The Most Disgusting Thing About Me

I have this thing, a narrow throat. It causes me all sorts of grief. I have to be careful when chewing food that I masticate it as much as possible. I have to split most pills before I can swallow them. I couldn't find a single prenatal pill that I didn't have to split into at least four segments. Once, when I was 16, I had a piece of meat stuck in my throat for 18 hours. It was awful.

I'm more likely to get something stuck in my throat if I haven't eaten much. Which is why one of the worst times was when I had been on an all-day river rafting trip with almost nothing to eat. My first bite of food got stuck. It was there for 12 more hours. The most common advice I get when something gets stuck is "Eat something else to push it down! Like a piece of bread!" This does not work. I can't even swallow my saliva, it comes back up and I have to spit it out. Anything else I try to eat or drink comes back up as well; IT'S DISGUSTING.

About ten years ago I swallowed a small (SMALL!) round vitamin and it made a home in my throat for 20 hours. I had to carry around a cup into which I had to deposit my spit. AWFUL. I eventually went to the ER, where it loosened right before they scoped me.

And it happened this week, right before an important business dinner. I was supposed to be in Salt Lake by 6:30 to have dinner with an out of town associate and some of my team. We were going to Frida Bistro, where I have always wanted to dine and have never had the chance. I didn't eat much beyond an apple for breakfast and a Kind bar at lunch, knowing I would have a great dinner. Right before I left I took two small Advil tablets, because, you know, I had surgery. The first tablet turned slightly as I swallowed and it stuck. No moving. No swallowing. Like it was installed in there with an L bracket.

I swallowed hot water, I tried bread, I tried to force my muscles to move it down, and nothing. I couldn't miss the dinner, all I could do was hope it would wedge free on the drive. I stopped at a store and got an apple and a Diet Coke. Do you know what it's like driving on the freeway with the equivalent of a Mentos and Coke shooting from your throat back into the cup on the dash? IT'S GROSS. I was praying, swearing, hoping, texting my friends, but nothing. I arrived at the dinner not knowing what to do. I wouldn't be able to swallow anything, not even spit. What was I going to do? Excuse myself to the bathroom every two minutes to spit into the toilet? EMBARRASSING.

I sat on the end of the table and demurred the corn chip appetizer. I ordered the duck and saffron rice with root vegetables and stone fruits. When the server came over I asked for a water glass and then, in Spanish, I asked for a dry glass. I poured a little water into the second glass and hid it behind the water glass and the large votive holder.

(This is so gross.)

(So embarrassing.)

When people weren't looking at me, I would raise the second glass and tip it, pretending to drink, and then release my saliva into it.

You guys.

I know.

The entree arrived. I made like an anorexic and moved everything on my plate around and cut up my meat. I pretended like I wasn't terribly hungry. I SPIT INTO A GLASS.

And the meal progressed. It went fine. I think. Unless they noticed me SPITTING IN A GLASS.

Oh my Hell.

I asked the server to box up my meal more quickly than usual (relieved that I could ask surreptitiously in Spanish) They ordered dessert. Flan, which is my favorite. I took a tiny bite when it was forced on me, knowing it could only stay in my throat for so long until my body would force it out. But when my co-worker insisted on taking more, I thanked him and shoved a huge spoonful into my take-out box. I was so hungry I could cry. All my food in front of me, and unable to eat even a morsel.


The dinner ended and I took my box of dinner home, the pill just as lodged as it had been hours before. At 2:49am, ten hours later, the pill had finally disintegrated enough to fall the rest of the way. I got out of bed, went downstairs and ate my cold duck and rice, chewing carefully and wincing as I swallowed.

And that is one of the most disgusting things about me.

I've Behaved Badly

I am sorry that I made fun of my cousin’s name (not to her face) vociferously by asking what my aunt was thinking lo those many years ago. My father pursed his lips in vague disapproval, but my mother suppressed a laugh that suggested she's been holding it inside for twenty years.

On the other hand, I did not tell my mother that her roast would be better suited to re-soling my work boots (a slice of roast should be not harder than the table upon which it was served, nor hold its gravy like cream cheese on melba toast.) No need to repent for something you did not say (I think.)

I apologize to my children, but not really, because after spending a day where one would antagonize the other until he screamed his high-pitched scream every five minutes, they do not deserve an apology.

In fact, I am still owed an apology since they so rudely interrupted the sacred Sunday nap on a constant basis; being in a semi-dream like state, I couldn’t actually arise and lock the door. Things did not go well. I resented them for hours.

I may have completely ignored them when they cried. I am not apologizing for that. Moms only have so many screams per day that can be responded to before ignoring the rest.

I do apologize that I made other people handle my children because I was ignoring them.

I am sorry that I sat on the couch Tweeting instead of sitting down to dinner when everyone else was (but brownie points for not telling my mom that I wasn’t TEXTING, I was TWEETING, and they are different.) I needed to be alone for a few minutes before sitting down with a whole bunch of people that might say something kind and innocent that, in fact, is the most annoying thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

Perhaps I shocked my mother by not borrowing a coat for my eldest when he rode home in the dark. I am sorry that she felt bad for my child. I am not sorry that my child was cold because he deliberately decided he wasn’t going to wear a coat. It’s a lesson you learn when you live someplace with Winter. However, asking him out of my car window if he felt cold now was probably unnecessary salt on the wound.

