My boyfriend and I are riding back from lunch. We got taco bell and ate it in the woods at a park. It was very nice and particularly as I'm starting to stress quite a bit. My near sleepless night with the sling has not set me up well for this day, let alone the surgery coming up.
The lunch is relaxing, and we ride quietly watching the world go by back to the apartment.
"I've been thinking about something," He says.
Considering all the worries and stress of late, the no money thing with me, the house shopping thing with him, this isn't likely to be good.
"I've been considering this for a while, and think I have a decision."
Gulp, and?
"I think we should file for your shoulder with my renter's insurance."
I fell in his kitchen, in his renter insured apartment. I admit I made the joke I should have lied and said I did it the next day in the kitchen of the restaurant, but its not in my character to do so.
"Wouldn't that effectively be that same as sueing you?" I ask.
"Well sort of, but its one of the reasons someone gets this insurance."
He explains about the deductabiles on my insurance, about how little my disability pay covers, about how he doesn't intend to use the same company for his homeowners when he gets his house. He's so sweet, so earnest.
I laugh my ass off. "I cannot sue you! You're my boyfriend! That's crazy."
I suppose I'm willing to have him look into it, but it just seems utterly ubsurd to me. I would file with my homeowners if something broke on my house, but filing for something broke on me...for water on the kitchen floor at 4am...I just cannot see it happening.
Am I the only one who sees this as just, well, freaky odd?
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Half a lazy-boy
The follow up visit has passed, the MRI read, the surgery scheduled. My rotator cuff is fine, and much as the orthodoc surmised, it is indeed my cartilage. I have torn cartilage, part of which is occasionally catching in my joint. This is sort of reassuring as when I did the injury I kept insisting for days it felt like there was a rock in my joint I couldn't move around, like sticking a crayon in the open hinge-crack of a door.
Surgery means no serving for 2 to four months, depending on how long it takes to heal, but hopefully I'll at least get to work as a host not too long after the surgery, just long enough for stiches to come out and such. One other trick to this is I don't know which surgery of two I'll actually be getting, as the call on that will be made once they get in there and see, a time when I'll not be awake to give much input.
If the torn pieces are not too damaged, the tissue around it ok (which I'm worried about as I worked with it for over a month before going to the doc) then they will try and piece the cartilage back together. This is the prefered method, but has a drawback. If they are wrong, then there is a second surgery later on to try and fix that error. Method number two is getting in there, seeing a cluster of damage, and simply cleaning out all the cartilage. There is no replacement. I would simply not have that cartilage anymore. I am told this would result in some lifetime lack of stability in the shoulder. It wasn't till later, after the shock wore off that I began to wonder, what is a 'lack of stability?'
I can see if lack of stability is problematic enough, it may preclude my ever safely wanting to serve again, as the job is hard on that shoulder and would place it at higher risk of future damage.
My surgery is scheduled for about a week and a half away, but they already have me in a sling. This is primarily to get me used to dealing with it, particularly sleeping in it.
Last night was rough. It isn't what I think of as a standard sling. It's a sling, but between it and my body is a curved pillow the size of a couch armrest that positions the arm out from my body. The arm points forward as opposed to across my front. This completely rules out trying to sleep on my left. On my back works ok. But on my right side, this puts my arm elevated up on the cushion, instead of flat on my side, meaning gravity tries to slide my arm up into my shoulder, the same motion as a one sided extended shrug. Sleeping on my tummy was already pretty much out as I cannot raise my arm, but I had worked out a method. I slid the mattress a few inches over, so I could drop the arm onto the boxspring. This Macgyvered nighttime armrest had worked pretty well to allow me to sleep some on my tummy, but not with this piece of a lazy-boy strapped to me.
Add to this that one strap chafes my neck, and the other (around my waist) feels like its bruising my ribs [a la the princess and the pea] I'm surpremely unhappy with the thing. And this doesn't yet include the pain of surgery recovery. I'm beginning to think I spoke to early when I thought boredom was going to be my worst problem. I'm ever the optimist.
And it looks, well, dorky. [--Man I had to run back to grade school real quick to get that description.]
I did my model pose with it on for my boyfriend.
"Can you think of a way I could possibly look more ridiculous than with this couch cushion strapped to me?" I shriek.
"Yes," He calmly says. "You could have two."
I guess he's the optimist.
