debora-bora

Cake Conundrum

2010-12-21T16:24:00.000-08:00

The Cake Conundrum – by Deborah Miller-Lutz

I can say with utmost confidence, that you, as I, have experienced days or relationships or impulse buys which are preempted with the thought, “This is NOT going to end well, but I’ll give it a try any way.”
‘Twas the case with the cake (from here out to be referred to as T.C.F.H. – or – The Cake From Hell) that was made for Russell Roosma’s birthday…

8:45 p.m. Thurs. evening prior to Russ’ birthday: Anna calls, Deb ignores first call because she’s in the middle of a show and she has a semi-conscious cat on her lap.
8:46 p.m. Thurs. evening prior to Russ’ birthday: A very persistent Anna calls back and I (insert older sister, Deborah) bolt from the couch – this must be important – I mean, who double calls at this time of night if it’s not at least semi-important, right?
Call goes something like this:

D: Hi – What’s going on?
A: (Slightly weepy/frustrated sounding) So, it’s like Russ’ birthday tomorrow and I’m trying to make his cake and I have to work tomorrow in Seattle so I have to sleep and the recipe said that I could triple it and then pour it in to four containers and – Oh, I mean, do you have a 9” pan I could borrow?”
D: Umm, let me check. (Shuffle…Shuffle…). Yeah. Not so much.
A: (Sigh that can be heard in Mt. Vernon) Dang it! I’ve already asked two neighbors and been to Fred Meyer’s and you don’t have one…
D: Can you use a sheet cake, like, thing?
A: No. This has to feed 20 people and the recipe is for 9” rounds. I already made one cake, and then poured the rest of the batter into this other round…And I’m not sure how it’s going to turn out…What do you think I should do?

O.K. – So here’s where I should have had my clairvoyant powers workin’ and answered, “Sister – Get as far away from that cake as you can, and run like you’re on fire!” But I didn’t, so this is what happened…

9:30 a.m. The next day: I get up - ready to take on the challenge laid before me. And I’m not trying to sound like a martyr here – I took this on of my own accord, and happily. Getting ready, I didn’t put much effort into my appearance, and left a little while later for Freddie’s to get more baking chocolate.
10:45 ish Think to self: Should I check the Craigslist house I might want to rent, before heading up the hill to Anna and Russ’? Well, I really have to use the bathroom, but I’ll swing by real quick and their place is only a couple of minutes away.
10:50 ish Can’t drive fast enough to get up hill to A. and R.’s place…a new sense of urgency has hit my bowels.
O.K., back to the cake. Call our mom to find out 'Does she have a 9” cake pan?' Then, my mom – unbeknownst to herself – informed me that not only did she have a 9” pan, but had willingly agreed to being sucked into a dark chocolate vortex.

At moms, she and I gathered the needed pans. Well, we first looked at the recipe to make sure we were grabbing the right pans. The recipe was not your usual ration recipe; it was meant to be tripled. So, mom says, OK – if it calls for 2 x 9” pans plus x 2 - couldn’t we just use 2x12” pans? What??? It is was too early for math, and let alone conversion geometry. Hey, just point me in the direction of the kitchen and let’s start making the danged cake already!

First point of digression, apparently I had gotten the wrong kind of chocolate; non-sweetened cocoa is NOT, I repeat, NOT the same as unsweetened cooking chocolate. I don’t know! I mean, they were right by each other in the baking section! So, mom now has to go to the little store out in Sudden Valley to get the correct type of chocolate.
When she gets back, she explains that the only cooking chocolate that they had was an exotic and organic type which is way over-priced. In other words, it’s a major rip off. I mean, really – unless this chocolate is coming from a two acre cocoa field near the lost Aztec cities, hand ground and packaged by beautiful, goddess-like virgin descendants of said Aztecs, it’s really not worth it. But what are you going to do?
So, mom and I get down to business. Flour, check. Eggs, check. Over-priced cocoa, check. Etc. Key ingredient: Egg whites folded gently into batter. And then the un-doing of the hard work: Mom accidentally over-beat the egg whites which made them slightly watery. We thought we’d try to fold them in, anyways. Um, not happening. I am sure I heard Julia Childs turn over in her grave.
This was the perfect example of the snowball effect, because guess who needed more exotic, over-priced cooking chocolate now that Batter A was ruined…Uh huh. Not kidding.
6:00 p.m. So, the end of this tragedy goes something like this: Cake is made - cooked to perfection, frosted to perfection. We are just as proud of ourselves as ever. It’s now ½ hour before we are supposed to be downtown for the party. I still look like a cross between one of Martha Stuart’s minions and a homeless person. Mom’s going to be responsible for getting T.C.F.H. to the party, I am going to run and get ready and meet her there.
6:30 p.m. Arrive at party. Greet everyone. Answer Anna’s question – where is the cake? Don’t worry it’s on its way, mom has it. Phew.
6:40 p.m. Mom arrives with our “masterpiece.” Anna turns pale and has look of shock and awe on her face. “What,” she asks, “is that?” “Why, it’s the cake, of course!” We answer. “What happened to there being multiple cakes (I think there were supposed to be three) like I asked???””
Mom and I just break down into delirious laughter. Howling laughter. Our cake is almost a miniature of the Eiffel Tower it’s so tall and distinct. We thought we’d done a darn good job balancing it all!
Once Anna got over the shock and disappointment of it all, we sang to Russ and attempted to cut the cake. Which was like trying to cut a three-layer cake: pretty much impossible…(But, truly, pretty funny).
In the end we all had cake, and mom and I had laughed so hard all day that our bellies hurt. And that, my friends, is the story of the Cake Conundrum.

In Stitches

2010-01-23T22:28:00.000-08:00

I'm not so clever as to know the origins of the saying, "in stiches." I know that this refers to laughing heartily. I also know that if you have recently had surgery (requiring stitches) and someone makes you laugh, that you will be both - laughing and in stitches.

Once, when my brother David had his appendix out, and my brother Joel and I visited him in the hospital, we did everything we could to make him laugh - because there was something terribly funny about watching him try not to laugh in order to not burst his new stitches. We were awful. I know this now. I still find it funny.

