Archive for the 'Personal' Category

Sick Again

Rebecca January 8th, 2008

I’m home sick from work. I’ve been in this state since Saturday: sore throat, clogged sinuses, a cough that starts at the arches of my feet and ultimately rattles the light fixtures. Luckily, I have half a bottle of codeine-laced cough syrup left from last year’s bout with bronchitis. I’ve spent the last four days in a pleasantly mild opiate haze spiked with the citrus notes of Lemon Zinger tea and Halls cough drops. During this downtime, I’ve watched movies (Pirates of the Caribbean 3, The Science of Sleep, Serpico, La Vie en Rose*), posted commentary all over the Interweb (everywhere except where I should, ahem), finished one book (The Discovery of France by Graham Robb) and started another (Ian McEwan’s Saturday), and caught the season premiere of my beloved “Antiques Roadshow” (dammit, they’re not going to be anywhere near me this summer). I also watched the return of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert without their writers last night.

Did you see either? Boy oh boy, I’m not sure if anyone on TV is funny anymore without their writers. Oh sure, both men had their moments, like Colbert’s introduction of a show with nothing on it, but…overall? Meh. The highlight was Andrew Sullivan’s appearance on Colbert. Apparently I haven’t been paying enough attention to the chattering classes lately. I had no idea he left the Republican Party for our team. He was there to discuss his article about Barack Obama in December’s Atlantic Monthly. Watching him, I came to the conclusion that someone (Hello, Bill Maher?) needs to have both Sullivan and Christopher Hitchens on their show to debate the issues raised by Obama’s candidacy. Or, if you’re like Hitchens and believe any reference to race is “pathetic and embarrassing”, debate the very existence of such issues in the first place.

Anyway, enough codeine-fueled rambling. I’m off to watch some daytime TV. BBC America is airing back-to-back episodes of “How Clean Is Your House?“. I have a deeply masochistic need to be upbraided–via a hapless English proxy–on my housecleaning skills. If I’m lucky, “Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares” will air later this afternoon. Lord knows I need more BLEEP! in my life.

*Marion Cotillard is amazing, just amazing as Edith Piaf. Even though I gave La Vie only three stars on Netflix, those three were entirely due to her performance.

The Audacity of Change

Rebecca January 4th, 2008

“Emotionally draining” doesn’t even begin to describe the relationship I have with my mother’s husband. I don’t refer to him as my stepfather because a) he came into my life a bit too late for me to consider him a father figure and b) we don’t get along at all and haven’t from the start of their courtship. Call me idealistic, but my family should not resemble something out of a Dear Abby column: a 36-year-old woman and a 65-year-old man exchanging verbal potshots at each other every chance they get. There are a variety of reasons why this is on both sides. Let’s just call it a personality conflict; I can’t stand the one he’s got and the feeling is mutual.

One of the precious few areas in which we agree is politics. In the ten years they’ve been married, my mom and I have worked on her husband, using logic and reason to change his worldview from that of a dyed-in-the-wool Reagan Republican to a Democrat and–entirely without our persuasion–a Barack Obama supporter. I’m pretty proud of this. To be honest, it wasn’t that hard; the disasterous Bush Administration helped us quite a bit. He was already a conservationist in the Theodore Roosevelt mold. (TR is his hero; Theodore Rex is his favorite book). Each industry lobbyist Bush appointed to a key position in the Department of the Interior was another nail in the coffin of his personal politics. The stench of corruption and cronyism finally got to him, although I don’t know how he managed to ignore the similar miasma that emanated from the Reagan Administration. I think the reason he supports Obama is because he sees some of Teddy’s qualities in the Senator from Illinois: a honest politician who wants to be a force for good in a changing world.