I tender sincere apologies to the church ladies, who greeted me happily at the Sunday night meeting, to which I responded without making eye contact and a curt response. That was rude. In my defense, I wanted to be watching the Super Bowl, which is not really a defense nor in any way excusable, and I feel badly about that. I feel like I should apologize for going to the restroom; you started the meeting while I was using the facilities and I therefore missed conducting the music--one of the only reasons I was supposed to be in attendance. My bladder is penitent; the baby remains defiant.

I was, in general, a miserable person to be around that day, and terribly mean. I am sorry.

A Tale of Manhattan and Friday The 13th

I’ve never subscribed to the notion of superstition, especially not numerical superstitions, but this last Friday the 13th was remarkable in its reinforcement. More than a week before, I'd taken a pregnancy test at the top of Rockefeller Center in New York and considered the result.

I looked at the two solid blue lines. I’d forgotten to bring the box or instructional diagram with me, tucking the test into my luggage on my way out the door just in case. Standing under the art deco facade, I made an executive ruling: I must have the kind of test that shows a cross-and-line when positive instead of the two-line positive. Two lines; it's surely negative. The Hackworths and I shared an “Ah, well” moment and moved closer to the glass that separated us from the rest of New York.

The Chrysler building gleamed in the morning sun and the city fell away from our feet. The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge punctuated the haze like a final signal before the Atlantic swallowed the rest of the sky. I turned from the hole in the sky in Lower Manhattan and slid the test into the garbage.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I was wrong.

I read Gina’s blog and saw a picture of her positive test. I sat for a moment. “Wait,” I thought, “That’s what my test looked like.” I drove to Target and walked quickly to the rows of pregnancy test in sterile white boxes. Two solid blue lines means you’re knocked up, honey.

And how did I not know?
1. I was exhausted, kept falling asleep, even during conversations (remember the Colbert Report?)
2. I was grumpy
3. I wanted lots of drinks with ice
4. Stuff hurt
5. Everything made me cry
6. That Halal cart was really, really good
7. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat anything.

Adding insult to stupidity, not two weeks previously I’d derided a TV commercial for asserting that 1 in 5 women can misread a pregnancy test. Who could those sad, illiterate people be? I laughed at the pathetic women who can’t read a diagram, what, did they tank their SATs/ACTs?

8. I MISREAD A PREGNANCY TEST

I am that sad and illiterate people.

Immediately I fell into the tumble of early pregnancy. I couldn’t stay awake, couldn’t hold my temper, couldn't hold a thought, and my clothes felt tighter. We were thrilled. Everything was right in the world. Well, everything except that Jeanne’s no longer in it.

I put on my best new black and flowered dress on the morning of Friday the 13th to go to Jeanne’s funeral. She lived her life, I’ll tell you. Modeling, singing all over the world, from the gondolas of the Venetian to command performances, playing her violin, making naughty jokes. She was a light. You would have loved her. She was 33.

Stupid cancer.

I walked into the chapel as a string ensemble played Barbar’s Adagio for Strings--which could make grown men sob. (Reminder: when I die, and I surely will, one Ravel’s Pavanne for a Dead Princess, OK? Deal?) Before the service started I went to powder my nose and realized that I was bleeding, and bleeding a lot.

Ah.

Miscarriage.

I couldn’t think of what else to do, so I went back to sit down for Jeanne’s funeral. The giggles were simmering under the surface. Honestly, how much more drama could be packed into a single morning? It was Friday the 13th. I was at a funeral. I was miscarrying a baby. I almost felt like Jeanne would be giggling with me, impressed with The Meaning of It All. And then I cried.

Taking the grief out of death is like taking love out of the world, said one eulogizer.

Ah.

I like that.

If you leave a comment telling me you’re sorry I’ll delete it. You’re only allowed to leave a comment with something funny, inappropriate, or interesting to say.

I Lost My Job

OK, so I didn't actually lose my job, it wandered willfully from me to participate in some sort of contest called a "lay-off." I hope it wins whatever the prize is, maybe some sort of bowling trophy? This means that for the first time in years I don't have a daily job to go to and earn money from. The not going to something thing isn't so bad, but the not earning money thing is terrible.

See, I wasn't working for a boat. I was working for food and electricity. And to support the two times a year that I go golfing, because golfing is expensive, yo, and no longer one of my hobbies. I hereby renounce golf.

It's been exactly a week since the job went away and I took it pretty hard. I sobbed at my former office. I cried all the way home. I got out of my car and kept my sunglasses on and marched straight to my bed, where I tried to lie down but only succeeded in sitting up because of the huge pit of doom developing in my stomach. I calculated that we'd have $200 left over out of my husband's salary after paying tithing, the mortgage, and the car payment. "So I guess it's PB&Js?" Other Half said.
"PB&Js in the dark," I answered.
And then I cried some more. I didn't sleep. No, I slept even less than usual, which is driving on the edge of hallucinationville.

Some other stuff happened that day and I can't talk about it yet (Not Allowed,) just rest assured, it's just as bad, probably worse. So within 15 minutes I had a Terrible Bad Health Thing happen in the personal life and I lost my job. And I'd thought that the green french toast I made for my kids that morning would be the worst thing I'd have to endure that day.

I was supposed to go to dinner that night with my dear friends. I resolved not to say anything and just to enjoy the being together, but we started playing Whose Day was Worse? GUESS WHAT? I WON! Also, the number one killer of domestic cats is feline AIDS.

