An Even More Perfect Union

I leave work at 3:00 on Fridays, which means instead of being getting my evening news fix from my pal Robert Siegel on NPR's All Things Considered, I'm forced to listen to PRI's The World. 

Today, on my 25-minute commute, I heard global perspectives on the outcomes of yesterday's Brexit vote. 

During the drive, I stared out the front window of my station wagon thinking not about the predictable traffic and roadways between me and my home, but instead thinking about the 17 million Britons who decided yesterday to leave the EU. 

The reasons for this too complicated for me to understand and certainly too complicated for me to explain. If you don't understand the Brexit vote, I invite you to read coverage in the New York Times and The Economist for two among the thousands of media perspectives on this historic decision by the people, for the people of the United Kingdom. 

One of the rationales given for the "leave" decision was the EU's demand that member nations comply with an open borders policy, making it possible for residents and workers to easily migrate between countries to live and work. And for older, less educated Britons who, like their American counterparts are suffering professional and economically, immigration became the easy scapegoat. One commentator on The World said a "leave the EU" campaign slogan was "Make Great Britain Great Again." 

This is a familiar refrain here in the U.S.

Which got me to thinking. 

What if we simply swapped voters? 

Think about it. The "Leave the EU" voters are kindred spirits of Donald Trump's base of support, while the "Remain in the EU" voters might be compared to Hillary Clinton supporters in their rational appreciation for the benefits that come with a nation state's investment in the collective whole. 

What if we invited the "Leave the EU" people to come live in America, hassle-free, and gave the Hillary supporters the same hassle-free option to move to the UK? 

Don't think about it. Just react. If you are a Hillary supporter, would you take the free pass to Europe? I know I would. 

Post your vote in the comments section. As with Brexit, we'll figure out the details later. 

Putting my bottle where my mouth is (or why I voted against expanding the beverage deposit law)

I voted against Ballot Question 2 in Massachusetts. And so did a majority of the Bay Staters, because it didn't pass.

I voted against it because the pro-side rhetoric claimed that it was an "anti-litter" bill.

But it wasn't an anti-litter bill. At least not in my opinion.

At its core, it *was* a "let's make litter more valuable so indigent people will pick it up" bill. (It was also a "let's make groceries more expensive for people who don't recycle" bill and a "let's make the manufacture and distribution of beverages in the Bay State more expensive because we need to have different bottles distributed here" bill.)

Chuckleheads will still throw their garbage on the ground. But, with an expanded bottle deposit law, more of the trash that clutters our roadways and neighborhoods will now have value. While the pro-side of of the ballot question didn't come out and say it, it seems fairly straightforward to me that indigent people will collect litter that has value. If we make our most prevalent litter - drink bottles - more valuable, homeless people will collect it. Ergo, our streets look cleaner, making ballot question 2 an anti-litter bill. Right?

Not to me. Instead, it felt underhanded, gross and exploitative.

I would rather we talked about the problems of homelessness, un- and under-employment that lead people to rely on collecting trash to make a living. I would rather we talk about the dynamics (laziness, lack of community- and self-respect) that lead jerks to throw their trash on the ground in the first place. And I would rather that we, as a society, make strategic decisions about if/how we want to address these problems, so we can compel our neighbors, corporate beverage manufacturers, philanthropists and lawmakers to direct fund to support solutions to our persistent problems. I know there will always be people who "choose" to live on the streets, and who will always "choose" to collect bottles and cans as their form of income, but I'm not psyched about expanding this as an option for people who are in dire straights.

What I most certainly DON'T want is a subversive bill designed to support - rather than prevent - indigence. And that's how I understood Massachusetts Ballet Question 2.

So, in the spirit of putting my bottle where my mouth is, I have decided that BMG and I will put a nickel in a kitty for every bottle and can we buy that *would* have been covered by the expanded bottle deposit bill. At some point during the year, we will make a donation of the money to  homelessness prevention/work support program serving our community.

I'm doing a dump run this morning. We have 10 Gatorade and Orangina bottles ready to go to the transfer station. So, I'll put $0.50 in the kitty. And when I get back, I'll start researching community organizations that are making a difference in preventing and alleviating the factors that contribute to homelessness. Suggestions welcome.

Narcisselfie: A new word

Narcisselfist - someone who shares an irregular number of random self-portrait on social networking sites for no other apparent reason than to passively solicit some sort of empathic reaction from friends both real and virtual. I experience narcisselfists as needy, attention grabbers - regardless of whether the reaction they seek is a "You look mahvelous" or "Gah! I'm so sorry that happened to you!"

