Happier

Inspirational song: Please Please Me (The Beatles)

I had an excess of people greet me today--making eye contact, smiling, and talking to me--while I was out and about. I know that I live in the Deep South, a place that is entirely powered by politeness and charm, but this was taken to a higher degree, enough to make me wonder what was so different about today. Lately, I've been feeling so crappy, I've pulled into myself and been invisible in yoga pants and pony tails. I even went to the movies last night buried in a cat-hair covered hoodie and scarf. But today I put myself together a little better, including putting the effort into full makeup (with heavy "smoky eye" and everything). I wish I knew which it was that so many people responded to, my appearance or my improved attitude, as I held my head a little higher and walked like I had a purpose today. It's almost enough to make me want to do a few social experiments to find out.

I have been working on a lot of new recipes over the last few weeks, but I haven't prepared any for the blog in a while. I am facing several weeks of a soft foods diet, when I'm able to eat at all. In anticipation of that, I'm indulging in every spicy, crunchy, or rich dish I can think of, to tide me over while I'm stuck eating scrambled eggs, applesauce, and mashed potatoes every day. This morning I made oeufs en cocotte (eggs, bacon, and greens baked in ramekins), and I learned the easiest way to make hollandaise sauce to drizzle on top of them. Then this evening, I discovered how perfectly well angel food cake translates into gluten free. (At the same time, I discovered that cream of tartar has an expiration date, but it appears to just be a suggestion, but cornstarch definitely doesn't last forever. Next time I'm using tapioca.) I think I will be putting up several test kitchen posts over the next week, to clear out the backlog, so I don't forget some of these good ones.

My mother in law always made angel food cakes for every birthday gathering (which was nearly monthly--their family was so large by the time all the grandkids showed up), but we have been away from the core Colorado group for so long, the man hasn't had one for his birthday in years and years. He has a birthday coming soon, and I just found a way to give him a taste of home without hurting my own digestion in the process. He perked up like a little kid when I offered him the whisk and bowl covered in cake batter. I made him quite happy today.

Several years ago, I was trying to con my younger daughter into making hollandaise sauce, to go along with whatever it was we were making for breakfast. (I think I just didn't want to wear my arms out on the whisk while I was also responsible for the rest of the meal that day.) She was a senior in high school, and my reasoning was that if she learned how to make hollandaise, she'd have a great skill to have while she and her friends were in college or just beyond it, for those hangover mornings when only eggs benedict and bloody marys would do. I think she humored me and made the sauce as I asked, but I don't know whether she ever made it again. After I found out that with a wand blender, it takes about 30 seconds tops, maybe I'll revisit that conversation with her. I still think her friends would be pleased if she cooked for them. It seems to go over well here.

Rebel Without a Clue

Inspirational song: Into the Great White Open (Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers)

I couldn't be a good girl tonight. I've been good for too long, and I had to break some of my own rules, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I still can. That, or perhaps merely to reinforce that what I was doing was the right thing after all. For the first time in months, the man and I went out to the movies on a Friday night, and I rebelled and ate movie popcorn. By the time we left the theater, my stomach was swollen and pained (and not just because of the jumbo coke I had as well), and my ears were popping like I was at altitude. My eyes felt like they were bulging out as well, and I can't tell whether the ringing in my ears was louder (tinnitis is a constant companion). The ride home was uncomfortable.

I don't know what inspired me to feel the need for rebellion like this. Maybe it was the impending surgery. Maybe it was just a minor ruckus dreamed up by my inner child. My rebellions tend not to be large, dramatic events. They're small, and usually the only person damaged by them is my own bad self. I always said my biggest teenage rebellion was quitting piano lessons. I have regretted doing that ever since. I will always wonder whether I could have been a concert pianist, had I not gotten frustrated by my second instructor's insistence on a Chopin piece that had rolling triplets that were too big for my hands to play comfortably. (I could try to dig out the music to be accurate, but my memory is of tenths, while my narrow hands only easily spread in a single octave, maybe a ninth if I'm really stretching.) I suppose since my rebellious streak never extended to a life of crime, or damaging other people, I should feel okay with myself. Doesn't mean I won't pay for tonight's foolishness with a stomachache and maybe a migraine.