Thursday I hardly remember. Dear friends Phread and Lucky came over, fed me food, and tried to cheer me up. Noelle took me out to lunch where she narrowed her eyes, hunkered down, and helped me figure out my next move. You know, the move other than sitting on the couch in your sunglasses and crying until you hiccup while your youngest child is patting you on the arm. I think I slept that night? Not sure.

Mostly my heart was just broken.

I've been working for so many years that I don't even know how to deal with this whole thing, not to mention the anxiety of not being paid. You see, Other Half is a public school teacher. I don't have a choice about earning an income, I must to keep my babies clothed and fed. Yes, it's despicable how poorly teachers are paid. Wait, no, it's not simply despicable, it's infuriating. He loves his job, he loves the difference he makes, but loving your job and being paid a wage that can support a family are two different things. Here's where I swear at our state and its policy of paying teachers, you know, the people that educate the future people, an insultingly low wage: @#$%@#F$^$##!$. What can I say? Low teacher pay makes me stabby.

I am a writer by trade, and I know that there is freelance and contract work out there for someone with my wicked-sharp experience in web content and internet marketing. If you hear of anything, let me know, because my schedule is suddenly free. Well, it will be free just as soon as I'm done working my way through this box of Kleenex.

Winter Madness!

I think I have Winter Madness with a terrible case of Spinning.

It's not the snow thing. I like snow. I think snow is delightful. I can even tell the days are staying lighter later, driving home in an icy-rosy glow should make me happy. Could it be the doldrums? No. I am not a ship on the ocean, no matter what kind of analogy you wish to employ.

Is it latent hibernation? I find myself reluctant to crawl out of bed, truculent if I have to abandon the couch, difficult if I have to leave my house, desirous of blankets to wrap around me at all times, and a serious case of the "No, I don't want to"s. I don't want to talk, I don't want to leave, I don't want to eat that, I don't want to go to there.

My DVR is 92% full. This is ridiculous. I have to delete shows before watching them. What kind of Winter Madness does not allow for TV consumption? That's grounds for investigation right there, Exhibit D.

The Supreme Court ruled today that corporations have the same rights as a person. This makes sense. Afterall, I broke up with AT&T, TJ Maxx is my secret lover, Apple and I have a love-hate relationship, I belong to Google, I have a crush on Ford, I'm in bed with OrangeSoda, and NBC is my mortal enemy. What could be wrong with all that? Wait, unless someone forgot to attend the Difference Between Personification and PEOPLE Symposium at the law school. Oops! Maybe they were too busy making crafts with the wives' club.

Speaking of stupid decisions, I've been meaning to get a pedicure for two months and keep putting off nail trimming until my theoretical appointment. My toe nails are obscenely long.

(Oversharing.)

(Winter Madness.)

(Send help.)

(And soup.)

(With a maid.)

(The soup has the right to vote now, right?)

(Let's bring back poll taxes.)

(MADNESS.)

October Surprise

Last week our ex-nanny, and still cousin extraordinaire, M, asked our family to be in a movie on Saturday.  OK, so it was just a student film, but we couldn't say no to M.

Friday night was just marvelous.  I wasn't sleeping, which was good, since Proximo wasn't either. I had the distinct privilege and honor of cleaning El Guille's throw up from where he missed the bucket, changing his sheets, cleaning him off, all three kinds of delightful! I woke up to a call from M reminding us of call time. 

I got up so tired that I thought I would throw up. And then I did. And did again. Yet, a promise is a promise. I know what a hassle it is to plan a shoot and then not have people show up, or have something go wrong. I managed to get into full makeup, get everyone dressed, and all of us out of the house. I rode shotgun, armed with a bucket.

We drove down to the park with Proximo screaming in the back seat because I had not let him buckle his own belt. All we had to do was sit on a blanket and pretend to be a happy family enjoying the park.  I got out of the car, walked two steps, and retched into the bucket. At some point, just holding the bucket wasn't enough, I had to fall onto my knees, in the middle of the park, in a skirt, cardigan, and full makeup, and empty the contents of my already empty stomach. I just like attention.

I walked a little wobbly to where our blanket was set up and laid down with the rest of the family. Proximo clung to me like he always clings to me, but this time with anger and loud noises, apparently annoyed with my inconsiderate illness. The crew did a couple more takes of the scene they had already set up and then turned to us. Just as we were ready to roll, I motioned to M to bring me the bucket. You know, with a cinematographer, a director, a sound guy, production assistants, rolling film, in a city park. I guess I can't run for office anymore without some really fantastic and perfectly lit YouTube footage ready to make an October surprise.

There's just something really funny about looking at yourself in the mirror after throwing up and seeing yourself in all that makeup. I thought about washing it all off, but decided that if models have to do it with perfect cat-eyes, so could I. The rest of the weekend was just as lovely. I may have even forgotten to feed the children one day, who can keep track? Solid food is for suckers.

Take a Trip with Me

When they told me that I needed a root canal I got so excited--I love Venice!

I now know there are other kinds of canals, and that sometimes you have to have your roots canal-ed again.

"I wonder if I get to make up funny excuses for why my face is covered in bruises tomorrow, like domestic violence jokes. People get so testy when you joke about spouse abuse; it's not like they don't deserve it!" I thought while I was laying in the dentist's chair having him hold the side of my face with an iron hand and file away on the other side's molar nerves.