I understand selfies taken and posted when something extraordinary is happening - sharing the euphoria of a visit to the Taj Mahal (or the Grand Canyon or even America's Stonehenge), documenting a special date with family or a dear friend, or even showing off a particularly flattering haircut. To me, these selfies are best understood with clear explanations - so no opportunity for misinterpretation of the intent of the photo. "Look! I'm at the Taj Mahal! "lucky" or "Yup, I really DID get my hair chopped off. I love it."

But selfies taken and shared for selfies' sake? I read them as pure, irritating narcissism.

Worst Way to Die

Transfixed and horrified by the news of the death of 37 year-old Jeff Bush of Seffner, Florida this weekend, I have decided that death by sinkhole may, in fact, be the worst way to die.

Photo by ABC Action News-WFTS TV.

The two grossest things I ever saw at the gym were...

Yesterday, at the Planet Fitness in Hingham, the guy next to me on the upright stationary bike was pedaling hard and fast. When I mounted my bike he had already cycled 11 miles at an average RPM (revolution per minute) or 97. (My pace, in comparison is 88-91 RPM.) About 2 miles into my "ride," out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a puddle on the floor. "Wha?!" I thought. "Is his water bottle leaking?" I look a little closer and realize the guy next to me is sweating so hard that salty human brine is literally pouring off of him. The puddles on either side of his bike was fast encroaching on my space, with the square footage of the water increasing so rapidly that I thought I might not be able to dismount without slipping in his sweat.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Because that's what I did when I realized, if I stayed where I was any longer, that I would have to walk through the evidence of this guy's workout in order to leave.

So, I decided to get off the bike and find something else to do to get my heart rate up.

But, this isn't the grossest thing I've ever seen at the gym.

"What IS the grossest thing you've ever seen at the gym Clownface?" you clamor, wanting more.

More than ten years ago, while in the common area of the locker room at the HealthWorks in Porter Square Cambridge, I was changing into exercise clothes. The locker room had several pods - with wood paneled lockers clustered around a central bench that could easily accommodate people on all four sides. I was in a pod with one other person who was also partially undressed - either wrapping up or preparing to start her fitness routine. We did not interact, or even acknowledge the other person was there.

Now this is an important detail, because I HAVE to believe that the other woman in the pod with me forgot there was another human being in her presence because what happened next was the most gauche thing another woman can do in the presence of a stranger. She reached between her legs and pulled out a bloodied tampon. Yup. That's what she did. She inspected it, then wrapped it in tissue, and set aside for her next trip to the toiler area.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Maybe a lot? Yeah, me too.

How to spend a windfall (or yet another way my childhood shaped my life)

My best friend and next door neighbor from childhood, Cindy Scott, and I practically shared a birthday. Mine is June 4 and hers is June 6. We also shared friends, so it was natural that we'd share birthday celebrations.

What we didn't share was socioeconomic status. I was raised by a practical and powerful, single mother. My father was the prototypical deadbeat dad, and our financial situation fluctuated wildly. By contrast, Cindy's parents remained married until her mom's death in 2005, and they were solidly middle class. Her family had Oreos, and bought cold cuts from the deli counter, which was proof to me that Cindy's family was in fact, rich.

Which leads me to my story.

One year, right after Cindy and I turned eight, we were going through our birthday loot. Me? I got $5 in a card from my Gramma. And Cindy? More like $20. In the spirit of continuing our shared birthday celebration, Cindy's mom offered to take us both to the local K-Mart to spend our birthday money. My mom agreed and told me to buy socks. Little did she know that Cindy had generously agreed to share her money with me. So, in 1978, with $25 and our eight year old desires, we headed to the Big K. And we came home with Sean Cassidy posters (dreamy), giant DIY color by number posters with lux markers, and handfuls of other impulsive and age-appropriate shwag. I remember feeling unfettered pleasure and the sense of having everything I could ever want.

But the feeling did not last long. Because I got into trouble for squandering my windfall on something I wanted rather than something I needed. (My mom would say she was trying to teach me responsibility rather than introducing me to self-denial and guilt, which, nearly 35 years later, continues to dominate my financial life.)

And now my current dilemma.

I recently won a $50 gift card to my favorite store in the universe, Wegmans.

So what do I do with it? Spend it on a treat, or save it for something I need?