Surgery means no serving for 2 to four months, depending on how long it takes to heal, but hopefully I'll at least get to work as a host not too long after the surgery, just long enough for stiches to come out and such. One other trick to this is I don't know which surgery of two I'll actually be getting, as the call on that will be made once they get in there and see, a time when I'll not be awake to give much input.
If the torn pieces are not too damaged, the tissue around it ok (which I'm worried about as I worked with it for over a month before going to the doc) then they will try and piece the cartilage back together. This is the prefered method, but has a drawback. If they are wrong, then there is a second surgery later on to try and fix that error. Method number two is getting in there, seeing a cluster of damage, and simply cleaning out all the cartilage. There is no replacement. I would simply not have that cartilage anymore. I am told this would result in some lifetime lack of stability in the shoulder. It wasn't till later, after the shock wore off that I began to wonder, what is a 'lack of stability?'
I can see if lack of stability is problematic enough, it may preclude my ever safely wanting to serve again, as the job is hard on that shoulder and would place it at higher risk of future damage.
My surgery is scheduled for about a week and a half away, but they already have me in a sling. This is primarily to get me used to dealing with it, particularly sleeping in it.
Last night was rough. It isn't what I think of as a standard sling. It's a sling, but between it and my body is a curved pillow the size of a couch armrest that positions the arm out from my body. The arm points forward as opposed to across my front. This completely rules out trying to sleep on my left. On my back works ok. But on my right side, this puts my arm elevated up on the cushion, instead of flat on my side, meaning gravity tries to slide my arm up into my shoulder, the same motion as a one sided extended shrug. Sleeping on my tummy was already pretty much out as I cannot raise my arm, but I had worked out a method. I slid the mattress a few inches over, so I could drop the arm onto the boxspring. This Macgyvered nighttime armrest had worked pretty well to allow me to sleep some on my tummy, but not with this piece of a lazy-boy strapped to me.
Add to this that one strap chafes my neck, and the other (around my waist) feels like its bruising my ribs [a la the princess and the pea] I'm surpremely unhappy with the thing. And this doesn't yet include the pain of surgery recovery. I'm beginning to think I spoke to early when I thought boredom was going to be my worst problem. I'm ever the optimist.
And it looks, well, dorky. [--Man I had to run back to grade school real quick to get that description.]
I did my model pose with it on for my boyfriend.
"Can you think of a way I could possibly look more ridiculous than with this couch cushion strapped to me?" I shriek.
"Yes," He calmly says. "You could have two."
I guess he's the optimist.
Tippy Headron
I'm downtown and sitting in my jeep on the phone getting ready to leave, idly wondering as I watch the meter tick down if they would give me a ticket if I was actually in my car still. I strongly prefer not to drive while on the phone. I make exceptions on the interstate while just trucking along, but downtown Derby holiday traffic is quite another matter. I'm chit chatting away, engine off, and notice something on the sidewalk.
It's a pigeon, sort of huddled up next to the wall. It's not standing, its sitting there, slightly poofed out with its legs tucked away. I sort of wonder if it might be injured, although its giving no other signs of being so, but don't think too much on it as I will niether save this bird nor would I consider 'putting it out of its misery.'
Another pigeon comes along. It's beautiful with its metallic green sheen on its chest, strutting about the sitting bird. I look away as I'm talking and when I look back the green chested pigeon in fluttering away on top of the sitting pigeon--seemingly doing the thing we refer to as the former half of the phrase 'the birds and the bees.'
I joke into the phone, "man, it's getting a bit Animal Kingdom out here. There's a couple of pigeons having their own derby party here, eew."
I decide to give the birds some privacy and look away. Some birds flutter in front of my window as they come to land with the couple. I look over to see that four more have joined. I make the obligatory orgy joke, which I immediately regret as birds number 2, 3, 4, and 5 begin taking turns on the sitting bird.
I know this has nothing to do with me, nothing even to do with my species, but actually I'm finding it disturbing. It's like some bizzare gang bang attack. I explain into the phone what's happening and, apologies for my craziness expressed, explain I'm seriously going to have to get off the phone and drive away.
Then, while bird number five is up there, Greenchest gives two quick pecks to the sitting birds head. "Oh hell no! I've got to get off the phone!" The birds continue taking turns flapping on top and then giving two or three pecks to her head, all as she just sits there. It completely freaks me out, and I drive away.