As for myself, I haven’t openly supported any of the Democratic candidates. I think I’ve just been completely turned off by the constant media overexposure. I loathe the way our country’s primary process has been turned into one, two or three years of campaign rallies and $1000-a-plate fundraising dinners. I’d rather see all states hold their primary (or an anti-democratic caucus) on a single day no more than four or five months before the general election. Hell, while we’re discussing impossible dreams I’d also like see the abolition of the Electoral College and announce my upcoming marriage to Clive Owen, but let’s keep this post firmly grounded in reality. As November nears, I find myself thinking more and more about the perfect 2008 Presidential race. On New Year’s Eve some friends and I went out to dinner. Over lobster and lamb sliders, we agreed: Ron Paul should pull out of the G.O.P. and run as a Libertarian, Michael Bloomberg’s exploratory committee hopefully leads to an Independent candidacy, Mike Huckabee will be the standard bearer for our nation’s idiots and, thanks to these three men, a Democratic win is all but guaranteed this autumn. As much as I’d like to vote for a member of Team Vagina (bros before hos, man), I don’t think Hillary Clinton will take our country in a much-needed new direction. She’s the epitome of meet the new boss, same as the old boss. John Edwards…feh. Bill Richardson has the necessary foreign policy experience, but let’s be honest here–he’ll be out of the race by March. That leaves one serious contender.

Once again, I find myself in agreement with my mother’s husband. Perhaps there’s hope for our relationship.

Resident Evil

Rebecca December 28th, 2007

My Grandma’s out of the hospital and recuperating in a local nursing home now. It’s one of the better ones in town (if you’ve ever spent an extensive amount of time in any nursing home anywhere, you know this isn’t saying much), but she’s very unhappy there. In her words, it’s “weird” and the other residents, you know, the ones suffering from Alzheimer’s, are “creepy”. Somehow she got it into her head that a nursing home is a Hilton for invalids. She wants to recline on her pillow top bed in her tastefully decorated room and be waited on hand and foot by the staff without the inconvenience of interacting with the other guests. I can’t say I blame her, but she picked the place. It’s giving her the level of care our family can’t provide right now.

There are two things she particularly hates about the nursing home. First, her arch-nemesis from the retirement community is there. The poor woman had a stroke a few months ago. We were taking Grandma back to her room the other day when we walked by this lady sitting in her wheelchair out in the hall. “There she is”, hissed Grandma, pointing at her and giving her the stink eye as we passed within inches of her chair. Thankfully, the woman was oblivious to this. The other is another resident, an elderly gentleman. Also wheelchair-bound, he’s a good ten years younger than Grandma. He keeps hitting on her, asking if she’s a widow, how long she’s been a widow, what room she’s in, and how long she’ll be at the home. We think it’s rather cute. She rejects him at every turn. Personally, I’m jealous. I’m not getting that kind of action at age 36, so I can’t imagine turning it down at 96. I’m starting to think I need to leave the bar and head over to Riverside Manor if I want to meet more men.

Mah Blood: Will You Test It for Me?

Rebecca December 26th, 2007

My Christmas was not all it could be because I had to start fasting midway through the big day to get ready for a doctor’s appointment first thing this morning. Why would I put myself through torture like that? Well, I’ve been having some health issues. My doctor, whom I dearly love, has an impossible schedule (only available on Wednesdays because of other commitments, and on vacation for most of December). Then there was the matter of those three magic words: calendar year deductible. She ordered a whole variety of blood tests to get to the bottom of the problem. All required an empty body and a clean bloodstream. This meant I had to put the wine bottle down and the fudge and the pork back in the fridge ’round about noon on Christmas day. Good thing I took today off from work. When I returned home from the clinic I picked all three right back up where I started four days ago.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, the nutjobs were protesting in front of the clinic this morning. I gave them the Christmas finger.

While I’m loafing around on my last day of Christmas vacation waiting for a call from my doctor (”Put that bacon down! Your cholesterol level is 940!”), I thought I would take part in Sweetney’s Mah Fridge: Let Me Show It To You photo pool on Flickr. I can’t believe how shiny and clean my fridge is; judging by the contents of it you’d think I subsist entirely off a diet of citrus fruit and cheese.