Since having my own surgery - requiring who knows how many stitches - I have not found laughing such a miserable fate; I rather embrace it. That said, in the first several days after surgery I found things such as sneezing and puking pretty undesirable past-times.

Two days ago, much recovered I find myself, and still in stitches.

My head, at the surgery site, still hurts. It is quite tender. It feels as if there is a handful of tiny hair nymphs which have set to pulling the hair at the crown of my head in all manor, and all time, of day. I assume that this is the tightening of the sutures as they heal. I also assume that there are really not nymphs atop my head, but it's a fun visual, none-the-less.

To awaken to a ceiling full of stick-bugs, you do not need stitches at all to find yourself in stitches. You need only to look up and feel the full weight of at least twenty or thirty bugs register on that part of you that triggers disbelief and laughter all in the same instance. You need only do this at 8:00 in the morning before you've had your tea, before God is awake, before your son is off to middle school, before you are due at your own place of employment in less than an hour.

Yes, we have stick-bugs. We have let them populate at grandiose proportions. Apparently they can do this whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Stick bug get together or not. Noah and his Ark would only have needed to bring one stick bug on board.

This was not my idea...But you do what you do for those you love - and those I love happen to like stick bugs. Craigslist is like free candy on the counter of some business you solicit. Yes, sometimes you actually pay for things you get on Craigslist. Sometimes you get things for free and pay for them...later.

When you pull over, in the dark, on a Thursday night, to whack away at a deteriorating blackberry bush, you are paying. When you sneak to the end of your street, and make sure your neighbors aren't around so you can swipe some of their coveted ivy - you are paying. When you have to bust out your step ladder at 8:00 in the morning, you are paying. If I had been paid - to date - for all the stick bugs I have plucked off of ceilings, blinds, counters, turtle backs, plants and almost any other surface you can imagine - I'd be well-to-do.

In hindsight, it was my fault for the last large round of stick bugs I had to herd up. I left the lid off the stick bug terrarium...After meeting with some people that we had somehow convinced to come over to our home and take some of our stick bugs from us. For FREE. On, of course, Craigslist. What comes around...

So, I am taking life in stride. I am recovering while my stitches disintegrate. I have lived through the non-mundane and mundane. Dare I suggest that I am inspired by something as humble as an insect? I mean, stick bugs are sturdy. They blend into their environment. They have a surprisingly strong grip (just try to pry one off a wall or ceiling).

So, am I inspired by our bugs? Hell no. But, I have to laugh. I can't believe that I've survived brain surgery, and what I return to are things like tracking down food for a bug that resembles a twig. And sometimes I laugh so hard - that yes, I am, in stitches.

And this is a good thing.

Now, off to bed.

The Process

2009-12-30T12:28:00.000-08:00

12:27 p.m., two weeks later.

Two weeks post-surgery. Two weeks of adjusting to my new body. Two weeks and barely breached the outside world.

I kept it together leading up to the surgery. Maybe a little "too well." It's really not normal not to cry like I don't. It's not really a good thing. It doesn't make me stronger. I always realize this after the fact - not while I'm holding things in and together.

But I'll tell you...Going through brain surgery is scary. I had a moment or two in the hospital, the first day after my surgery when I was slightly more cognate, when I felt really close to death. I had the awareness that if my brain reacted poorly to this surgery, it could swell and I could be forever changed as an individual. And so I lay very still and tried to concentrate on being present, and aware, and normal.

My body is tired. I sleep a lot, once I'm able to fall asleep. I dream very involved and tiring dreams, and attribute this to the strong medication I'm still taking. I feel like I'm in a half-dizzy state pretty much all the time - on or off the medication. I know this because I went without any pain pills until mid-afternoon yesterday (not intentionally), and was walking around out in the world. I do the old-lady shuffle when I do walk, and bending over is not on my list of things to do right now.

I went out in the world yesterday and the day before. Just to do little things. To buy myself a fancy face-powder compact at Macy's. Just because. I got some thank you cards for the great people that took care of me in the ICU and on the 3rd Floor Surgical Ward. I went to the grocery store and putzed around with a mini-cart that I could lean on, while Alex got my prescription filled.

I am not a pain-meds person. But, if I don't take them, my head hurts a lot. Kind of like being in a vice and having a hang-over at the same time. Not that I'd know much about being in vices (I have no memory of the halo that crunched my skull into position during surgery, and left me with several head wounds - three of which required staples)...The hangover thing, well, let's just say I've had my share.

I am tired. I think I will work on making a new purse. I can handle small, creative tasks. I can handle doing some reading at night. I can handle the brain-sucking T.V. Don't worry - I won't give up much of my white matter - I've had to work too hard lately to take care of it.

All for now,
Hope you are well.
I am fine. I will continue healing. It is a slower process than I'd like, and I hate not being able to
do things around here (having to put the "Control" part of my being on hold), but I just have to allow the process to unfold as it will.

Best,
Deborah

12:54 Wednesday Morning

2009-12-23T00:54:00.000-08:00

I am up. Could be the Oxycodone and steroids I'm on - but I thought they were supposed to make me sleepy? Or maybe it's just the Oxycodone that makes you sleepy and the steroids that can hype you up - but either way, I'm up...With the neighbors' cat and some Chamomile tea. The cat actually being as much our cat these days as theirs, as we have had discussions as to such and so it's all in-the-know and over the table and on the books and really quite kosher. His name is "Happy Flower" because he was named by a very sweet six year old. I just call him "Meow Meow" or "Outdoor Kitty" when I'm referring to him (which is becoming less and less a good name for him as he is more and more an indoor kitty at our residence these days).

I could also be awake due to the fact that I must sleep at an annoying degree of angle which if you looked at me from the front would appear to be an obtuse angle. Which brings up the singular item that I would keep from my hospital stay since this past Friday, which would be the button-controlled bed.