As I pass a reflectively windowed building I see my trick tire has gone half-way to flat again, but don't want to stop anywhere near the horror to get air.
I have no idea if the bird was injured and so being ill-treated, as I know birds will all turn on an injured one, or if it some common, but yucky, spring mating ritual with pigeons. I actaully felt a bit guilty over having just left them all there--as if pigeons fall under the good samaritan law or something. I know that adultry to produce stronger offspring is common in birds, so maybe its a prostituion ring or something. I blame it all on urban sprawl myself, and now that I've typed it here and got it out of my system I plan to regulate it to the denial/forgotten category of my brain.
It's a pigeon, sort of huddled up next to the wall. It's not standing, its sitting there, slightly poofed out with its legs tucked away. I sort of wonder if it might be injured, although its giving no other signs of being so, but don't think too much on it as I will niether save this bird nor would I consider 'putting it out of its misery.'
Another pigeon comes along. It's beautiful with its metallic green sheen on its chest, strutting about the sitting bird. I look away as I'm talking and when I look back the green chested pigeon in fluttering away on top of the sitting pigeon--seemingly doing the thing we refer to as the former half of the phrase 'the birds and the bees.'
I joke into the phone, "man, it's getting a bit Animal Kingdom out here. There's a couple of pigeons having their own derby party here, eew."
I decide to give the birds some privacy and look away. Some birds flutter in front of my window as they come to land with the couple. I look over to see that four more have joined. I make the obligatory orgy joke, which I immediately regret as birds number 2, 3, 4, and 5 begin taking turns on the sitting bird.
I know this has nothing to do with me, nothing even to do with my species, but actually I'm finding it disturbing. It's like some bizzare gang bang attack. I explain into the phone what's happening and, apologies for my craziness expressed, explain I'm seriously going to have to get off the phone and drive away.
Then, while bird number five is up there, Greenchest gives two quick pecks to the sitting birds head. "Oh hell no! I've got to get off the phone!" The birds continue taking turns flapping on top and then giving two or three pecks to her head, all as she just sits there. It completely freaks me out, and I drive away.
As I pass a reflectively windowed building I see my trick tire has gone half-way to flat again, but don't want to stop anywhere near the horror to get air.
I have no idea if the bird was injured and so being ill-treated, as I know birds will all turn on an injured one, or if it some common, but yucky, spring mating ritual with pigeons. I actaully felt a bit guilty over having just left them all there--as if pigeons fall under the good samaritan law or something. I know that adultry to produce stronger offspring is common in birds, so maybe its a prostituion ring or something. I blame it all on urban sprawl myself, and now that I've typed it here and got it out of my system I plan to regulate it to the denial/forgotten category of my brain.
M R I don't like that sound!
Tuesday is my much anticiapted MRI to see what's up in my shoulder. A couple days before I called to make sure I didn't have to be prepared to give any samples, starve myself the night before, or any other pre-reqs for the test. Much to my relief none of these are necessary. She begins on the phone to ask all the standard questions about age, the injury, etc, then some pertaining specifically to the MRI. Have you ever had metal shavings in your eye? Do you have tattoos? Are you claustraphobic? Any previous surgeries? Then gives me instructions for the day. Do not wear any metal. You may want to take some tylenol as it may help relax you.
Wait, what? I doubt tylenol would have much of any effect on me were I to grind it up and snort it. And why do I so need to be relaxed? hmm, claustraphobic? "Wait!", I finally put this together with my TV watching experience through my vicodin haze, "This is one of those tomb things, right?"
"Well, ours isn't like that." Nurse Helpful assures me. "But you do need to lay still for up to 45 minutes and some people find it helpful to have something to relax them. Ma'am, are you claustraphobic?" she repeats.
"No, not really, although I do have a thing about weight on top of me."
I don't like getting under cars for instance, wether they're on four tires or up above my head at the mechanics, the fear of being crushed is an odd thing for me, but tight spaces isn't that big a deal. "And sitting still for long periods is no problem for me, I've modeled for art classes--and my mom herself had me do it since I was a kid as she was an artist."
So tuesday arrives, and I'm not even close to being concerned, but just in case I play it safe and take a whole one of my vicodins, since I'm a bit concerned they may put my shoulder/arm in an uncomfortable position for that 45 minutes.