The amusing thing about having someone holding your jaw open by force is that you still feel like they're ripping your jaw open by force even hours later. It's like after playing Tetris where all you have to do is close your eyes and you see the blocks falling. Yes, just like that, only with excruciating agony and no Russian folk music. I was sitting down, trying to distract my brain from my mouth's evil carnival of lies, and watching some evening TV when I felt liquid on my neck and chest. Something was dripping on me. And then I realized it was my own drool.

I am the hotness.

A word about pain killers: I've never really used heavy-duty pain killers before, they always made me sick, dizzy, or loopy and I disliked those feelings. It turns out that I'd just never had enough pain to make the pills worth it. I sure hope I don't turn to a life of petty crime and thievery to support my four-day-old habit. Embarrassing!

Also embarrassing: this post took several hours to write because I had to concentrate so thoroughly through the pain halo. I think I have a new found respect for all those writers who can produce work while under the influence, hey, wouldn't it be funny if I applied every single label I have on file to this one post? That would be super funny.

What's Another Synonym for Pain?

Why no, there are no photos on this entry.

Almost three weeks ago I went into my dentist to have a cavity filled for a tooth that wasn't bothering me. After the cavity was filled, my tooth gave me nearly unbearable pain. I spent two weeks taking pain killers every six hours, avoiding anything hot, or cold, or liquid, or chewing on the right side of my mouth, or even breathing funny and pulling faces (good for everyone else, I guess.) I forgot late one night, distracted by a New Yorker cartoon, and did a fluoride rinse. The resulting agony brought me within millimeters of meeting my maker.

The verdict was in: root canal.

(no photos)

The procedure itself wasn't too bad at all, plus, my dentist sings to me while he works (he has a nice voice and a pretty rockin' descant on Sweet Baby James.) I felt great! A little numb for six hours, but the pain was gone! Huzzah!

And then Friday my jaw ached. And then Saturday I was back on the pain killers. And tonight I took a Lortab that did nothing for the terrible throbbing pain. Oh my stars, I was seeing stars. I think I even hallucinated watching Kanye West steal the stage from Taylor Swift at the VMAs.

My friend Allison took me up on my offer to make Crepes Suzette from Julia and Jacques' recipe. By the time I'd finished whipping out those suckers, the ache had me in its sight and I was felled a minute after Allison left. I didn't even get to eat the rest of my crepe. Stupid tooth. Maybe I was hoping an obscene amount of butter would heal it. St. Julia! Why can't it be so? Butter should fix everything!

(no photos of butter or of crepes.)

My bed is calling to me now, and for once in my life I think I'm going to listen. Here's hoping I can sleep before the spasms return.

Oh wait, someone who was not me got a hold of my camera.

I guess there were pictures on this blog after all.

I Cried You the Mississippi

I just got done with our taxes and we owe money—about the cost of the plasma screen at Costco that we will not be getting, like, ever.

This would be no big deal for most people, however I have the incredible ability to take a small setback and turn it into the Panic Beyond Description. Not only will we not be stimulating the economy through ill-conceived squandering, but it’s quite possible that I will never be able to buy anything again as long as I live.

We will have to eat cereal. No, we’ll be eating rice and beans. I could take rice and beans, but the thought of the howls of disappointment from the other half of the family makes me grimace (which sucks, because I’ll never be able to pay out for wrinkle cream.)

We won’t be able to afford a home because who would lend to people who owe a plasma’s worth to Big Brother? Even if they would lend, how could we possibly afford a house with these albatross-ian debt obligations weighing on our necks? It’s like the world is crumbling around us even more than Anderson Cooper says it is (hold me.)

At this rate, there will be no more Haagen-Daz, just 5 pound econo-ice cream tubs on sale for $1.99—protective ice layer included—and unlimited toilet paper to dab the tears. No matter how bad it gets, I’m always springing for bathroom tissue. We are not a ‘bring-your-own’ establishment.

What if we run out of dish soap and I have to use gravel that I chopped myself in my food processor until it was the right grade of fine grit? What if my children need new clothes? It’s re-using plastic Target bags for us—at least then I won’t be annoyed when E.G. rips a hole in his ‘knee’; I can just tie on another bag!

My only form of live entertainment will be Rock Band; the video game played with plastic guitars and an inordinate and entirely uncalled-for amount of living room strutting. There will be, however, no downloading of any more songs, not even if Stephen and The Colberts release their long-anticipated follow-up to Charlene (I’m Right Behind You.)

OK, that’s not that far different than how my life is right now.

So there’s that.

All Sorts of Peeps of Easter Goodness (Right.)

We’ve been under hostile fire for more than a week. El Guille volleyed cough after barking cough across the room and dinner table. He coughed in our faces during TV-time begging, secret whispering, story time, and his (lately) crushing hugs. No surprise that by Saturday afternoon, J, Proximo, and yours truly were also coughing and sick.

Now, when I’m sick, I’m just sick. I try to carry on. You know, because there isn’t a dishes fairy. When J is sick, as we’ve covered before, the world should stop, shudder, and weep in his name. He is also grumpy. Guess who else is grumpy? The children. So what do I do when I’m sick and they’re sick? I’M THE REFERREE, which I just love. Haven’t had the lovely opportunity to mediate between an angry, decongestant-popping husband and a whiny, snot-dripping child? Well then, you just deserve a cookie, don’t you? The child ignores most of your pleading suggestions to knock it off, while your husband tries not to bellow at small infractions.