Not the thin, slightly crunchy sheets or the "blankets" which come in two varieties: too short, thin and oddly textured - or - warmed, too short, thin and oddly textured. Not the pillows which were obviously designed for people whom have no necks; any half-respecting health-care professional knows that you need good support and comfort in order to cultivate descent sleep. However, since you are surrounded by many of these health-care professionals, even a brain-surgeon to boot - you have to believe that there must be some very logical system to the pillow-to-patient ratio, as well as the ratio of filling-to-pillow cases. I'm sure once the heavy drugs have worn off I will be blessed with these insights, and have a very clear understanding as to why having four uncomfortable pillows in my bed those three nights were actually a benefit to my health, and were not actually donated to the hospital by my insurance company in a ploy to get me the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible. At least here, in the "comfort" of my own home, with approximately the same pillow-to-patient ratio, I can chose different thicknesses and shapes of pillows. I know I'd be perfectly content if I could just hit the "UP" or "DOWN" button on the side of my bed to get that elusive angle just right.

In 39 minutes I have to take two more of the Oxycodones. And, if I am smart, and don't want any nausea, I will take these with a couple of crackers and a lot of water. AND, if I am really, really smart, I will take these two pills with some prunes or a stool softener if I want to poop again before Christmas. Gosh, that'd be a good holiday song......"All I Want For Christmas in My...."

I'm trying to think of the next worst thing about being in the hospital as I've just experienced it. I mean, the food is a given. Sure, they make jokes, and it seems so cliche' - but REALLY people? I will say that the meats that were lain before me were warm. And were probably a grade up from what I feed Outdoor Kitty, but do you really have to put some sauce on it? I mean, how DO you make a sauce that has a negative taste on the taste scale??! I can see flecks of things that look like they might be herbs or something...Enough said. Stick with the broth. At least there's too much salt in it, which means you can taste it which means it's actually registering on the taste-o-meter.

No...next has got to be the suction cup circulation feet thingamajiggers*. Picture a shlurp sound somewhere in between Sleestack and a Bart Simpson armpit fart. Now, have that sound incorporated into a living breathing machine-like thing that is now hooked up to the bottom of your feet. Now, picture these *S.C.C.F.T.'s alternately flating and deflating in the above-mentioned manner and sound which I attempted to describe. NOW, try to sleep with these crazy-makers on and you've got one night of my life in the hospital. As soon as I'd start to drift into my morphine and Delotted (sp?) happy-place coma, SHLURPSUCKSHUTTERSUCKPULLPOOOOF! and that was just the right foot. All fricking night long. The next morning I politely asked if I had a choice between those and the leg-warmer circulation thingies, and was told, "Yes." Well, I believe a tear may have stained my cheek.

I understand that I just had my head sawed open and a tumor removed from my meninges and a large vein on my brain, so I'm not even going to complain about the round-the-clock care that I received every few hours - or - every time I had just tip-toed on the edge of REM sleep. I'm pretty sure there's some conspiracy going on which involves one mob or another which has the corner-market on all hospital food and blood-pressure cuffs, and is in direct and shameless cahoots with the drug, S.C.C.F.T's, pillow/bedding and insurance companies. Just a thought.

The I.V.'s and other tubes inserted into you? Do not. I repeat, DO NOT, get me started.
Let's just say that having two I.V.'s in - one in each arm of course - does not make pushing UP and DOWN buttons any easier. Does not give you the dignity to even brush your teeth as well as a toddler. Does not make getting to the toilet where you have to collect any and all cc's of your urine - any easier. Does not make adjusting the four fricking pillows that surround your upper extremities - any easier. 'Nough said.

The number one suckiest part about brain surgery - especially if they have to drill-through-your-skull-kind-of-brain-surgery - is having brain surgery. Hands down. It just really, really, sucks. Let me liken it to this, and then I'll be done:

1) Ever seen those rodeo show play-backs of the poor schmuck that got his head bashed in by a really pissed off bull or bronco? Check.

2) Ever had such a bad hang-over that you actually can't get rid of it for at least two days because you alcohol-poisoned yourself within a half-inch of your life? Check.

3) Ever get off a ride at a fair or theme park and start making your way to the lost and found to recover your center of gravity because it's surely not with you any more? Check.

Now, combine that with just the S.C.C.F.T.'s and you've got yourself a whole heap of motivation to get OUT of the hospital and IN to the comfort of your own home. Add the rest, and well, you're practically ready to moon-walk down the aisles of Fred Meyer in a celebratory dance.

I am home. I survived brain surgery. I survived my stay in the hospital for three nights and some-odd days. I had great care, and lots of love. I come back to you with less hair, but my humor in tact. I come back tired and woozy and in a lot of pain, but I am back...
And I'm happy to be here.

Thanks for your well-wishes, positive thoughts and prayers.

Love,

Deborah
(and Happy Flower)

Post Pre-Op Day Bath

2009-12-16T19:25:00.000-08:00

Post pre-op day bath -

Ingredients:

1 Tub hot water
5-10 drops lavender essential oil
1 1/2 cups Epsom salts
1 good book
2 candles and a nightlight for lighting
1 small, fancyish glass half-filled with good whiskey
1 bottle good whiskey nearby in case you need a re-fill
with a Xanex chaser or pre-bath Xanex

I feel so much better.
Wasn't doing so hot after meeting with my neurosurgeon today.
Somehow I found it unsettling to hear about the chunk of skull that was
going to be sawed and flipped back in order for said surgeron to have access to my tumor.
That it's going to be a 2 - 4 hour surgery.
I have to spend the night in ICU, and two days in the hospital after.

Meanwhile, I'm rushing around trying to shop for our home and our pets and
Christmas and....
AAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Hence,
the bath.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Til tomorrow,
Debs

Tick Tock

2009-12-11T07:40:00.000-08:00

One week to go!

Two nights ago I had a good cry. That's probably about it for me. I am not a crier...though I know that's not necessarily a good thing. I'll leave that for my therapist to handle...

Anyhoo. A week. Luckily, a week filled with things other than staring at some ominous count-down calendar or filling out pre-op paperwork.