What would be a treat? Take out from one of their on-site restaurants for me and my friends, a fancy cake and fixings for a nice dinner for my upcoming birthday, or a flower arrangement for myself.

What are more practical uses? Snacks and supplies for my next family gathering in upstate NY, supplies for baking and wrapping Christmas cookies this year, birthday and other cards to have in hand for sending to loved ones, or supplies for the house after the renovations at completed.

What would you do?

Irony

Would it be considered ironic to say, "Now that my car was wrecked by a bus I have NO WAY to get to work," if, in fact, the only way to get to work is on a bus?

I don't think it is ironic. It just sucks.

Tolerating Intolerance

This middle-aged body has become lactose intolerant in the last six months. As the current partner and roommate of the provocateur at bowlofcheese.com cheese and other dairy treats have been an essential part of my life for a long time.

Needless to say, lactose intolerance is taking some adjustment.

I've been moving through Kubler-Ross' stages of grief as I mourn the loss of cheese. I started with denial. "What" This can't be true. It must be a stomach bug."

So I kept eating cheese and dairy. And I kept feeling bloated, crampy and uncomfortable.

Now? I vacillate between anger, bargaining, and depression.

What does this look like? I'm testing the boundaries of what I can and cannot eat (bargaining).

• A little bit of blue cheese on a salad - ok
• Caesar salad with Parmesan shavings - most assuredly not ok
• Homemade pizza with glassy soy cheese - fine, if you go for that sort of thing
• North End pizza with mozzarella - stomach churning
• Hollandaise on eggs Benedict - fine
• Croque madame at Brasserie Jo - never again
• Saag paneer - not so bad in small amounts
• Sour cream-based veggie dip - also do-able in small amounts

And the anger? The depression? At the grocery store, in restaurants and watching Top Chef and other food shows on tv when I realize there is one more thing to add to my list of foods I'll ever be able to eat a full (or even a half) serving of again:

1. Ice cream (Don't give me that "But you can have sorbet!" b.s. Sorbet is NOT the same as ice cream)
2. Grilled cheese sandwiches
3. Macaroni and cheese
4. New England clam chowder
5. Yogurt
6. Chicken cordon bleu (I didn't eat this a lot, or ever, but now I want it simply because I can't have it)
7. Cottage cheese
8. Nachos

The Lactaid pills (and their generic equivalent) don't seem to have much impact on the issue, and I'd rather just avoid the food that makes me feel so uncomfortable, than put my body through the turmoil of having to adjust to something I naturally shouldn't be eating.

And over time I'll pass into acceptance. I smile wryly when I hear myself saying "I love soy milk and coconut milk ice cream WAY better the original," and can see the bright side of savoring a nibble - rather than a gobble - of fine cheese when we visit places like Formaggio and Farmstead. This is my body. I can't fight it, so instead I'm trying to tolerate my intolerance.

*****

Have you adjusted to lactose intolerance? How'd you do it? If you HAD to give up dairy, what would you miss the most?

Gifts from Brisket

I wish my cat had the uncanny ability to bring me winning scratch tickets and Pringles.

Instead, Brisket, the more aggressive of the #meatcats, seems to have a sixth sense for finding and scavenging small mammal graveyards. He is also an excellent, stealthy and non-stop hunter. Just this week Brisket brought home:
1. Bunny rabbit, dead, and missing only one foot
2. One distraught duck, who was quacking non-stop because she was missing her chicks and upset about being chased around by a tiny grey cat
3. A live garter snake, which was ferried up the stairs and down the stairs, over and over again
4. The most raggedy and tiniest dead mouse I've ever seen.

This complements the 1 dead squirrel, two squirrel tails, and myriad moles and mice he has brought home over the course of his short kitty life.

Thank you Brisket, for sharing your gifts with me and BMG.

Love,
-CF-

Dr. Goldman, You're Fired!

Dr Goldman, my all-in-one primary care doctor of the last nine years, is fired. Here is the list of infractions over the last three months:
1. Flagging low blood sugar during my recent well check
2. Flagging high cholesterol during my recent well check
3. Telling me I am healthy as is and don't need to lose weight (I LOVE her for that, but it is bad advice)
4. Insisting I come in for an office visit for what I was pretty sure was a cold by telling me I might have pneumonia
Having an auto referral system that prevented a local urgent care clinic from getting a live time referral and therefore prevented me from getting what ended up being a strep-free throat culture closer to home.