When I find out what’s wrong I’ll let you know. Until then, would you care for a slice of aged Gouda and a clementine?

Ugh. Is it New Year’s Yet?

Matt December 21st, 2007

Puppy, eating, wrapping presents, cleaning, baking, cooking. I hope your Christmas is more peaceful than mine.

Happy Holiday!

Hello, Molly!

Matt December 17th, 2007

This weekend I got a companion for my dog, Cooper. I’ve been wanting to get him a pal for a while now but was holding out for the perfect dog. When I saw this little cutie I just couldn’t resist. Say hello to Molly.

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Evil Knows Its Own

Rebecca December 16th, 2007

Sometime in the wee small hours of Thursday morning, my 96-year-old Grandma fell and broke her right hip and femur in three different places. She had surgery to repair the damage Thursday afternoon. Now she’s got a shiny new titanium rod holding her femur together. Her doctors expect her to recover, but given her age and overall frailty, they’re recommending she move into a nursing home after she’s released because she’ll need more care and attention than the owners of her retirement community can provide. This all sounds like the sad, typical story of so many seniors until you meet my Grandma. On Thursday, the doctors told us it would take a few days for the anesthetic to wear off, and until then she would be suffering from its side effect: aggressive, angry and violent behavior. For example, when she woke up Friday morning she slugged her physical therapist. Twice. He was there to check her incisions. She didn’t want him to raise her hospital gown and expose her bare hip. “Not to worry”, the doctors said. “She’ll be back to normal soon.” But we knew better.

See, Grandma’s always been mean. Maybe she learned it from her parents, German farmers from the area around Odessa on the Black Sea who settled in North Dakota. Family lore has it one day my Great-Grandfather Adam was pumping drinking water from the well at the kitchen sink. He wanted it cold, so he let the warmer water run into the slop bucket. My Great-Grandmother Sophia walked up to her husband and punched him out for wasting the farm’s precious water. Whatever the source, by the time my Grandmother married my Grandfather she was hell on wheels. Her incessant nagging drove him to drink. Despite being an alcoholic, Grandpa was a gentle man who died when I was ten. Before that, I remember him living with us for extended periods of time just to get away from her. She would call our house constantly during these times, and when Grandpa wouldn’t come to the phone she would call my father’s workplace, ask for his boss, and tell him what a horrible son-in-law my father was for keeping her husband from her. She was the type of mother who always kept her children fighting amongst themselves so they would come to her with their problems. As they got older some of them got wise and, one at a time, refused to be manipulated. When this happened she would tell that particular child she was changing her will and writing him or her out of it.

I never saw any of this as a small child. Petted and fussed over, I was her youngest grandchild and her favorite. Like my cousins, I only became aware of our Grandma’s horrible, manipulative behavior as I matured. Each of us have stood up to her for our parents’ sake. In the past two decades she and I have had our battles over her actions, but now that she’s in the hospital for probably the final time in her long, bitter life I’ve visited her every evening for the last few days. Last night as I was leaving, I kissed her and said, “You get a good night’s sleep, okay?”

“You know what?” she replied. “I like you.”

No Food for Weak Stomach

Matt December 6th, 2007

Ugh. Four days of projecting bodily fluids out of every orifice of my body, I am back. I don’t have much to say to add to that, other than that it feels good to finally be able to hold down a saltine and not fall asleep just by sitting up.

Ice Capades

Rebecca November 28th, 2007

The local weather reporters have been predicting severe winter storms for nearly a week now. Last week it was heavy snow and freezing fog. This week it’s single-digit temperatures, black ice, drifting and blowing snow. You know, everything you guys expect a Montana winter to be like: cold, wet, dangerous, nearly Arctic. However, in the fine tradition of weather forecasts the world over, precise predictions keep moving the dire forecast back a day to two days or even this coming weekend. I’m disappointed because I had a plan.