I've got the Christmas work party on Saturday. Before that, I have two good friends from Seattle I get to hang with. And there's being a mom which includes but is not limited to: the friendly nudges to do homework, the endurance of many an eye-roll aimed in my general direction, snuggles. Then theres the never-ending list of pets that need attention and care. Work. Everyone knows now - which is weird. A couple of days ago one of the girls I've worked with in the Resource Room said to me, "Miss Lutz, my friend (so and so) had a friend who had to have some brain surgeries and after that she talked funny. So, you might talk funny after your surgery, too." Thank you for those words of encouragement. I tried not to laugh, and assured her that my surgery wasn't as serious, and that that wouldn't happen to me. Another boy I work with casually asked 'how my tumor was doing.' Kids are awesome.

Most days I do think I'll be just fine. Those of you who've had anesthesia know that it's kind of scary handing yourself over to people in such a way. You are totally vulnerable. I'm actually glad that I had surgery this past summer for endometriosis, because it prepared me for what going into surgery is like. The only surgery I'd had before that was when I was eleven, so the details are a bit foggy. So the handing over is the hardest part - and the rest - well that's just brain surgery.

Could things go wrong? Could I die? Of course. But you don't think that way. Or you try not to. And the chances are very slim that anything like that would happen. So, I bought myself a Ukulele book yesterday because I haven't been playing my Uke, and I'm forgetting all I learned from the week of lessons I had at Guitar Camp. I think that playing the Uke would be a nice, mellow thing to do while I'm recovering...And so you see, I'm looking ahead. My calendar doesn't stop at the 18th, it continues like everyone elses does, and I need to remind myself of that at times.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Teetering

2009-11-29T22:59:00.000-08:00

So, on the brink of December, I teeter...

Between the usual: Ah...Enjoyed Thanksgiving (It is officially my favorite holiday; food, food, drink, food, food. And friends and family. Food.), and not so: Trying to prepare mentally and emotionally for my up-coming surgery.

I suppose the most difficult part of this whole ordeal, is some irony that speaks loudly to me and my therapist, but which most people wouldn't know unless they were told...

My son is thirteen years old - the same age that I was when my dad had major brain surgery.

By no means is my surgery anywhere as serious or under as perilous conditions as my dad's was. His was due to a major head injury he suffered, was incredibly invasive and more involved than mine will be. However, because my family and I have had front row seats to brain surgery, I have a different perspective on it than would most.

I teeter between knowing that the surgery ahead is relatively minor in the world of brain surgeries...and knowing what it looks like when the brain is injured - if anything were to go wrong with my surgery.

Most days I am positive. I am relatively unafraid. I make plans for my future.
Some days I look at my son and think how awful it would be for him to have to go through anything even minutely similar to what my family and I went through with my dad's head injury. It brings up old hurts and fears which I try to push away.

About 80% of me knows that I'll be just fine. That I will be fat and happy on a couch three weeks from now, recovering from my surgery. The 20% shadow that follows me around???

Well, this is my reality. I've seen too much to be unrealistic. This is where my philosophy of, "When it's your time - it's God's time, " comes into play. I don't think you can fight your timing. I live my life with the perspective of someone who learned at a young age that life can change, that you can lose someone, at the drop of a hat. I try to show those around me that I am present. That I love them. That I am not full of crap. God knows my heart - and loves me in spite of my imperfections.

So, yes, I teeter. But mostly I am just fine. Some days I have really stupid thoughts go through my head like, "Gosh, it'd be great if I lost a lot of weight because of this!" and, "I hope that Alex doesn't over-feed the fish or under-feed the frogs..." (control freak, I am!)

O.K.

Enough pondering and self-reflection for now.
Treat me as normally as you ever have -
and don't worry: Whatever is supposed to happen,
is going to.

Love,
Debs

When You Least Expect It - Expect It

2009-11-19T16:10:00.001-08:00

At the end of this past August, I found out that I have a tumor on my brain. This is good news...And I'll explain why.

A) It's good news because it's most likely non-cancerous.
B) It's good news because if we hadn't found it now, it could have begun attaching itself to my brain, or tunnelling into the vain it's attached to. Which makes things a lot more complicated when it comes to surgery.
3) Well, that's actually all the good reasons I can think of - but two is a start.

I have only told a handful of people, because it's stressful to talk about, and for the last two months I have actually known very little about my tumor, myself.

Oh yeah - I thought of another "good news" thing: c) It's pretty small.

So, as I was saying, I haven't told all that many people. I figure that now is the time for this "NEWS RELEASE" - as catching people off-guard with, "By the way...I'm having brain surgery next week" just wouldn't be cool.

It's too much work to try to explain the details and respond to every email I might get - so writing this blog will be my primary means of communication regarding this issue, over the next couple of months.

How has this impacted my life? Well, I've been depressed some days. Scared, others. Anxious. I'm not looking forward to being couch-bound for several days and in the hospital one or two. I guess - no, I know - it could be worse. Doc says I should be back to work full time in a month from the date of my surgery...Dec. 18th.

I tried on wigs yesterday. Since the tumor is on the top-middle of my brain, I can't see that being a good look just having a three-inch section shaved and the rest, well, not. SO, since I can choose whatever look I like - I think I'll go for the Marilyn Monroe or the Pat Benatar. It's such a hard decision! My vanity says: Girl, you are going to be one UGLY, martian-looking bald woman. And then my inner-bitch says: Who the hell cares??? As long as I make it through this without any hitches, I'll be happy - no matter how awkward I may look.

So, I'll post up until surgery - probably once a week or so - and then after I'm out or the hospital and feel up to doing anything.

Send peaceful thoughts my way.
Love,
Deborah

Pets

2008-12-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

I never set out to be 'the crazy cat lady.' I mean, it's really a slow process, who's roots stem back to my earliest days on this planet.

I was the bee whisperer when I was a mere seven years old...I would coax them into the palm of my hands with a dandelion, or just a lot of naivety and patience. I only got stung once during my bee wrangling days - and this didn't deter me from loving the fuzzy little critters.