This is not a story of customer service outrage, but rather a reflection on the messed up state of health care services in America. It took me 5.25 hours, a 1/4 tank of gas, and either visits to or communication with five separate medical practices to get a throat culture today. Let's review:
Step One: At 10:30 this morning, concerned about my fever seeming unabated I called my primary care doctor, who insisted I come in to the office for a throat culture.
Step Two: At 12:22 PM BMG checks in while on his lunch hour to see how I am doing. Hearing that I didn't feel well enough to make the 2-hour round trip drive, he suggests I might be able to get a throat culture closer to home.
Step Three: At 12:37 PM I call my primary care provider only to learn the entire office is shut down for an hour while they take lunch.
Step Four: At 1:06 PM, I call my primary care provider to ask if I can get a throat culture closer to home, like, for example, at the urgent care center at South Shore Hospital. They say, "Sure, you can do that."
Step Five: I hop into the car and drive to South Shore Hospital. Arriving at approximately 1:45 PM, I park, head to the concierge and ask for directions to the urgent care clinic. That's when I'm told they South Shore Hospital doesn't have an urgent care center. "I'm told they are concerned about competition with CVS," says the nice man at the hospital concierge desk.
Step Six: At 1:56 PM I call BMG who helps me find another medical practice in the area with "Urgent Care" in the practice name.
Step Seven: At 1:59 PM I call the new practice only to learn they don't provide urgent care services to anyone other than their patients. They give me the name of ANOTHER nearby medical practice.
Step Eight: At 2:02 PM I call what is now the fourth doctor's office I've talked with today, explain my need. They say "Sure you can come in."
Step Nine: At 2:22 I arrive at the fourth practice. It is sketchy inside, but I'm desperate. I explain my situation and they ask me if I'm in the market for a new doctor. I look at them and say, "I'd like to take care of my immediate need for a throat culture before I answer that question." The receptionist insists they can't see me without a referral from my doctor. I give them my doctor's phone number. They call and claim the phone just "rings and rings."
Step Ten: At 2:26 I call my primary care provider from my cell phone, and go through the voice activated referral line and submit a referral request. I hang up and tell the sketchy practice the referral has been requested. They say they won't see me if they can't talk to my doctor's office directly. My doctor's office won't talk with them directly and apparently the sketchy practice can't make a phone call.
Step Eleven: At 2:29 PM I leave in a sweaty huff and call BMG and tell him I'm giving up.
Step Twelve: Concerned about my apparent lack of concern for my health he (a) tells me again my doctor sucks and I need a new one, and (b) realizing that isn't helpful in the moment (after I scream, "That doesn't help me right now"), he finds a CVS 1-Minute Clinic a short 8 miles from home.
Step Thirteen: I drive back towards home to the CVS clinic. The medical provider administers a rapid strep test, affirms I don't have strep, and sends me home at 3:15 PM with an order to drink fluids and get plenty of rest.

Aughhh!

What if I didn't have a car? Or a cell phone? Or someone who could help me with web research during my muddled state? What if I were toting kids around with me on this stupid odyssey?

It is no wonder to me that America's health status relative to the cost per capita spent on health services is lowest among industrialized, shoot, even developing, nations. If I was more than a little sick, had kids, or was using public transportation I would have stopped at Step Five and gone directly to the emergency room. As it was I had resources, including a degree in public health, that led me to make the choices I made today (for better or for worse).

And it is with these resources that I'm going to find a new all-in-one primary care provider who can see me with minimal travel hassles the next time I'm too sick to drive to work.

Where does my time go?

I spend an average of 8 hours a night sleeping.

My work schedule is the equivalent of 7 hours a day working every day of the week.

My commuting hours are the equivalent of 1.5 hours a day, every day, driving to and from work.

That's 56 hours a week sleeping, and nearly 60 hours a week working or going to work.

That leaves 7.5 hours a day or 52.5 hours a week for cooking, grocery shopping, cleaning, playing, relaxing, gardening, running errands, parenting my cats, and having fun with Jeff.

Something isn't right here.

The Abolitionist

If I were Queen of the Universe I would abolish the following things:
1. Horizontal striped outfits for plus sized people,
2. Transition lenses for children, particularly adolescents and young teens,
3. White pants in all sizes
4. Black sneakers, particularly with white socks.
Some might say I am restricting human liberty. This may be the case. However, there are examples of US law that have held up in court that put the interests of the people over individual freedoms. Using this as my precedent, I would abolish the manufacture and sale of the above items in the interest of helping every human being look their best to avoid teasing and social branding on the basis of clothing choices.