Firstly, Nurse Helpful is a liar. It is exactly one of those tombs. In her defense I will say I saw a brochure there later that explained their MRI machine is what is called an 'open bore' meaning it is much wider a tomb than the older models, but although my nose wasn't in danger of bashing on the top of the bore, it was no more than a good handspan and a half away. But I'm ok with the space, there's lots of cushions around me so its not that uncomfortable, I've done art classes and I've taken a vicodin--we're a-ok. They even give you headphones and let you pick the radio station.
I gave thought to this radio station choice and went with NPR. I listen to it a great deal and it will save me from sitting in there for forty-five minutes hearing DJ banter and used car commercials. I'm scooted into the machine and the nurse leaves the room and I hear the tic-tic-static of the radio changing. Damn--its my most hated NPR program: Diane Rhiems. Her voice is annoying and her questions do not follow one another or often seem to have any actual bearing on her guest's topic. I do NOT want to listen to this for the next 45 minutes. I decide to be the irritating patient and squeeze my little call for her to choose another station, but just before that--
Eek! What the hell was that noise? It's four incredibly loud tones followed by omnious silence filled mostly with me anticipating more of that noise. Nothing. I figure the machine must be calibrated for the person or something and guess we must be underway now. I've just about got my heart rate down from the suprise noise when
eer eeng aaark ooorr
It happens again. I now have figured that this noise will just happen occasionally and I just need to get a grip. I close my eyes, ignore the headphones, and try to meditate a bit. I've just about slipped away into my happy place when a head pokes in the machine just above mine and says, "are you sure your not wearing any metal?"
"Gah!" I squeek out. He scared the vicodin out of me for a minute, and I damn near flight or fighted us to the pain. Then I begin getting paranoid. Could someone have left a staple in me or something at one time? Will it be sucked through my guts to stick like a comic book magnet weapon inside this not really very "open" bore? Could I be wearing my gold trimmed panties?
In answer to his question I put my hand down my pants to feel only the very soft cotton of my boring panties. He either doesn't see it from his position or ignores it and asks, "Do you have an underwire bra on or anything?"
Oddly, perhaps because of the vicodin on my none too full tummy, I reach my hand up and cup my breast and answer, "I'm not wearing a bra."
Ok, so now the loud noises would be welcome.
He wheels me out, we never find any metal, and I'm wheeled back in. I totally forget to ask about the radio as I'm so embarrassed from feeling myself up. Well, it doesn't matter. These headphones are obviously not intended for you to listen to anything that hour, they are intended for you to listen to anything ever again as the machine is very noisy. The four tones are replaced with constant sound as the machine scans. And here I'd always thought of magnets as peaceful little oddities. They are in fact very angry things more in common with dwarven blacksmiths.
There are basically 4 or 5 scans, each lasting about 4 minutes, and each with a different sort of rythm or tone. One was like being in a metal barrel resting on the top of a diesel engine humming outside a rest stop, others were more like having the chain saw massacre carving fresh meat against the same metal barrel.
Once it got going it wasn't a big deal. I kept my eyes closed and hovered around in my vicodin thoughts. When it was over and I was scooted out I told the nurse, "if anyone ever asks me why I studied eastern meditation, I now know my answer."
The real bummer is the doc wasn't allowed to tell me anything at all about the scans, so I felt no closer to solving the mystery of whether or not I was on the road to surgery.
Wait, what? I doubt tylenol would have much of any effect on me were I to grind it up and snort it. And why do I so need to be relaxed? hmm, claustraphobic? "Wait!", I finally put this together with my TV watching experience through my vicodin haze, "This is one of those tomb things, right?"
"Well, ours isn't like that." Nurse Helpful assures me. "But you do need to lay still for up to 45 minutes and some people find it helpful to have something to relax them. Ma'am, are you claustraphobic?" she repeats.
"No, not really, although I do have a thing about weight on top of me."
I don't like getting under cars for instance, wether they're on four tires or up above my head at the mechanics, the fear of being crushed is an odd thing for me, but tight spaces isn't that big a deal. "And sitting still for long periods is no problem for me, I've modeled for art classes--and my mom herself had me do it since I was a kid as she was an artist."
So tuesday arrives, and I'm not even close to being concerned, but just in case I play it safe and take a whole one of my vicodins, since I'm a bit concerned they may put my shoulder/arm in an uncomfortable position for that 45 minutes.