I was also known (possibly only to myself, as I'm not sure anyone else in my family was privy to such information) to run a small bug hospital - mostly for injured flies - on my window sill. The injured insects would convalesce in a small jar filled with tissue and grass, and received regular visits from their crazy ward nurse. I felt that it was our fault that the poor fly had injured itself in the first place - innocently buzzing along at mach 5 and then - BAM! - death shield of glass stops it nearly dead in its track. Geesh.

My love for lizards and stray cats and rabbits and fish, dogs,hamsters and birds had no bounds, and followed me into adult-hood.

We always had cats and dogs growing up. We went through dogs like socks, it seemed. One dog was too yappy, one needed a home with a larger yard, one was too aggressive, one got left behind with the widow that fed him ground sirloin and doughnuts. One dog moved to Germany. I actually never once had to deal with one of them passing away - they just sort of got recycled.

I have had some bum luck with pets over the years: Crazy Cat, who apparently never took to human contact - unless of course you count his claws digging into the flesh of your legs. I had one cat run away - but I'm pretty sure that had something to do with a bitter roommate terrorizing it while I was out of town. That was also the same cat that got hit by a car and ended up with a broken leg which cost me more than I made in a month. I lost two cockatiels. Long story. OK - I'll tell you:
I took the female on a walk with me, because she was super tame, and if she ever flew away - it was only a few feet, and always came back. So I though, "Let me take her on my favorite walk in the woods - I'm sure she'll enjoy being out in nature." Well, all was going well until owner with large dog comes walking along. Didn't factor in this when I went on my get-close-to-nature-outing. Bird flies away. I call pet store for advice. They tell me that sometimes if they hear their mate calling, they'll come back to them. So, I get male bird (I'm sure they had real names, but I can't remember them right now), put him in my little birdy carrying cage, and set out for the area of the trail that I'd lost his long-time companion. Now, two other things that I didn't really take into account: 1) Male bird didn't have very loud pipes on him, and 2) The carrying cage had a large hole on one side, where the water feeder was supposed to be. So, as I was arriving at the spot of supposed rescue, I look down, and to my utmost horror, see male bird sitting on top of the cage. And at the exact moment that this happened, male bird took to flight to join the small flock of cockatiels which now called Whatcom Fall's Park, their home. Did I mention that this took place in early Fall, when all the leaves in the area were the exact same color as my yellow cockatiels??? Long story short: I recovered female bird then next day (due to the fact that I traded my sense of pride for local loony person, and wandered around whistling bird calls as loudly as possible, until she heard me, and finally flew back to me). Don't ask how I then proceeded to lose her a year later. Just don't.

Currently, I have: One adorable guinea pig, "Honey." One precocious rat, "Ginger." Two cockatiels (no I won't be taking them for walks), "Mama and Papa Birds." And, two fish tanks. I adopted the birds because my friends' mom adopted some kittens, so her birds couldn't come out of their cages anymore, and I adopted the large fish and fish tank because they'd been abandoned in an apartment building. And the two goldfish which are now in the big tank, because my sister's insurance company didn't want them anymore.

Now, some people think I'm taking it too far when I let my guinea pig roam around on my couches and in my bed. Or let my rat wander around my living room collecting small edibles that we've dropped. Or letting the chicken that I babysat for a couple of days roam free in my home...But really, what's a little poop here and there? That's what vacuums are for! And paper towels! I just hate seeing them all cooped up, and I try to treat them like I'd want to be treated if I were caged.

There was one moment where the idea that maybe I had crossed over into crazy really did sort of hit home; I was sitting at my computer with a hissing cockroach on my lap, and a bird on my head. This was a bit awkward. And I did end up donating the cockroaches to the children's museum. Well, only because I was the only one giving them any attention, and they sometimes got out of their cage (my son found it wrapped inside my yoga mat).

OK. I am the crazy cat lady. I admit it. But I don't actually own any cats, and I haven't left any guinea pig droppings in my bedding for a really long time.
I just love my little beasties!

Mafia Moms

2007-02-24T10:53:00.000-08:00

Over the last few years, I have been a Soccer Mom, and Indoor Soccer Mom, and more recently, a Basketball Mom. Apparently next fall I'm going to add Football Mom, to my repertoire.

No, I don't have a mini-van or magnetic stickers of various athletic equipment stuck to my vehicle, but I have become friends with some of the other parents who's children play on teams with my son. We have bonded on the side-lines. We have stood in the cold and rain cheering too loudly together. We have compared frazzled hair-do's and schedule glitches with one another. We drink our coffee and talk under our breath about the other parents and the kids who couldn't kick a ball if it was strapped to the end of their sneaker. We pick up after each other's kids...the endless barrage of sweatshirts and water bottles that make it a few weeks, and rarely a season before going missing.

This past winter I gave us the name Mafia Mom's, because we decided that through pure vocal intimidation we could wage psychological warfare against the other team's parents. We thought ourselves very funny, though in the end our theory and rantings had absolutely no baring on the outcome of the games (it still feels good to scream your lungs out and laugh until your eyes tear up).

I have, after several years now on the side-lines, mastered the art of rolling out of bed, and still looking presentable enough to go out in public. I am pretty sure most of the other mothers are freshly showered - which is just great for them - but when you have to be at a game at 9:00 a.m. - I say screw the shower and pour the coffee. I own a very cute hat which has saved my social life on more than a couple occasions. It does not matter that my hair defies gravity and resembles a dandy lion gone to seed...I just throw on old faithful and some sneakers, brush the teeth, touch up the mascara that I was too lazy to wash off my face the night before -and
vua-la! No one's really the wiser, and I've just added several minutes to my morning. I strongly recommend that all moms own at least two good hats - it'll save them more stress than they'd realize.

All for now - I still have yet to take a shower today.
Go team!!!

move-ment

2006-04-13T23:17:00.000-07:00

Moving, requires effort. Requires inertia. Not to bring this into the realm of physics...It's really just common sense. To move, means you are in motion. I am in motion. I am in the process of moving.

I am surrounded by cardboard boxes, and clear tape placed on an ingenious spool connected to a handle and a metal grip that rips the tape off in nice, neat, ninety degree angles. I am moving.