Worst nightmare

The Living Social app on Facebook recently invited me to identify the five things that terrify me the most. On my list were snakes, becoming homeless, having all of my limbs amputated, gaining weight, and being brain dead. What is on your list?

If I were a parent I could imagine one of the things that would be on my list is having my child taken away by social services. And this nightmare is happening to a friend of mine right now.

Put yourself in their shoes for just a moment, if you can bear it. Imagine every waking moment filled with a yawning emptiness created by the absence of your child. Would you feel sadness? Anger? As you stare into this abyss realize that you are also required to muster the energy to think aggressively and strategically about what to wear to court, how to stage your home for the case management visits, choreographing interactions with your sweetheart, deciding who to tell to garner support without losing too much face among family and friends - all in the interest of convincing social workers, lawyers, judges that you are a loving and capable parent - not a sad, depressed and overwhelmed parent. Or a furious and bitter parent. Could you do it? I don't know if I could do it.

My heart aches for this little family. I'm loathe to read updates that come by email for fear that the child will be permanently separated from its family. Even if the case is settled in their favor, their lives will never be the same.

I saw a snake in the front yard yesterday afternoon. A long garter snake. It startled me but didn't terrify me. I'm not a parent but merely having a friend who is living what I imagine is among a parent's worst nightmares is obsessively scaring me more than I could imagine. I hope I never have to live through my worst nightmare - being a bystander to someone else's greatest terror is bad enough.

My life with poison ivy

This morning I convinced myself that my repeated bouts with poison ivy is the result of childhood re-enactments of the heroics of the Justice League of America where I was ALWAYS assigned the role of the villainess, yup, you guessed it, Poison Ivy.

The first time I remember an allergic reaction to poison ivy was on a family camping trip to Lewey Lake in the Adirondacks. I don't have any idea how I got it or what it felt like. But I do remember taking repeated showers and using Lava soap to scrub my body. I have poison ivy again and it itches like crazy. And one of the sets of rashes has become infected. And in my effort to treat the infection, I've given myself ANOTHER allergic reaction, this time to a topical antibiotic. After a trip to the ER I'm now on three different types of medication to treat the infection and have a divot in my right arm where the infection is the worse.

Poison ivy is an allergic reaction to a plant oil called urshiol found in the omnipresent and chameleon-like poison ivy plant. Poison ivy plants can have anywhere from 3-9 leaves (not just three), change color, can be bushlike or ivy like or a ground cover. It grows in marshy areas, woody areas and on beaches. Those of us who are allergic aren't even safe from DEAD PLANTS because urushiol is found in the leaves, the stems, the stalk and the roots and is potent even if the plant is technically dead. Urushiol is also found in poison oak and poison sumac. I wish I were a botanist or had a photographic memory. Because, while I know that anything with the word "poison" in its name should be avoided, I can't seem to remember what poison ivy looks like.



Urushiol is slowly absorbed into the skin and the allergic reaction starts once the urushiol has really settled in - usually 12-48 hours after exposure. That's right as much as 48 hours later! My brother-in-law introduced me to called Tecnu, an anti-poison ivy wash that. If used within 8 hours of exposure Tecnu can significantly reduce the allergic reaction. From the smell of the stuff I imagine Tecnu uses petroleum mixed with soap to wash the oil off. I'm afraid to let my cats near me after I've washed with the stuff because it smells so much like gasoline. There is also a Tecnu Extreme that has microbeads in it that abrade the skin and feels wonderful if you are even the slightest bit itchy.



The key to Tecnu's effectiveness is knowing when you've been exposed so you can wash right away. Tecnu's window of effectiveness is within 8 hours of exposure. BUT, the allergic reaction usually begins in 12-24 hours. So, once those itchy red bumps and blisters appear, you are simply left to cope. Which is what usually happens to me. (If you want to know what the rash looks like, visit the online "Poison Ivy Skin Rash Hall of Fame".)

However, even if you can't stop the skin reaction, you can prevent yourself from getting re-exposed by washing EVERYTHING that might have come in contact with the oil at the time of exposure. During this last bought I washed every piece of clothing I had, threw away a pair of shoes and a washcloth, washed sheets, comforters and futon covers, and doused my gardening tools liberally with alcohol. Urushiol seems to NEVER go away. So, if I touched something that got the oil on it - or something that touched something that got the oil on it - it could set off a different and separate reaction.