One of the things I promised to do when we finally move back to Colorado is to help my BFF keep tabs on her kids after school, making sure that they do their homework and practice piano before they wander off into videogameland. The kids have only been playing a year or two, but already they are taking to it like they were born with their hands on a keyboard. This is something I'm really looking forward to, and I feel like I need to start practicing again myself, as well as brushing the rust off of my musical theory knowledge. I must temper my expectations, however. I can't live vicariously through their own musical accomplishments, having given up on my own, and I can't push them into the same rebellion I had when I was fifteen or sixteen. But it will feel good to get a daily dose of piano music again. I can hardly wait.

Ready for a Change

Inspirational song: Repetition (The Kinks)

It's time for another postcard from the war. Three months in, and Zoe still refuses to integrate into the Pride. Every day is filled with stalking, growling, suspicion, and the occasional howling, swatting fight. I keep forgetting to check what's in my path as I'm drenching one cat or another with water from a squirt bottle. I've risked my electronics on many occasions. All I get for my efforts is a mad, wet cat running claws-out across my lap or my bare feet, several minutes later when the action has died down, meaning they are totally doing it for revenge. My confidence as a cat-whisperer is flagging. I don't know how to bring peace to the middle east coast. I've never met a more contrary, jumpy cat than Zoe. I often wonder whether moving to a new house will change the dynamics of the situation. If they all start out at the same level of displacement, will they compete for territory differently than they do here, with the four black and white units already established? It's the best justification yet for uprooting ourselves and moving yet again.

I think the only thing left to do now is to try to disarm the opposing forces, as much as I can. I'm not talking about de-clawing, of course. That is a war crime in my book. (Side note, the nurse prepping me for my screening on Monday said she was about to have it done to her cat, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and let her finish giving me an IV. I was done with her once she said that. She was dead to me.) We are trying to clip the claws, as best we can. But while most of the cats tolerate it with only a little squirming, in the almost two years of Athena's life, I have still managed to cut exactly one claw ever. And for my efforts I received the hardest, meanest bite, that tried its darndest to get infected. Yesterday the man thought he would give it a whirl. Athena - 1, Daddy - 0.

Today was yet another day of me calling for a surgery date, and of the surgeon's office staff taking my name and birth date, telling me they'll look for the test results and call me. Still no news. I have gone from wanting to avoid surgery at all costs to nagging the surgeon's office for a time slot, and the change happened in under a month. It's amazing what daily pain will do for one's priorities.

Adjustments

Inspirational song: Young Americans (David Bowie)

We added a new mah jongg player to the group, who remembers her parents playing this game when she was a young child. She said back then, her parents' group was very serious and cutthroat, playing in relative silence except for the occasional clicking of the tiles to signify a certain action, the specifics of which have been lost in our particular ladies' club version of the game. Her proper pronunciation of some of the Chinese terms made me feel gauche and American a couple times, but I don't mind being corrected. She said she's going to ask her mother about some of the finer aspects of the more traditional rules they played by, to share with us next time. I'm hoping that we can find a way to blend some of them back into our style, without dramatically altering the game I have come to love. I do want to find out what the double-click of the tiles means. She thought it was when they drew a flower tile, but that might have been mere speculation. I know I could probably find it in a split-second on the internet, but I'm enjoying waiting to learn it the slow way.

We've altered our strategy slightly on one of the condos. I had intended on having both units finished in the same way, with only the wall paint colors differing between them. The longer this drags on, the less I see us waiting even a few extra days to accomplish that. We have decided that it would take as much as a week less to install carpeting instead of bamboo flooring, when one includes the lead time to order the product and let it acclimate on site. We need to sell this place sooner than later, and every day off the market is hurting us. We know that some upgrades are totally necessary to sell quickly and at the price point we want and need, but carpeting is a trade-off we can totally make.

There is progress on the condo that has been vacant since the flood. The tile is down in the kitchen, the countertops and sink have been installed (although daughter 2 is upset that they put in a single basin sink without consulting with us -- that will change for the other unit), and the walls were painted with the three colors we approved of her choices. We can see light at the end of the tunnel. Literally. The recessed lights are in and a couple ceiling fans are back up and everything. I am so ready for this to end.

Can't Brain Good

Inspirational song: Zombie (The Cranberries)

Oh, right. I forgot. The day or two following a procedure (surgery or otherwise) is when the pain sets in. On the day of a procedure, the anaesthesia is still dulling your senses, and the body's natural reaction to trauma (shock, numbness, adrenaline, whatever) fools you into thinking you are better off than you are. But then all the natural and chemical painkillers wear off, and you are left feeling like someone has done unspeakable things to your innards. And in my case this week, they sort of did. My belly hurts where they had to push and finesse the camera-on-a-stick around the corners of my intestines. I discovered that walking the aisles of two grocery stores and a gas station stop constitutes overdoing it on a day like today. My clever way with words has completely failed me. I could barely form sentences texting my mother (and I do NOT use text shorthands - only complete sentences with proper grammar for this kid). Rather than churn out an incoherent ramble, I'm going to take my zombie ass to bed and hope that inspiration strikes tomorrow. Good night, y'all.