I have an appointment with my doctor today. It’s for my annual stem-to-stern check-up: blood pressure, weight, breast exam, cholesterol, tests to see if my recent sexual partners left any parting gifts. I know women between the ages of 30 and 60 only have to get a pap every two to three years. However, I had some major health problems when I was young. I’ve never posted about this until now, but when I was 14 I had to have major surgery to remove a gangrenous dermoid tumor attached to one of my fallopian tubes. I nearly died. The tumor damaged all my reproductive organs, some had to be removed, and to this day I have complications from the growth and the surgery. Unlike a lot of women, I don’t make a face when discussing a pap because I’ve become comfortable with putting my feet up in the stirrups. It’s not painful or embarrassing anymore.

I’ve been going to the same clinic for years; I’ve been a patient practically since I moved to Montana in 1990. Blue Mountain Clinic offers a wide variety of services for families, but unfortunately they’re the target of violence and intimidation because they provide abortions. They were bombed about fifteen years ago. Happily, the clinic was rebuilt in a different location because of strong community support. The new architectural style is best described as army bunker under attack. There are steel gates, high windows, concrete walls and three sets of thick locked doors. However, that’s the minor price I and other clients have to pay for safety and dignity. It’s very important to me to remain Blue Mountain’s client, no matter the danger, because I firmly believe in a woman’s right to choose abortion.

I say “under attack” because for some people here, a bomb wasn’t enough. Every Wednesday, a knot of self-righteous fanatics form outside the gates of the clinic to harass employees, clients like me, and our families. They hold aloft their fetal porn and scream at anyone going in and out of Blue Mountain. Community volunteers have to protect us from our cars to the clinic doors. Normally I just give them the finger, but I was half-hoping for something more today thanks to the winter storm that wasn’t. My mechanic (my stepbrother) has repeatedly told me the brakes are the next thing to go on my car. A little black ice, blowing snow, faulty brakes, a sharp turn into the parking lot…who knows what would have happened.

So, if you hear something on the news, something about a car losing control–even though the roads were dry–and crashing into some protestors in Montana, we didn’t have this conversation, right?

The Airing of Grievances

Rebecca November 26th, 2007

I don’t find tinsel distracting, but I sure do find the holiday season around the office annoying. The “Secret Santa” sign-up sheets were passed out today at work. I’ve participated in this ritual for nearly ten years now, patiently writing down four of my likes and dislikes in hopes that someone somewhere in this building will finally give me something I want. It’s all supposed to be in good fun, I know. The $15 cap on the total cost, the focus on small, homemade treats, the lack of pressure, it’s all perfectly fine with me. I don’t make any great demands. I’m really not that hard to shop for, people. However, in past years, my coworkers have been responsible for the following:

I wrote down “red wine” a few times. It resulted in boxes of Franzia White Zinfandel.

I’ve been given handfuls of jellybeans, bags of miniature Snickers, and licorice whips in response to my request for dark chocolate.

“No smelly stuff” is an annual suggestion because I have absurdly sensitive skin, but every year an amazing number of scented soaps, body wash, massage oil, bubble bath and glitter lotion (!) find their way onto my desk. Would you like a spare can of Mango-Magnolia Madness body spray? I’ve got two dozen.

Live Christmas trees, religious figurines, plastic reindeers that “poop” candy, trucker caps…argh! No more! This year I finally decided I’ve had enough–of getting a box of Lipton’s Constant Comment instead of English Breakfast–and told my coworkers I wasn’t going to take part. I didn’t say why, of course. I’m not that tactless. They may think I’m a little Grinch now, but it was either politely bow out or challenge this year’s Secret Santa to a wrestling match. You know, right after I discovered the five liter jug of Two Buck Chuck next to my monitor.

Internet Outage

Matt November 25th, 2007

Sometime yesterday morning the internet went out, and continued to be out until 2pm this afternoon. See, folks? This is why you post with an internet buddy - when you don’t post, they can pick up the slack. Also, with a deal like NaBloPoMo, when you don’t post the call goes out and people assume you’re dead or in a ditch somewhere. I am neither, unless you count the proverbial ditch that is my life.