Firstly, Nurse Helpful is a liar. It is exactly one of those tombs. In her defense I will say I saw a brochure there later that explained their MRI machine is what is called an 'open bore' meaning it is much wider a tomb than the older models, but although my nose wasn't in danger of bashing on the top of the bore, it was no more than a good handspan and a half away. But I'm ok with the space, there's lots of cushions around me so its not that uncomfortable, I've done art classes and I've taken a vicodin--we're a-ok. They even give you headphones and let you pick the radio station.
I gave thought to this radio station choice and went with NPR. I listen to it a great deal and it will save me from sitting in there for forty-five minutes hearing DJ banter and used car commercials. I'm scooted into the machine and the nurse leaves the room and I hear the tic-tic-static of the radio changing. Damn--its my most hated NPR program: Diane Rhiems. Her voice is annoying and her questions do not follow one another or often seem to have any actual bearing on her guest's topic. I do NOT want to listen to this for the next 45 minutes. I decide to be the irritating patient and squeeze my little call for her to choose another station, but just before that--
Eek! What the hell was that noise? It's four incredibly loud tones followed by omnious silence filled mostly with me anticipating more of that noise. Nothing. I figure the machine must be calibrated for the person or something and guess we must be underway now. I've just about got my heart rate down from the suprise noise when
eer eeng aaark ooorr
It happens again. I now have figured that this noise will just happen occasionally and I just need to get a grip. I close my eyes, ignore the headphones, and try to meditate a bit. I've just about slipped away into my happy place when a head pokes in the machine just above mine and says, "are you sure your not wearing any metal?"
"Gah!" I squeek out. He scared the vicodin out of me for a minute, and I damn near flight or fighted us to the pain. Then I begin getting paranoid. Could someone have left a staple in me or something at one time? Will it be sucked through my guts to stick like a comic book magnet weapon inside this not really very "open" bore? Could I be wearing my gold trimmed panties?
In answer to his question I put my hand down my pants to feel only the very soft cotton of my boring panties. He either doesn't see it from his position or ignores it and asks, "Do you have an underwire bra on or anything?"
Oddly, perhaps because of the vicodin on my none too full tummy, I reach my hand up and cup my breast and answer, "I'm not wearing a bra."
Ok, so now the loud noises would be welcome.
He wheels me out, we never find any metal, and I'm wheeled back in. I totally forget to ask about the radio as I'm so embarrassed from feeling myself up. Well, it doesn't matter. These headphones are obviously not intended for you to listen to anything that hour, they are intended for you to listen to anything ever again as the machine is very noisy. The four tones are replaced with constant sound as the machine scans. And here I'd always thought of magnets as peaceful little oddities. They are in fact very angry things more in common with dwarven blacksmiths.
There are basically 4 or 5 scans, each lasting about 4 minutes, and each with a different sort of rythm or tone. One was like being in a metal barrel resting on the top of a diesel engine humming outside a rest stop, others were more like having the chain saw massacre carving fresh meat against the same metal barrel.
Once it got going it wasn't a big deal. I kept my eyes closed and hovered around in my vicodin thoughts. When it was over and I was scooted out I told the nurse, "if anyone ever asks me why I studied eastern meditation, I now know my answer."
The real bummer is the doc wasn't allowed to tell me anything at all about the scans, so I felt no closer to solving the mystery of whether or not I was on the road to surgery.
843
Monday offered me a chance to alleviate my out of work boredom with some work. A friend and I are putting in a bid to cater someone's wedding in January. The bride is an incredibly nice girl we know, who has a flaw particularly bad for things like being a bride, she is notoriously indecisive. It's not that she cannot pick what she wants so much as she has no idea what it is she wants. Her soon to be mother-in-law will actually be the person deciding on the caterer; however, so it will probably come down to pricing more than anything else.
We have each catered things before, and are famous amongst our friends for putting up the best fare at parties. (I once did a ten course dinner just to see what it was like. It's like washing a lot of dishes--some halfway through even--in case you're curious.) We have both sold Pampered Chef before, and so have just about every tool known to the kitchen kingdoms. Of course, as it's not our wedding we have no real power over the menu, but even more interestingly for us, neither of us have cooked for 300 people before. To give us yet another twist, the recpetion hall has no facilities for our use other than one standard home fridge and a couple of outlets. Thank goodness for crock-pots, sterno and buffet servers.