On Saturday night we took full advantage of our children’s inabilities to tell time and had dinner and then a bath an hour earlier. While in the tub, E.G. complained that his ear still hurt from when the pediatrician looked at it. He examined E.G. on Tuesday; this was Saturday.

What is an ear infection? Ding! (Sometimes I pretend like my life has a running quiz commentary.) Maybe that's why E.G. wasn't listening to me and made me repeat everything two or three times--he couldn't actually hear. I am such an awesome mom.

I broke the news to E.G. that we were going to the doctor:

“DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EAR HE WILL MAKE IT HURT MORE DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EARS YOU CAN'T PLEASE DON'T LET HIM!”

The nice PA examined E.G. and blessed him with both an ear infection and croup.

The croup?

That’s what that cough was?

The croup. That’s so Anne with an ‘e’. I declare, Marilla will have my hide if I don’t remember to return directly from the pharmacy with a new bottle of cordial. 

Oh, the pharmacy.  They handed me a bag filled with items and charged my card but didn't actually put the antibiotics into the sack, making us do an awkward double child hand-off and sending J back to the store at 11:13pm (just shy of his own inevitable and much prophesied demise) for the miracle liquid.

So that’s why I’m getting used to running the shower in the dark at 2:38 am while holding a barking child (reason 5,653,009 to not have a dog: children eventually stop barking with the right medication,) and that’s why the boys didn’t wear their Easter outfits on Sunday (but you can see their exact outfits on LJ’s cute boys, along with everything *cough* I totally would have done had we not been a cesspool of viral love,) and why I have to remember that being patient with sick children and sick husband is a skill that needs exercise.

Now, hand Mama a cookie.

Threats Are My M.O.

So Blue fell flat on their personal foul faces.

And I may have ended up on the kitchen floor crying tonight because my house is so filthy and I couldn't get to all/any of the housework I wanted done today and I still walk too slow so my errands take way longer than they should.*

And when Other Half said, "Just give me a list of what you want done,"I may have seriously contemplated taking a sharpie and writing on the fridge:

1. Clean the house
2. No really, clean it
3. Go ahead


I did, however, find:

A.) New jeans on sale that fit me and are cute
B.) Chup and The Chief at Target
C.) My sisters at Target
D.) A Seth Meyers interview on my iPod

I kept a promise, too. When I was small my mother was always working or cleaning and never had time to play with us. I made a pact with me that when I grew up I'd make sure I played instead of cleaned. So when Guille and Proximo lined up book after book in front of the piles and piles of laundry, I read the books.

I even used the reading finger to follow along and didn't skip any words.

So now I am going to:

i. Take a shower
ii. Crawl into bed
iii. Hope the sickness threatening goes away
iv. Leave the laundry in the chair for another day
v. Wonder if you've ever cried over housework





*Did that run-on sentence make you cry? Sorry.

Viscosity and Patience

It started as a winking boast to friends--"I'm a really good cook, don't waste me by assigning me to bring the chips or the drinks." Oh yes, I was going to bring the best cake to the holiday party. The cake that would make knees weak and ladies faint.

As usual, pride goeth before the fall.

I started with the meringue layers. Look how perfect they are:

The cake stand was selected to compliment and shined to deserve it.

I sliced and caramelized the local pears in butter and sugar.

I cooked the cranberries into a glossy red sweet-tart filling with marmalade accents.
The plan was to layer the crispy meringue with whipped white chocolate ganache and fill with the caramelized pears and cranberries. The layers would be alternated and ooze just slightly--rustic and delicious.

Time for the ganache. You heat the cream and add in the chopped chocolate. Stir until melted. You can pour it over a cake as a glossy coat, or cool the ganache until it's thick but pourable (a couple hours in the fridge.) When it's at the right viscosity you can whip it, like cream, and it makes a thicker, more flavorful whipped cream. It's insanely delicious.

The trick is the correct viscosity. I've waited too long before and had the ganache break into into pieces, like chips in cream. Eep. You have to melt and start over.

Tonight I went the opposite way...I didn't wait long enough.

The ganache, usually a thick and glossy affair turned into this...

Curds. Broken. Disaster.

I consult Internet. I add more warm cream to try to re-emulsify it. No dice. I melt the whole sucker again. It breaks. I add more cream. I whip extra cream and re-add the ganache in batches. It just gets worse. Nothing works. I have added THREE PINTS of cream to the Titanic.



We bring a Costco pie to the party.

I eat crow and deserve it.

Charge it!

All these days of clothing make me want to go shopping!

In fact, I've got a few benjamins burning a hole in my jean-clad posterior. I feel like I could drop a load of cash on the very first thing I see.

What will it be? A shiny new gadget, hot jewelry, a few new cozy sweaters, or a Welcome Fall! pedicure?

Anyone else on board for some retail therapy?

Math's hard! Let's go to the mall!





Or we could go back into debt to buy a new furnace and a new water heater.



You know, because the kids just won't stop complaining about their ice cold baths. The little one lost his nose to frostbite a while back. The big one started a fire to warm his urchin hands in the (plastic) kitchen garbage can. I made a really funny joke using the word Dickensian and got nothing but blank stares in return.


Wimps.




I should sell them to work in a button factory.

The World's Tiniest Violin

Tonight Kanye West performed at the Grammy awards with "Mama" shaved into his head. It was, of course, a tribute to his mother who passed away just a couple months ago.

That is why we've decided to shave El Guille's head with the word "Mami", because I am at death's door.