I've read figures that say between 15% and 85% of the population is allergic to urushiol. If the higher figure is true then I really should buy stock in some of the companies that make poison ivy itch relief agents. In my experience:

• 24 allergy tabs with antihistamines work pretty well. On my current bout with the urushiol allergy I'm finding that the 24-hour tabs take about 2 hours to kick in. Which leaves me in excruciating agony for 2 hours. Why excruciating? Because you aren't supposed to itch the blisters or the rash. Not because you can infect other people with the rash (poison ivy isn't contagious), but because breaking the rash can lead to an infection which can lead to blood poisoning.


• Cortaid 10 as a topical anti-itch agent stinks. Cort-aid doesn't dry quickly enough and maybe staves off the itching for only an hour or two. The wetter the rash stays the worse it feels.


• Calamine lotion or a product like Ivarrest is satisfying because the entire rash can be visibly covered. This makes me feel like I'm doing SOMETHING to soothe the discomfort. I'm not sure it really helps with the itch and in fact is pretty messy. Particularly if the allergic reaction is in an awkward place. My current allergy is on the underside of both arms AND on one complete side of my torso. It is hard to wait for calamine to dry before putting my arms down. As a result, most of my clothing is covered in lotion and needs to be washed all over again.


• Covering with lotion is okay. Covering the rash or the blisters with band-aids is terrible. Remember, the goal is to dry out the rash and let it "breathe." If a blister breaks, loosely cover it with gauze fixed with surgical tape.


• Drying out the rash with alcohol washes is recommended. I'm afraid of the ouchiness and have never done this.


• Hot showers are heavenly, as are warm oatmeal baths (like with an Aveeno brand oatmeal product. Something about the wet heat provides itching relief. But, be careful of the scope of the heat and the length of the shower or soak. Why? Because sweating makes the itchiness worse. There is a fine line between a blissfully comforting hot shower or bath and a gale of sweat-induced body shaking itches.


• When the rash is really bad or doesn't go away after 12 days or is in sensitive parts, one can go to the doctor to get steroid shots and pills and prescription creams to address the problem. By Monday, June 1st, I'll have been to the doctor three times for this horrible itchy episode. Sigh.

The takeaway is this. Poison ivy stinks. And I'm a dope for repeatedly getting into it. I'm now six hours into my latest round of treatment. Antihistamines (to stop the itching), prednisone (for itching and swelling), and Bactrim (to kill the agents causing the infections). My infected arm is covered in a 4x4 gauze pad fastened with paper tape. And my arm, right now, doesn't hurt. It is a beautiful day and I shouldn't go outside because of sun sensitivity due to the meds AND the problem with sweating and itching. I'm not supposed to drink alcohol either because of the possible drug reactions.

The good news is the medicine is working and I'm not yearning to peel my skin off to make the itching stop. My kittens are sitting beside me snoozing. And there is a bowl of fat-free, sugar-free pudding mixed with sugar-free cool whip waiting for me on the counter. I have the names of three tree companies I can call to inquire about poison ivy removal services so I can feel like I'm really taking action to protect myself. And I've just arrived at the startling murder part of the story in the latest mystery I've plucked from BMG's considerable collection of paperback mysteries. So, I'll stay inside, regretting getting into this mess in the first place, and relax.

Thumbs Down: Generic sliced cheese food

In a panic about the state of the economy I bought a package of generic sliced cheese food while grocery shopping a couple of weeks ago. And not the store brand, but even more generic than the store brand. "Guaranteed Value American Sandwich Slices."

Tonight I had the opportunity to taste the individually wrapped American sandwich slice when I made a grilled cheese food sandwich to accompany my chicken noodle soup for dinner. BMG, a cheese connoisseur who has eaten many a sliced cheese food sandwich, generously remarked that the generic generic cheese tastes like plastic. He is being far too kind to the people at the Guaranteed Value Sliced Cheese Food Factory. Because it actually tasted like hot spit filled with sand in what was masquerading as a melty delicious exterior. And I ate the whole sandwich trying to love the hot spit and sand in the melty deliciousness. But I never loved it. I hated it. And now I'm sad I spend $2 on 16 pieces of cheese. $0.12 per slice is WAY too much to have spent on this garbage.

My advice to you, dear readers, is that it is not worth it to save $0.025 per slice to have to eat hot spit mixed with sand. Thanks for listening.