I am the whitest Nomad you've ever encountered. My skin is not olive-colored or tanned by days journeyed under a full sun. That said, I have been moving...from place to place, home to home, since I was young enough to be carried, half-asleep, from the back-seat of a car.

The first place I called home (though I could hardly utter such words), was a hippy/Christian commune in southern Oregon. I remember chickens and the duck-pond, a soap-stone in the creek, and burning my leg on the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle.

We then moved to the bustleing town of Roseburg. A cow-town off I-5 which boasts live-stock, decent wine-country, and an A&W where the girls wore change-belts that I envied as a child.

We lived in several homes within the borders of that small town. The first home I remember, was a duplex. My neighbor-friend was a girl my age - there is a picture of us kissing at the bottom of a slide in my hallway. She fell out of her bed a couple of years later, and ended up brain damaged. After that, we lived in the house where Buddy ran away, and returned with a bullet hole through his neck; the vet said it was a miracle.

Buddy moved with us to our next home. The house with the huge maple in the front, from which we hung a long rope and a plastic horse. The neighbors with the Koi-fish pond lived up the hill. I remember the smell of lilacs, and tricking my brother into rolling out of bed because "...a train's coming...get off the tracks!"

Elm street was next, with its perfect parade of kids on bikes and sticky, plum-fallen sidewalks. That was my favorite house, I think.

I believe this set the course of my life as a future Nomad. If I tried to count, I believe I could give almost anyone reading this a run for their money, in times moved: Twenty six, if I didn't miss any...since then.

And this will be twenty nine since Roseburg's Elm Street. I forgot to mention that that's where I experienced the birth of my baby brother, David...First grade, and my own personal angel that pulled flowers to smell off of tree branches, protected me from mean neighborhood dogs, and walked me to school. Personal, real-life Angels should always be acknowledged.

I've come across several old things during this move: Clay-art snowmen, my son's tooth-fairy collection, post-cards from people I haven't spoken to in three years.

This is a good move; in-door laundry, wood floors, privacy. My soul needs this move like my Grandma's vases need bubble-wrap. I am moving. I am in motion. I am moving toward new things, new spaces...And, though no camel to get me there, I will move the mile and a half 'round the corner, set my tent stakes, and make camp...happily Nomadic, once more.

pancakes anyone?

2006-01-30T19:15:00.000-08:00

My nine year old son ( I feel very old whenever I mention my child's age) had a sleep-over a while back. After an evening of 'Death Kill 2006' video games, a blanket-and-every-pillow-in-the entire-house fort, continuous food-intake, wrestling, GI Joe's, Lego's, etc., morning came at the usual time: 7:00 a.m..

I like to pretend that I don't have a load of responsibilities on Saturday mornings. It's my little game of denial I play every weekend. Even though my eyes tend to pop open before the hour of eight, I force myself to lay in bed for at least another hour to two hours. Sometimes I even fall back asleep. This particular morning, I must have really been exhausted, because I slept through what can only be described as Beacor meets Betty Crocker on cheap crack.

My son came bursting, all too enthusiastically for the time of day, into my bedroom announcing, "Mom! Get up!!! We made breakfast!!!" A note to parents/anyone: When the word "made" refers to the process of cooking, and is combined with a sentence also including any food-related words, and are being uttered by a child under the age of 12, you may have a reasonable, understandable and justifiable sense of panic take over your body.

I rolled out of bed and Sleestack-walked to the kitchen.

How to describe, fully, what horror awaited me...Picture, if you will, an entire kichen covered in a thick, white-ish paste...covered in multi-colored sprinkles, in syrup, honey, jam, strawberry and chocolate toppings...Picture pans with globs of shapeless gook left in them, and plates strewn with the remnants of all of the above. Picture the floor with slightly less gook, but more floury substance and sprinkles.

Now, combine this image with the faces of two of the cutest little boys you've ever seen. Then, just to insure that there was no earthly way for me to be mad, picture my son saying, "Mom...We made "lump-cakes!" "And we saved you some!!!"

I'm not sure how they actually cooked the multi-sided pancakes...if you could call them that. They must have rolled them around sort of like large, white meatballs. All I do know, is that they were definitely "lump-cakes." Under-cooked in the middles, and slightly brownish-tan in color - (on some sides).

Out of parental obligation, I tried a bite. They were the second worst pancakes I've ever had: The "worst prize" goes to the Roseburg, Oregon Denny's - whose pancakes always tasted of eggs and plastic.

The pancake saga is not yet over, my friends. Oh no! In fact, it was re-visited just this past weekend when my son, once again, had a sleep-over (same friend). Once again I pretended that I was an Egyptian Queen, and should not be awakened and/or dragged from her chambers any earlier than 9:30 or 10 o'clock a.m..

This time, I was awakened to, "Mom, we're going to make pancakes!" You'd think I'd have enough sense to run screaming into the kitchen, trying to stop such endeavours...But, oh no! I thought the two apprentice chefs must surely have leared a few culinary lessons from their previous experience, and should be given another chance.

The second time I was awakened, it was to the question, "Mom, do you have to put eggs in the pancake batter?" Red lights and warning bells should have been going off in my brain - but instead I just groggily answered, "No," and left it at that.

The next thing I knew, I was being summoned to the kitchen. "Mom, something's wrong...The pancakes taste terrible!" The Nile was miles behind me by this point, as I slipper-slothed it to the kitchen. Oh. My. God. As in, "God, please give me the strength and courage to clean this untolerably huge mess!!!!!"

I'm going to ask you, once again, to try and picture if you will, the day-mare that was my kitchen: 1 bag flour. Misc. amounts of said flour strewn all over the floor, counters, coffee-pot, stove, and anything else withing a 10 foot radius. 2 plates, with pancake-esque looking objects floating in large pools of syrup and honey. 1 - 3 bites missing out of said pancake-esque looking objects. 1 bowl with aprox. 2 cups flour and one sad looking egg in it (hidden underneath the cutting board in the sink - which I would discover much later, towards the end of my cleaning excursion).