I haven't been this sick in years; this is my first time being so sick I couldn't even care for my children, so sick I couldn’t even watch TV! Remember all those times when I scoffed at the flu vaccine? Oh, I did, and crow tastes awful. I excused myself from work a little early Friday night when the chills were making it hard to concentrate. I had that terrible feeling while driving home that I probably shouldn't be driving. I slid into bed as soon as I got home and well...I think I writhed with fever for the next two days.

Aches, chills, hot sweats, exhaustion, sore throat, hacking cough, congestion, I'm just a big bag of hotness right now. A silver lining: Other Half cleaned the whole house and finished all the laundry. Major propers to him. Usually he says, along with most of male-dom, “Don’t worry about it!” by which they mean, “Don’t worry about it, because I don’t worry about it. I won’t actually do anything, but I don’t want you to have to worry about it.” This time he stepped up and made it happen (at least I think it was him, I was too out of it to really understand what all that clanging and vacuuming was all about.)

I've mostly lost my voice, and when it does come back, it hurts too much to talk. Other Half and I often have deep discussions on life, the universe, and everything after. Tonight, during an impromptu debate on evolution, I had to whisper out my arguments. When even that began to hurt, I eventually had to just change the subject, "Hey, I really don't like basketball."

My brain works OK when fever is under control, but the rest of my body is mounting a convincing revival of La bohème. Maybe they’ll start to put up street signs and messages spelled out with plastic cups overpasses begging people to hold vigil for me, which would be awesome. I have about 2 minutes of lucidity left before my medicine wears off and I become prostrate once again.

Seriously, having to lay down for two hours for every 5 minutes of stand up time isn't all it's cracked up to be. I am terrified of being alone at home tomorrow with just me and the babes. I can only snap at El Guille with my actual fingers. With my voice gone, I resort to a four-year-old's version of charades to get him to do my bidding. I hope he and the baby don't duel at forty paces while I'm passed out on the couch.

So forgive me if I don’t call you, or appear in public, because talking hurts and I’m infectious. I live a glamorous life, simply g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s.

Wherein Voting Nearly Kills Me

Caution:
long post ahead, most of it not involving politics, some medical procedures are obliquely referred to, lost objects are detailed.
Read at your own risk.

Someplace between Sunday and Monday, I lost my phone. Sometimes I don't mind losing my phone, I even consider it a minor act of rebellion.

On the way home from work I had to stop by the store to pick up a few essentials for dinner. I was already pushing it for an on time arrival at home. I finished my rapid shopping and checked out (10 minutes total!) and hopped back into the car. My car key.

My car key was not on my key chain. All the other keys were in their respective places but the one key I needed was not there. I searched the slush and mud puddles on the wet asphalt, knowing that my small black and silver key would just jump out at me from all the white and black 'weather' on the ground. I scanned the floors of the grocery store. I retraced my steps through produce, checking in between the bins and then in the middle of the gourmet cheeses (I bought brie, OK?) It was then that I knew I had to call my husband. Only I didn't have a cell phone, so I had to make like I was thirteen again and ask to use the cashier's phone. Ugh. I don't like calling him when things like this happen because he invariably thinks I'm just being a space cadet.

"Well, did you look for it?"
"Of course I looked for it."
"But did you really check? Did you retrace your steps?"
"Uhm, yes, I really did check; it's gone."
"Did you look in the store?"

Sigh.

Why is it that even though he can't find the can of beans in front of him in the pantry, the juice in the fridge, a child's socks on top of their clothes, or his shoes when they are in front of his face, yet he thinks he'd be all superior at finding a tiny black and silver key in 6 inches of slush in the dark of evening?

"Look, I'm going to walk around the store and maybe I know someone and maybe they can give me a ride home, OK?"
"Alright. In the meanwhile, here's what you're going to do: You're going to look all over the store and and really check this time."

Sigh.

I didn't know anyone at the store that night, so I had to pretend I was thirteen (again) and calling home to find out if my mom could come pick me up from the waterpark. Other Half bundled up the kids and met me at the store. He then asked me 20 questions about the lost key, trying to figure out someway to make it my fault that the key got off the key chain (he'd make an excellent attorney.) I decided not to press the issue with him--sometimes it's hard to make him understand that things just happen, it really doesn't have to be someone's fault, and that the key really is gone.

(Plus, let's be honest, if my car gets stolen, I wouldn't care one bit.)

********************************

The next morning my doctors said they could fit me in for a procedure I needed, if I could come in that afternoon. Excellent, I thought, I should have time to go vote before I go to work too. I went to the polling place before noon but it was crazy! It was like a house party! There were beer bongs and togas and...just kidding. Mostly there were elderly folks packed as tightly as their walkers would allow. I decided I could take my chances after work.

"Did they explain to you that you needed to take Ibuprofen before you came?" asked the nurse as I arrived for my procedure.
"No," I said.
"Oh, they left a message on your voicemail, it says here."
Voicemail? Oh, right, on the lost phone.

No matter, I had the procedure anyway. What I didn't know was that usually, after that kind of procedure, you're supposed to have someone drive you home and then you're supposed to take it easy. Well, first of all, I didn't have anyone to drive me home, and second, I was driving back to work, not home. Third, I couldn't call anyone anyway since I don't have a phone.

I walked carefully up the stairs to my office, breathing like a contraction with every step. I sat at my desk trying to ignore my screaming inside. Every time I got up, I walked with a gangsta limp.