I'm looking over the menu as we make out the ingredient list before heading off to Sam's and such to do some pricing. What kinds of veggies does she want on the veggie tray? Does she want dip with the chips? Does she actually mean to have both the little smokies and the meatballs in bbq sauce? And is cheese tray a cheese ball, dip, sliced cheese for the little sandwhiches, cubes, or some combination therein?
A quick phone call gets our answers, the meatballs get some marinara, and we're doing cubes for the cheese tray. Quickly before we get off the phone I ask my partner, "how many types of cheese would she like to see on the tray?" I know some people think pepper jack a practical joke for bars, and other feel it akin to angelic visitation.
My partner's face smirks a bit as she looks at me over her pink Razr phone and asks, "The bride wants to know how many cheeses there are."
With a straight face, lost completely on the bride who cannot see me, I say, "Oh, 'bout 843. Give or take."
I have no idea how many cheeses there are, but there are alot. Then you get into marbled combinations, smoked varieties, herb flavored, salmon enhanced, fois gras fused...I mean 843 might be way too concervative a number really. I know I should be more helpful for the poor girl, but the only thing that wants to come out now is some version of,
"Well I reckon there's white, orange, and the yeller kind. Plus the mixed." And even then that's unfairly not recognizing the type shot out of cans like silly string during slumber parties.
It's not like the bride is stupid or anything, she's just not very worldly. In middle class southern Indiana, white, yellow, or peppered is a valid way of ordering the cheese on your burger. I'm sure if she stopped and thought about it, instead of us waylaying her in a phone call in the middle of her day, she'd know she uses parmesan on her spaghetti, mozz in her lasagna.
In the end its to be pepper jack, colby/jack marbled, and mild cheddar, a perfectly reasonable mix for an inexpensive wedding. But I must admit, I'm very tempted to tell the bride it will be brie, muenster, and velveeta--just to see her face.
This is how I picture the reply in my head,"Well velveeta's good, but I don't know if my new husband likes monster cheese."
We have each catered things before, and are famous amongst our friends for putting up the best fare at parties. (I once did a ten course dinner just to see what it was like. It's like washing a lot of dishes--some halfway through even--in case you're curious.) We have both sold Pampered Chef before, and so have just about every tool known to the kitchen kingdoms. Of course, as it's not our wedding we have no real power over the menu, but even more interestingly for us, neither of us have cooked for 300 people before. To give us yet another twist, the recpetion hall has no facilities for our use other than one standard home fridge and a couple of outlets. Thank goodness for crock-pots, sterno and buffet servers.
I'm looking over the menu as we make out the ingredient list before heading off to Sam's and such to do some pricing. What kinds of veggies does she want on the veggie tray? Does she want dip with the chips? Does she actually mean to have both the little smokies and the meatballs in bbq sauce? And is cheese tray a cheese ball, dip, sliced cheese for the little sandwhiches, cubes, or some combination therein?
A quick phone call gets our answers, the meatballs get some marinara, and we're doing cubes for the cheese tray. Quickly before we get off the phone I ask my partner, "how many types of cheese would she like to see on the tray?" I know some people think pepper jack a practical joke for bars, and other feel it akin to angelic visitation.
My partner's face smirks a bit as she looks at me over her pink Razr phone and asks, "The bride wants to know how many cheeses there are."
With a straight face, lost completely on the bride who cannot see me, I say, "Oh, 'bout 843. Give or take."
I have no idea how many cheeses there are, but there are alot. Then you get into marbled combinations, smoked varieties, herb flavored, salmon enhanced, fois gras fused...I mean 843 might be way too concervative a number really. I know I should be more helpful for the poor girl, but the only thing that wants to come out now is some version of,
"Well I reckon there's white, orange, and the yeller kind. Plus the mixed." And even then that's unfairly not recognizing the type shot out of cans like silly string during slumber parties.
It's not like the bride is stupid or anything, she's just not very worldly. In middle class southern Indiana, white, yellow, or peppered is a valid way of ordering the cheese on your burger. I'm sure if she stopped and thought about it, instead of us waylaying her in a phone call in the middle of her day, she'd know she uses parmesan on her spaghetti, mozz in her lasagna.
In the end its to be pepper jack, colby/jack marbled, and mild cheddar, a perfectly reasonable mix for an inexpensive wedding. But I must admit, I'm very tempted to tell the bride it will be brie, muenster, and velveeta--just to see her face.