A perfect Christmas

For the first time in more than 10 years I've been excited about a little decorating for Christmas. I love the lights and the smell of a Christmas tree. Growing up my mom would enlist the entire family in decorating the weekend following Thanksgiving. We would string garland and lights on the banisters, bedeck the windows with lights, and tie red ribbons on nearly every object in the house that could accommodate a red ribbon. It was an exciting family project that, for me, heralded the start of the Christmas season. I had been in a relationship with a Jew for several years who objected to Christmas decorations. So, in the spirit of relationship harmony I swallowed my enthusiasm for decorating.

This year, BMG affirmed my interest in decorating, which has opened the floodgates for my inner Martha Stewart. But, the house isn't quite Turkey Hill Farm, so I knew I needed to start small. BMG and I decided no tree this year (the house still needs some work to make room for a tree). Sigh. I still wanted to decorate, so I decided I would string lights onto the wreath I bought to hang on the front post. But, no power source. Hmmm. What to do? Aha! I remembered using battery operated lights once for a work event, so I started to scour the ad circulars for similar Christmas lights that would just require a simple flick of a switch and, through the miracle of mercury or acid or whatever it is that makes batteries work, I'd have a tastefully lit wreath.

I found a deal on lights at Stop & Shop - buy two boxes of 15 lights each for $4. So, I bought two, wound the lights around the wreath, and wired the battery boxes to the back of the circle of greens. And then I ran out to buy size C batteries - ten of them because I remembered from my work experience that these lights took a lot of juice, and I didn't want to be unlit for even one more night. I excitedly put the batteries into the compartment, stowed the spares, and then tried to flick the switch for my "voila" moment.

One string of lights never lit. Apparently there wasn't enough tension on the battery buttons to make it work, no matter how many times I flipped the batteries over, switched them with new batteries, or tried to wiggle every possible moving part (and even some unmoving ones.) And the second string of 15 tiny white sparklers? The battery door was SOOOO tight that I had to turn the lights on and off with...my teeth.

While I LOVE Christmas lights, I love my teeth more. So, I've taken the battery operated lights off the wreath and thrown them away. And I've replaced the wreath with a beautiful (and free) swag given to me by Coop. The wreath is now indoors, hanging on the front window, looking festive and sharing its evergreen fragrance with us - a perfect substitute for a tree. (I may even hang ornaments on it.) My only string of regular Christmas lights is about 15 years old. And it is now at the bottom of a trash bag. Because it wouldn't work when I plugged it in after winding it around the indoor wreath.

No lights, no tree. The house is fragrant. And I don't feel stifled by my relationship. Feels like a perfect Christmas to me.

Stepford Gifts

My home has been barraged with ad circulars and catalogues over the last month. I was kind of hoping the catalogue people wouldn't find me when I moved, but apparently they have, or a whole new crop of catalogue people has discovered where I live.

I thumbed through a glossy, four-page ad for a big box housewares store this evening while waiting for my sister, who was at Target, to return a call. I found the circular to be depressing because of the Stepford Wives-like quality of the goods being hawked. Things like,
Talking picture frames ($19.99-$139.96)
"Mr. Beer" Deluxe Home Edition Brew Kit ($29.99)
"Retro Series Hot Air Popcorn Maker ($39.99)
Pet nail trimmers ($19.99)
Personal, hand-held breathalyzer ($14.99)
Hot chocolate maker ($19.99).

As I absent-mindedly turned the pages all I could imagine was hundreds of Christmas trees with the exact same collection of plastic crap assembled underneath them. And when these presents are all unwrapped, every person in every home will be listening to their identical talking photo frame as they enjoy the identical scents wafting from their identical mini reed diffusers, chugging their 8th glass of identical home brew chilled in their identical under-the-counter wine coolers. And they will know they are drunk because they have measured their blood alcohol levels with their identical breathalyzer/key rings.

Ugh.

Thumbs down: Barnes and Noble

As many of my faithful readers know I am recovering from foot surgery. On my first solo foray out of the house in about two weeks I went to my neighborhood Barnes and Noble to return two books - one I bought to entertain myself while recuperating and the other I bought accidentally as a Christmas gift. Why I was returning these books is boring. What isn't boring is that Barnes and Noble would take neither back because they had both been purchased more than two weeks ago. They knew the books had been purchased more than two weeks ago because I still had both receipts and the books - because they were unused - were in pristine book condition.

But, back on July, Barnes and Noble decided to take no returns after more than 14 days. Not even a store credit (which I would have gladly taken). When I commented to the store clerk that I hadn't been aware of the policy change, she replied snarkily, "It was very well advertised. This should not be a surprise to you." A black cloud had been hanging over my head most of the day so I snapped back, "I have better things to do than read press releases about store return policies changing."