Don't you hate how people ask you how you're doing and you are just supposed to say, "Fine. I'm fine" when you're not fine, you're in pain and feel terrible. However, you also don't want to get into the details on exactly what you had medically done because it's really none of their business and you don't want to have to share? Yeah.
"Oh, I'm fine." Wince.

After work, I met Other Half and the kids at a birthday party. Other Half handed me Proximo. I thought at that moment that 19 pounds of baby was probably a stupid weight for a baby. I limped around the party (my gangsta limp had lightened to a chola limp by that point.) I decided to take the baby and try my chances at the polls again.

I showed up to my regular polling place, found a parking space, and made it into the still crowded school. That's where I saw a sign that said that my precinct had been moved to an entirely different location. The polls close at 8pm. It was 7:45. Right. Baby and I made like limping bats out of hell and drove to the other place.

I walked in to find my friend Lindy at the end of the line in the hallway. I was so happy to have someone to talk to. "You're just getting here?" Lindy exclaimed, "The line is taking two hours." "Two hours? Two HOURS?" We passed the time chatting. Lindy looked adorable in her maternity clothes and had procured a chair on wheels. We traded off in the chair, sweating in the hottest polling place known in the free world.

About 30 minutes in I realized that Lindy wasn't at the end of the line, she was in the crook of the line; it kept going, wrapping back down the hallway. I hope nobody was too upset that I jumped into the line, but I couldn't bear the thought that I'd have to wait two hours, in pain, holding a hyper baby as his bedtime came and went. But yes, voting is that important.

I have to say that voting can be fun.

You see neighbors and friends you haven't seen in years. People that you knew as a child, friends of your parents; it was relatively festive, you know, for a TWO HOUR WAIT. My neighbor told me that she'd been to the polling places five times at different times during the day trying to find less of a wait, no such luck. I had to stick it out even though my body thought I was being ridiculous.

Special thanks to my town for having closed a bunch of polling stations to save money. People were not happy, threats of letters to the editor were made. I was glad Lindy was there to giggle with--I might talk her into designing my nonexistent garden yet.

I thought about calling Other Half on the way home to tell him about my day.

I really have to find my phone.

Crazy

Sometimes, when I think life is getting the better of me and my brain, I remember a conversation I had with a hardscrabble Janis Joplin fan, who happened to be my employee. Carol was from New York and had fading rose tattoos on her arm. She’d tell me about how pushed around Janis had been and how all those people in Port Arthur, Texas had something awful coming to them in the next life. Come to think of it, she looked just like Janis. I liked Carol, especially when she told me stories about how her mom got caught cheating or when she stopped in the middle of the Long Island Expressway to rescue a kitten she named Freeway. Carol had one of the biggest hearts I have ever known.

It had been a particularly stressful week and I said to Carol in a rather flip way that I thought I was going crazy. Carol stopped smiling and her face fell into a grave visage of her normal self. She said as seriously as possible, “No, you are not going crazy. If you say to yourself ‘I’m going crazy’ you’re not going crazy.” It turns out that Carol spent 15 years working in asylums in and around New York City. She had seen “real crazy.” Some of the stories she told me at the book counter that day were shocking.

At the end of her words she looked me directly in the eye and said, once more and with feeling,

“Real crazies never think they are crazy. If you ever think to yourself, ‘I’m going crazy’ you are absolutely not going crazy.”

The One Where I Tell the Truth

Thomas the Train got his revenge on us by infecting my child with strep. It’s the bad kind of strep with a horrid rash--the kind of rash that turns into Scarlet Fever. El Guille got a shot from the doc and will be fine. I just hate seeing his beautiful skin marred by an ugly bacterial invader. So Tiffany was right, Thomas the Train is a rat bastard.

I haven’t really talked much about what’s been going on with me since, well, it’s a dicey area. Last fall, right after Thanksgiving break, my company told us that they were shutting down the offices and moving everything to our HQ in Seattle on my due date. They didn’t plan for it all to happen on my due date, but that’s how it worked out. I toyed with moving up there, I even went up to interview for some positions. It just wasn’t going to work out, to tell the truth. What, was I going to pay a second mortgage payment every month for my kids to be in daycare? That’s not why I work. I don’t work just to work; I certainly don’t want to work to finance my kids' daycare. A ‘career’ is not that important.

So since last November I’ve been living with the specter of my breadwinning job going away. What was I going to do? Go out job hunting at 7.5 months? Please, hire me, by the way, I’m going to need April and May off. Other Half was going to be doing student teaching (a fulltime job for free) leaving precious little time to get another job. I wanted him to finish school, that’s the priority. Work strung me along promising me a maternity leave, then removing that possibility (they don’t pay maternity leave.) My boss tried to negotiate something for me. He succeeded, but then he left before we could get it all in writing so the deal evaporated. The place was as accommodating as a generic company would be. Even though the offices shut down, I went on unpaid leave to have the baby. They promised me that I’d be able to work from home when I came back from leave. I did that, going back to work a couple weeks ago. Well, it didn’t work out. So as of tomorrow, I don’t have a job. You know, a job, the kind of thing that pays for mortgages and groceries. I can’t complain too much, I’m just lucky they took pity on me and let me stay on insurance through the baby and leave.

You don’t even know what it’s like for me to voice even this kind of anonymous criticism. I don’t discuss work because I figure it’s private and certainly should not be logged forever online. I will say that being super pregnant and worried for months about how we were going to put food on the table and pay the hospital was hell. I cried and cried.