Tomorrow I’m going to post about a special dish I prepared on Friday. It deserves its own post.

Like Father, Like Daughter

Rebecca November 24th, 2007

My mother told us the most heartwarming Thanksgiving story the day before yesterday. During World War Two my father, a then-17-year-old mariner in the in Merchant Marine, spent some time in Panama. One night, he and his fellow mariners left their ship, went ashore and tied one on in a local bar. My father woke up the next morning in a strange bed. He rolled over, and found he was sharing it with a toothless, wrinkled Panamanian crone. She woke up and gave him a gummy smile. He screamed, jumped into his clothes and ran all the way back to the ship.

It’s amazing how much I take after my father. My mother and I sound alike, and I have some of her mannerisms, but I have my father’s build, coloring, features, attention to detail, and sense of humor. Thanks to her uplifting holiday tale, I found out we have something else in common: the world’s thickest beer goggles.

The House is Still Standing (Barely)

Matt November 23rd, 2007

Wednesday evening I came home, cut some squash, shredded some cabbage and onion, got my ingredients out for the lemon pie, juiced said lemons and was baking the crust and another pie in the oven. Somewhere in the midst of all that I had it in my mind to do a crossword puzzle.

As usual, the oven, powered by hellfire, is baking too hotly so I have to keep an eye on my pie crust. 8 minutes into baking, I open the stove to check on my smoldering crust and when I pull the door the dishcloth that is resting on the handle flies up, knocking my crossword pen (that’s right, bitches: I do my crossword puzzles in pen; that’s how hardcore I am) straight into the oven. And, of course, it could land on the baking sheet or balance sideways across the racks. Oh no, it heads straight to the bottom of the oven, balancing precariously over one of the vents leading to the flames.

Already having my thinking cap on, I run down the hallway to get a pair of barbecue tongs and come out to find 1/2 of a plastic pen, melted into a pleasing noodle shape. The rest of the pen? Down into the vent. Unlike ovens of old, you can’t simply pop a knife in the corner of one of these suckers and tilt the shield up, you have to unscrew it and then pop it up so within moments a not at all pleasing odor of baking plastic and ink wafted through the whole house, along with the subtle, creamy hint of coconut from my now tainted custard pie.

So, how was your Thanksgiving?

On Location

Rebecca November 23rd, 2007

I’m writing this post from my mom’s house, 80 miles north and east of my own. She lives in an isolated part of Montana: a heavily forested valley located between the Mission Mountain and Bob Marshall Wilderness areas. I’m up here for the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Last night, after the bottle of Shiraz, the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, the bottle of Flathead Cherry Dry, and several White Russians, I realized that perhaps I need more than four days away from work. Because this hangover? I’ll still have it next Wednesday.

Old Man Winter is a Bitch

Rebecca November 19th, 2007

I woke up this morning to a strange glow seeping into my bedroom from around the window blinds. I rolled over, checked my alarm clock and saw it wasn’t working. I jumped up and peeked out the window. Snow. So much snow the trees were bent over double and touching the ground. So much snow the power lines had snapped sometime in the night. After finding out the time from my laptop (Thank goodness for lithium batteries!), I took a shower by candlelight, dressed warmly, and headed out the door. I wasn’t about to sit around in the dark for two hours until it was time to leave for work; it was only 6:30am. It took me a good twenty minutes to clear the eight to ten inches of snow from the top of my car, which gave me enough time to think about where I wanted to go for breakfast. On the way downtown, my car slid sideways into a snowbank because of the icy conditions. My first choice was closed, so I struggled through the snowbanks to the café across the street. After all that, you better believe I treated myself: buckwheat waffles with maple syrup, fresh hot coffee and a big glass of milk.

Listen, winter, I like you. But I’m just not that into you, ya’ know?

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