And now, I'm never shopping at Barnes and Noble again.

And here is the funny part. In the same trip I also returned two pieces of clothing to Kohls that I DIDN'T have a receipt for. They customer service people were so pleasant. I gave them the credit card I used to pay for the items and they were able to research when I purchased the pieces (tags intact) and the price I paid, and then promptly issued me a credit on my card. Pleased with this interaction I shopped some more and ended up buying more than I had returned.

D'uh Barnes and Noble! Good customer service means good customer loyalty.

Thumbs down: Karmic invasions during post-op recovery

CAUTION: Graphic surgery details below

I had what I THOUGHT was minor surgery last week. And I was wrong. Eight days after a bunionectomy and metatarsal osteotomy I find myself still woozy, unable to walk with any normalcy, and generally feeling fragile.

A bunion, not to be confused with Binion's, is a deformity in the way the big toe grows - rather than being straight it grows at a wacky angle, causing a knob to become pronounced on the the instep of one's foot - usually at the part of the foot that is already the widest. Generally speaking, bunions aren't bad, unless they hurt for no apparent reason (e.g. tight shoes) or if the deformity becomes pronounced. Well, my deformity on my left foot was becoming pronounced enough to drive that big toe under the second toe leaving blisters on the bottom of the second toe. And it occasionally hurt for no reason in spite of the fact that I usually wear orthopedic (although stylish) shoes.

So, I had a bunionectomy and metatarsal osteotomy. My foot surgeon put a 2.5" slice through the top of my big toe, shaved off the knobby, deformed bone (that's the bunionectomy) and then sliced the bone in my big toe wide open and placed a pin in it to keep it straight. After a week of generic aching made less severe by a surgical boot, crutches and percoset, I finally got the chance to peek at the toe when I visited the doctor for my first post-op appointment. My poor tootsie had a handful of small but angry bruises on them. But, it mostly looked fine. The doctor said it was healing great and I could now (a) get it wet (hooray - shower!), and (b) begin putting full weight on it. "You mean, no more crutches?" I asked. "Nope" he replied. "What about driving?" "Fine with me," he said. "Jogging?" "Okay, no jogging. But you COULD be jogging in as little as three weeks.

So, that good news, coupled with the fact that the first week hadn't been THAT bad, I decided to start walking around (at home) as I normally would. As normally as I COULD. My foot muscles are so tight from a week of elevation that they aren't as compliant as I would like. And, for most of the next 24 hours I was okay. Not ready to go dancing or return to work (lots of stairs), but feeling like this recovery thing was going to be pretty easy. And then, tonight, while standing at the kitchen counter depositing a mint chocolate chip covered ice cream scoop into the sink I instinctively pivoted on my foot and torqued it bad enough to cause me to yell in pain and immediately begin crying.

With me home for 8 days and BMG operating almost exclusively out of the home office, he and I have been lovingly bickering most of the last week. But, when I yelped he immediately popped up, hugged me as I cried, found my crutches, got me a percoset and some seltzer, and got me settled back on the couch with my feet again elevated and iced. And, three hours later, it is still aching from a tiny tiny pivot on one part of one foot.

BMG asserts that hammer toes are caused by pent up anger. And there is a part of me who believes this setback in my recovery bravado is karmic payback for eating the (reduced fat) mint chocolate chip ice cream after drinking two glasses of wine and reveling in the three (or was it four??) slices of pizza I had for lunch and dinner. Stupid karma!

Words I DON'T like

I did a short blog post on words I DO like - gems like crumbalievable (which means deliciously and unbelievably crumbly), and drunkle (a drunk uncle).

Now, I believe, it is time for a post on words I DON'T like. Or, the WORD I don't like. There is just one. At least today there is just one. And it is.....swipe. It conjures up the image of a slippery wipe. And there is not a single image I want in the imaging part of my brain LESS than a slippery wipe.

Let's all do our best to keep the world swipe free. Here are some suggestions to help.
1. Find yourself in a conversation where you need to talk about the furtive theft of a small item, consider alternatives like "steal," "pinch," or "shoplift."
2. Using your debit card at the grocery store? How about "sliding" your card instead?
3. Filing a report with the local police after finding your parked car was hit from the side? Described the accident as having involving a "parallel collision between one moving vehicle and one parked vehicle."

Okay, I've done my part to keep the world swipe free. Now it is up to you. Thank you very much.