I cried for months.

Other Half tried to reassure me and remind how blessed we were, and are. It’s true, we are blessed, but I’m also a horriblizer who can’t help but think the worst (broke, uninsured, out on the street, starving.) When you grow up poor you worry about ending up there again, even if the likelihood of living on powdered milk and Deseret peanut butter is pretty low.

Tonight I’m writing all of this down. I am acknowledging how rough the past months have been. I’m giving myself permission to be upset about how everything went down.
I have some options on the table for work. Good, even great options. However, I think I am mourning my last job—even though that job ended emotionally months ago, I’ve been stringing along wishing that it wasn’t the case.

As you know, I went and had a baby in the middle of all of this. I think that worrying about how we were going to feed our kids just made the natural baby blues even worse. It has been so hard to shake the blues with this baby. He’s such a beautiful, easy baby. I am so lucky. That doesn’t change that I have spent the post partum weeks trying to pull myself together. Other people; family, friends, are usually how I pull myself out of this kind of funk. Holed up in the house hasn’t helped me, but I haven’t been able to leave it much either.

I find myself wondering how other moms do it. How do they handle a preschooler and a new baby, let alone other kids? Other Half has been at home with me since the semester ended and I still can’t keep it together. I feel guilty that I can barely function with a husband at home doing much of the housework for me. I feel guilty thinking of all the other moms out there that do it without help; why can’t I? What’s my damage? Then the other part of me says HOGWASH. I shouldn’t feel guilty that he has kept the house limping along, that he entertains El Guille while I squeeze in a few moments of sleep. This is the second baby where I've worked up until the day I delivered. He can do another load of dishes.

I know I’m not the only mom out there that has days where she lives for her kids’ bedtime, either. I have good days and bad ones. The days often depend on whether I slept for 4 hours or no hours. I think I'm well enough to start doing some yoga and walking again, that should help. I hope this summer is a good one; I could use a few good months.

I should go, there’s a baby who wants me to stare at him and make googly noises. I think I can pull it together enough to do that—especially since he’s finally smiling. Go babies.

My Mind Grapes

I have a case of the Bad Moods. As shocking as it might seem, it’s not at all the responsibility of the parasite that dwells within. In fact, the baby that keeps kicking my bladder is one of the best parts of being me right now.
“Cheer up! It’s the holiday season!” you might be saying. I know, but it’s also the season of being reminded that the food banks are out of food for needy people, that a wall of mud buried the Phillipines and that a million other horrible things are happening RIGHT NOW.

Come wallow, won’t you?

I still don’t like Christmas music. I thought I’d gotten over it last year, but I haven’t. I spent so many years working in retail at Christmas that the music still sends me to a dark and dreary place. I don’t care what decade or century the music comes from, every saccharine note makes my frown turn that much more upside down.

Everyday I get a piece of news that is worse, or more frustrating than the day before. Some of the things I’d normally do to cheer myself up, like a pedicure, a massage, or a new outfit/accessory are out. I didn’t get the raise I was promised so we are desperately trying to save for maternity leave. So as much as I’d like this or that, I’m going to have to put them off, you know, so that we can pay the mortgage. Oh—I am so cheerful!

My friend’s husband, aka Cornholio, has walked out on her and their little kids. Why? For no reason, really and truly. Well, there was something about him being tired of just "paying bills" and "driving kids around" and wanting to find himself, but that sounds like no reason to me, no reason at all--well, no reason for an ADULT anyway. I want to be angry at him and instead I am incredibly disappointed. What do you do with something like that? Watching someone use their agency to make the stupidest decision of their life and wounding the ones whom he should be holding most dear? Christmas joy!

I’d like to tell my iTunes shuffler that even though Cat Stevens is releasing a new album, giving interviews, and generally engaging in a marketing push, this is no excuse to randomize every other song to Peace Train. Jingle, jingle.

Norovirus- that’s what I self-diagnosed myself with when I had the stomach flu yesterday. I am NOT a hypochondriac, I swear, but sometimes the interweb can take all those symptoms and wrap them up in a package with a nice, neat name. A name like Norovirus. Don’t worry, I looked at all the possible viral gastroenteritis family members and settled on Norovirus as the culprit.
Since El Guille and his nana went through this on Monday, I considered the infection span and the ages of the participants. Likely source: the Meadow Wood Ward Christmsa Luau on Saturday night attended by nana and our own Typhoid Mary, El Guille.

Two days later, I was up every two hours exponentially removing my expensive Sundance Christmas party food from my body ($46.50 per person.) I had to go to the store first thing for provisions: ginger ale, broth, and for the good of all mankind, mouthwash. I’ve never really been dehydrated before. It’s a trip! Let me tell you! By sheer force of will, and also the desire to not become grocery store roadkill at Albertson’s, I made it to the exit instead of fainting at checkout. Deck the halls!

Come now, don't you have something you'd like to wallow about? Feel free to complain about family members too--just use the 'other' or 'anonymous' option when commenting. You can email me later that it was you who can't stand their new brother-in-law.

Update:
I went to the store tonight and saw Valentine's decorations out. VALENTINE'S. What is WRONG with people? Who for the love of Pete is actually buying Valentine's crap right now? If you are the one buying the Valentine's crap, you need to start taking those decorating dollars and donating them to your local homeless shelter, you complete wacko.