Phase One

Inspirational song: I Wanna Be Sedated (The Ramones)

My "procedure" is over. Round one down, and now I just wait for the surgeon's office to look over my results and schedule me a date with an OR. I know colonoscopies are fodder for comedians, like Robin Williams telling you that you will walk away sounding like an Evinrude outboard motor, or Dave Barry swearing that you need a seat belt to keep you from launching off of the toilet ahead of time, but I promise, it is not that bad. Let me repeat, for people who are afraid of growing older or getting sick like me and needing the screening, It Is Not That Bad. In fact, it's quick and relatively painless. The hardest part is choking down the nasty prep solution. After that, it's mostly boring. I brought my Kindle with me to the GI center to read while I waited, but once I had the IV in and all of the other diagnostic equipment hooked up across my arms and hands, I didn't feel like holding a tablet. I lay under a blanket, listening to the man play Plants vs Zombies, and I wished that I was comfortable enough to fall asleep while I waited. Once in the room for the procedure, I chatted cordially with the nurse and the anaesthesiologist for a few minutes while we waited for the doc, had a large syringe full of an opaque white fluid pushed into my IV, and I had less than three seconds from when she pulled the syringe back until my head was full of lead and I closed my eyes. I woke in the recovery room, with no more pain than I had when I left it. The doc said it looked better than last time, and he was glad that I went to the surgeon as he suggested. After that, I had a mildly uncomfortable ride home (but that's because I still have that smoldering diverticulitis, not because of anything done today), and then I went up to bed. I had all of the black and white cats smooshed up next to me, either keeping me (and them) warm, or ensuring that I wouldn't be so careless as to walk around while I was still slightly loopy. Not an exciting day, but I'm okay with boring when this was on my schedule.

I have felt cold all day, possibly because of fasting for two days, and I was pleased when the man decided to burn a couple bags full of the sycamore pods that are the bane of the Park. The turn into coals quickly, and when they are the only thing burning in the fireplace, the giant pile of them reminds me of a glowing mound of skulls that should be in an Indiana Jones movie. That, or maybe there is just a little of the sedative left in me, making me see the world around me in goofy ways. No, I will be honest with myself. I don't need sedation to make me goofy. I am really good at that on my own.

The full issue of the literary magazine came out today. If you didn't read my stories, now is a good time. The Seat is still featured on the main page (you mouse over the pictures that come up under "Words - Prose" to find it), or you can read the whole of Issue Two, which also has my very short horror story The Farm. It's at antvswhale.com.

Choke On That

Inspirational song: Hard As Love (Marillion)

I am in hell. I made it just fine fasting all day. I'm hungry, but tolerably so. I forgot to start drinking water until about one o'clock this afternoon, but I made up for it, so I am sure I'm in the clear. The real horribleness came about two hours ago, and it was even worse than I remembered from the last time I had to do this. I'm fairly certain Satan ate a hundred thousand Pixy Stix and then regurgitated them into my mouth. I never, ever consume anything with artificial sweeteners in it, and the prep I had to drink used enough Sucralose to kill an army. It took a full hour to choke it down, even after diluting it twice and squeezing half a lemon into it to make it slightly more sour. I used every foul curse I know, and I begged to die. I spent the hour after that combing the internet for any flimsy excuse I could find to justify not taking the second dose tomorrow morning. I didn't find one, but I don't know where I'm going to find the maturity to take this again. I read that there exists a pill version of the prep (a prescription, not the Gatorade and laxative method). If ever I must do this again, and I will, because I plan on living past age 50, I will demand the pill. I don't care if I have to chase it with two gallons of water, I am not going to let someone force this elixir of hell upon me ever again.

I am not going to offer up any more details. You can imagine all you want, but I doubt my reality is nearly as bad as you would expect it to be. The only part, and I mean the only part, that is difficult about this whole procedure is swallowing the prep liquid. Now that you and I both know a pill exists, there is no excuse for you to dread this or delay it when your time comes.

Now if you will excuse me, I am going back to my happy place. Calming thoughts of blue skies and animals who love me...