Now, you have to remember....I'm groggy. A little slow on the up-take. But as soon as I saw the bag of flour, I quickly grasped the scenario. "Sky," I said (my son's name), "this is a bag of flour - not the pancake mix!" Long pause. Laughs. "No wonder they tasted so bad!" (...ya think?)

Needless to say I had a good chuckle, made the boys pancakes (good tasting ones) and eggs, and made myself some strong coffee which I drank whilst cleaning up said kitchen for the next hour.

And, needless to say, that was the last time I will be letting my son "make pancakes."

cold season

2006-01-20T17:23:00.000-08:00

It's "cold season." I'm an idiot and didn't buy any Airborne this year...Which is apparently the new cold-fender-offer on the market - and apparently works. Instead, I opted for trying to "stick it out" and "be tough." Apparently my ego is stronger than my immune system.

So, as you can probably guess, I got a nasty cold. The kind that starts as a sore throat and works it's way into your eye sockets and nostrils. By the time you realize, "...ah crap...this is going to be a doozy..." and try the ol' last-minute ingesting of illegal amounts of Echinacea and Goldenseal - Well, it's too damn late. You wake up the next day with a zinger of a headache, and your voice sounds as if you were smoking and doing shots of whiskey all night long. Unfortunately, you don't look very sick at this point, and so the sympathy which you will attain is very minimal.

On around the third or fourth day of my cold, I was feeling really lousy, and had finally started showing the tell-tale signs of being truly ill. My eyes were a bit puffy, and the glands in my neck were starting to resemble one of those lizards with the neck-fans. I missed one day of classes, but made it into work every day. I was so sneezy one day, that I literally had to walk away mid-sentence from a client to go blow my nose. That's a bit embarrassing - and doesn't win any extra sympathy points.

I think it was that same day, that after checking my reflection in my compact, I realized that I'd failed to remove all my bright-green face mask from the night before. And I thought that one customer was admiring my shade of lipstick.

It's no fun being sick. You can't kiss your significant other (espescially if they're a germ-a-phobe), you've got "fuzzy brain syndrome," and you tend to look worse than you normally do in the middle of Winter. Never mind the whole inconvenience of only being able to breathe out of one nostril, and coughing up stuff that only cats should. It's just not pretty, this whole "cold season" thing....I promise you, I'll be getting some of that Airborne stuff....real soon.

Ode to a "Holiday" Tree

2005-12-16T11:44:00.000-08:00

I am not doing the whole Christmas tree thing this year. I am not going to pay too much for some indoor greenery. I am not going to spend an hour cursing under my breath as I try to balance an uneven trunk inside the rib-cage of a tree stand. I am not going to untangle the ornaments which have been copulating and reproducing inside their boxes over the past year. I am not going to haul the dried-out, post-holdiay tree down stairs all the while impailing myself with hundreds of needles - some of which manage to find their way inside the lining of my underwear. Instead, I have chosen to string every strand of lights that would have strangled said tree, from my ceiling. I turned my living room into the inside of a circus tent, with the excuse that I was "doing it for my son." This is a lie. I did this for myself, and if it sounds slightly insane, it is. But it looks really cool, and is a lot less messy than a "holiday" tree, any day of the week.

Happy Holidays,

Deborah

PMS - or - Why I Could Eat a Horse

2005-11-30T16:24:00.000-08:00

Warning: To anyone for which the subject of PMS makes them uncomfortable - this BLOG is not for you.

I started my day with the usual dash-to-work. Throwing my gourmet, instant-lunch into my satchel and running to my car. Today was a step-up from the usual cup-o-soup: it was some shmancy peanut-noodle dish. It required a full 2 minutes of microwaving. When it came time to eat ( I was starving by 11:00, and I'd had an egg and toast for breakfast around 8:00), I began reading the instructions on the wrapping of my entree'. You're absolutely right. The word "entree' " and the word "wrapping" should probably never be together in a sentance. I digress. I knew this was gourmet, because it had more than two directions. I had to "...dump the entire contents of the bowl - out - place the vegetables and a tablespoon of water in the bottom of said bowl, add noodles and sauce, heat for two minutes - and then add the crumbled peanut topping." I read the directions three, count em', three times. Just to make sure I wouldn't screw up any part of my fine dining experience. About right now you're probably wondering how this relates to PMS. I'm getting to that. It ties in quite nicely, in fact. Because where I'm headed - in a three-legged-mule sort of way, is that although I successfully, and with the help of the microwave oven that is so old it sometimes shorts-out the upstairs electrical system, made a bowl of exotic, peanut-esque noodles with vegetables (what a laugh - they were cut to exactly the miniscule size perfect for getting stuck between ones' teeth), I did not come anywhere near my PMS-required amount of protein.
After work, I went straight to the grocery store, and proceded to procure these ingredients (see if you notice any patterns or theme): Maple-port sausage, celery, juice, Turkey dogs, a small but luscious looking Sirloin Beef Roast, and Extra-Sharp White Cheddar Cheese. I think I had the roast and all the veggies cut, seasoned, and under foil in aprox. 10 minutes flat. Apparently, I am PMS-ing. And I am a very hungry woman. For the next two weeks I will consume mostly protein-based foods, be cranky, and write BLOGS about "being so hungry I could eat a horse!" Where did we get that saying, anyway?

Best,

Deborah

debora-bora

2005-11-25T21:21:00.000-08:00

rotting

i do the same damn thing every year: i buy the pumpkins because
otherwise i'm a bad mom. we have to carve the pumpkins. and inevitably i get
invited to the same pumpkin carving party every year, and drag 3 to 8 lbs. of orange squash
with me and my son.

and eventually - after the amazing yellow-squash soup and the wine and the small talk,
we carve the pumpkins.

it has got to be the messiest tradition ever. i mean, you make a sane choice to open the top
of a large gourd, and scoop out its innards: slime-covered seeds...by the frickin' hundereds. it's so annoying. really.
this part...the obligatory part of the pumpkin carving tradition, puts me in a slightly foul mood every year.

even when i didn't have a kid, and i was "foot-loose and fancy-free" i still went to pumpkin carving parties.
i can't explain this. it must stem from some deep sense of self-hatred, or something.

you're right - it's WAY passed Halloween. passed the carving of squash and dressing up and eating too
much candy. it's the tail-end of November. so why am i ranting about pumpkins NOW????

