottle of apple juice and accompanied me as I limped painfully out of the building. (Click the link I attached to Sara there. If you don't already love Portland, you will.)

I'm going to clarify some things for you now. The procedure? Nothing to it. These guys were alert but blase, like airplane pilots. They do this shit all the time.

The absolute worst part of it? When they yanked out the IV. That was wow. Ouch! I actually yelped. And then I fell into a fit of hysterical laughter. I'm discovering my reaction to pain is to laugh uncontrollably. I don't think I mind. I don't want to be all Peter Griffin about it.

The other bad part about it? It hurts later. The good news is people react differently to this kind of thing. Some people feel better right away and have no side effects. Some people feel great for a few hours and then feel terrible. Some people feel nothing, really, except the euphoria of living pain-free because of the anesthetic, which takes a while to wear off. So, you don't know what you're going to get. My experience is that my spine hurt from stem to stern, which I think of as a horizontal measurement but you get the picture, and my rib cage was tight for a few hours.

The good part about it? I am confident I will feel better in a week. And, this guy here, pictured to the left, he's still standing on a rock. Things could be worse for me.

Oh, one more thing. It's 3:00 in the morning, I've had a bottle of wine (but no tequila), and I cannot sleep. So. Yeah. There's that as well.

Oh dear. Can you tell I'm a bit zozzled?