BECAUSE: one of my pumpkins - the 15 pounder that i picked out because i liked it's odd shape - that one...it's
still sitting outside my door.
except now it's growly face is sagging, and it's orange skin is covered in black-mildew blemishes. and it's oozing
something worse than the slime that once covered its seeds. it's just a time bomb mocking me. "hah! that's what
you get for skewing my innards!!! that'll teach you!!!! ah....sweet revenge...!!!!!!"

every year. it's the same thing. i let too much time pass, and i inevitably have to slurp-launch the festering
orange heap as carefully, and without any touch of femininity, into a large garbage bag.

every year.
happy thanksgiving. post.

deborah

poem: season's change

2005-11-20T11:19:00.000-08:00

Season’s Change

Winter’s berries replace Spring’s;
White, where red hung.
Silence, where birds sung.
Poison not pies…
And the rot where death and life over-lap
begins to fill the air.

What purpose the Snow Berry?
A string of pearls strung to distract
The eyes and hearts’ mourning…
Days longer-lit, sweeter, warmer?

There is an ache inside’
Love, where once pain.
Loss, and yet gain.
Pushing my heart…
And the joy where death and life over-lap
begins to fill my soul.

I will hang the Snow Berry boughs
Upon my door…
To remind me of the beauty of change –
Allowing myself to feel, deeper, sweeter, warmer.

d.l. –

2005

What We Are

2005-11-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

"What you are is God's gift to you;
what you do with yourself is your gift to God."

- Danish Proverb

Some days, I wake up with the wings of a gnat. Others, the wings of an Eagle. "Under it all," some days, and above it, the others. The consistency is in the in-consistency. It is the wave of emotions that can seem to direct our paths...that is the same wave we sometimes feel we may drown in. This is why I truly believe that I make a lousy guide for myself. This is what makes me humbly call out to God for direction.

I find that it is just as easy to lose ones' self in a field, as it is in a forest. And what I mean by that, is that unless you are seeking a direction, it doesn't matter where you are...you will be no less lost or found if you are not looking. Unless you get quiet enough to hear God speaking to you...unless you take the time...you will walk aimless no matter where you walk.

Years ago - in the midst of one of the busiest cities in the world (new york), I got really quiet. I prayed with every cell in my being, that God would show me the direction for my life. And in that cramped apartment, in the middle of the night, in the city that doesn't sleep, when I myself wasn't sleeping - but desperately praying - I heard God. And what he told me was this: That I would use my music to help others. That was my gift. That was my purpose.

And so today, when I read the Danish proverb written above, I was reminded of my gifts. Reminded of my direction. Reminded of how blessed I am to have heard God's speaking. And where ever it is I find myself - no matter how chaotic my days get - I know my purpose. I encourage you to get very quiet...And pray...and listen...

Best,
Deborah

the moral of the mom and the guinnea pig

2005-11-08T19:35:00.000-08:00

The Moral of The Mom and the Guinnea Pig

Some days are more hectic than others. The other day, for example, was a particularly hectic day, as hectic days go. Get up at 6:30 to catch up on homework before I have to get nine year old ready for school: koala krisps - check. brush your teeth? check. clothing from clean pile? check. packed lunch? check. combed hair? maybe. clean guinnea-pig cage and feed fresh food. check. make sure fish are fed and air-pump turned on. check. 8:15: made it to the bus-stop without having to do the 75 yard dash. check. hobble back home to finish getting self ready. sort of. 9:30: work until 12:30. take bus to school for 1:00 class. leave for home at 3:00. scrounge ride from class-mate...check. make it home by 3:15 ish. the day's only 2/3's of the way over, when i take a moment to pause..........and realize that i took better care of the guinnea pig today, than i did myself. so, the moral of The Mom and the Guinnea Pig is this: If you're a parent - specially a single-parent - you have to treat yourself better than the household pets. Period. Really. End of story. End of moral. Or there won't be anyone to take care of the kid, to go to the job, to go to school, to feed the fish and the guinnea pig, or write blogs, etc. So -Eat, rest, pray, take hot baths and have a glass of red wine...and talk to the guinnea pig.

They're wiser than you'd think.

All for now -

Deborah

Insomnia

2005-11-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if it's the berometric pressure, new medication, or just whacked-out hormones - but I've had insomnia for three nights in a row now.

Most everyone has had insomnia. So you can relate...

Day 1 (post-insomnia): Slightly blurred vision, cursing at alarm clock, drink two caffeinated beverages before 8:30 a.m. Grab third caffeinated beverage on the way to work. Make it through the day without any major blunders. Pathetically optomistic thought goes through your mind: "Tonight I'll get a good night's sleep...I'm soooo tired - how could I not???"
Day2 (post insomnia): Damn! Vision's screwed. Alarmn clock is still going off somewhere on the floor where I accidentally knocked it. Forget to have breakfast. Have extreme difficulty making even the smallest decisions: Which deoderant do I wear today? Why do I own more than one type of deoderant? Can't pack son's school lunch - he'll have to eat crap due to my incompetance. Make it to work - only three minutes late. That night, get smart and take half a sleeping pill...Aaahhhh, that'll do it.
Day 3 (post insomnia): Double damn!!! Who needs a frickin alarm clock when you've been awake since 4 am? Stumble into kitchen, make tea. Eat something. Happy you remembered to eat something today. Send kid off to school with healthy, hand-packed lunch. Find comfortable clothing. Only realize much later in the day that your socks sorely DO NOT match rest of outfit. Don't care. Curse life in general. Accidentally make self cup of non-caffeinated, sleep-inducing chamomile tea. Suffer through longer-than-usual work day, due to the fact that you said you'd cover co-workers' butt. Eat Cup-O-Noodle soup with dwindling enthusiasm...Am just happy to get the fork to my mouth. Start new blog in state of delerium...

More soon -
Your sleep-deprived friend,

Deborah