This is how I picture the reply in my head,"Well velveeta's good, but I don't know if my new husband likes monster cheese."
Nox Blox
(sorry for the delay in posting...here goes the catch-up reports)
Saturday
My boyfriend and I do lunch with some friends, and that evening go to a friend's house for a cook out. One of my favorite things in the world is to sit outside on someone's back deck, talking into the night. I also like card and board games with friends, and if someone is handy enough with a guitar, a night time sing-a-long is nice, but all I need is the relaxed deck-talking to suffice.
The past-time of deck-talking should be carefully paired with the correct beverage, which is determined by who you are with, the time of year and the time of day. Afternoon in the fall with a friend is high tea, change it to the summer and its fresh lemonade. Cool early spring evenings are coffee, no matter how many people are present. But sometimes, it should be beer. As stated before, I'm a beer snob. So cool early spring evenings is Guiness, whereas fall should be a hoppy ale, perhaps something like a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. But every now and again, particularly in late spring to summer, its something more refreshing. Margaritas, Long Island Ice Teas, or what I call the beer cocktail.
Beer cocktails are one of my glaring exceptions to my otherwise snobby beer life, and my snobby beer friends often believe it a complete falicy bordering on blasphemy, but I stand by it. What I call a beer cocktail is when one adds things to beer normally reserved as an ingredient best found in a carved out watermelon--some kind of fruit salad beverage. In my case, corona with lime. If I think of it as beer I find it coming up short, but as a summer beer cocktail I find it refreshing. It's all in the presentation to the mind.
We had a great grilled steak meal, the cocktails, great conversation, and then the floor show with dessert. Dessert was Nox Blox. Nox is a brand of unflavored gelatin, that when added to jello it makes the jello easy to cut into nearly indestructable cubes. You know how your jello gets a bit melty around the edges on a warm day? Not so with Nox Blox.
The floor show was performed by a 5 mos old beagle puppy named Haley, which my friends have had for just under two weeks. Out of curiousity we put a piece of Nox Blox down onto the deck for Haley, where she eyed the wiggling, jiggling red form suspiciously before lighting sticking her mouth near it for inspection. We were watching her only idly, getting ready to turn back to the conversation when Haley began what I can only assume was some doggy method of exorcism.
The Beagle did NOT like the Nox Blox--not the taste so much, but the whole existence within her world of something totally alien and evil. She pounced to it, front paws on each side, then she'd back up, turn around--giving the Nox Blox fair chance to run away (it just jiggled remorselessly)--then she'd pounce it again. She would paw at it, but at it's touch, she'd leap backwards. She'd pounce towards it, paws framing the threatening cherry dessert, then circle threateningly. She looked to us for help, but she could see no help was to come from people who actually had the gullibility to EAT the evil things.
She would try putting it in her mouth, just at the very edge, but it would wiggle between her doggy lips and out it would go. Nox Blox are fearless, they do not respond to barking or physical threats--sure they quake a bit in fear, but refuse to leave one's territory. Finally she tried tricking the Nox Blox by rolling her head near it. She'd walk up and begin to turn, clearly intending to roll it under her head, but at the last minute she'd realize it would require her touching it, and back off to roll a bit.
Obviously, the only recourse is to walk off and ignore it, but sometimes it seemed to want to follow her--hanging, rolling, or dragging under her chain as she moved away. Eventually unhooked from her leash, she could safely pretend she had never seen it before, and hope it would take a similar stance towards her.
This is a level of denial I would love to attain. Animals are curious about things like Nox Blox, or maybe mirrors, only long enough to ascertain they indeed do not understand it--then one never need believe it's even there again after that.
I think I may try this method of dealing with my boss. When he talks to me I will not look at him, if he moves into my path of vision, my head will simply turn away. When someone points at my manager, I will stare hopefully but full of confusion at the end of their finger.
The animal kingdom understands denial in ways we can only hope to one day crack.
Saturday
My boyfriend and I do lunch with some friends, and that evening go to a friend's house for a cook out. One of my favorite things in the world is to sit outside on someone's back deck, talking into the night. I also like card and board games with friends, and if someone is handy enough with a guitar, a night time sing-a-long is nice, but all I need is the relaxed deck-talking to suffice.
The past-time of deck-talking should be carefully paired with the correct beverage, which is determined by who you are with, the time of year and the time of day. Afternoon in the fall with a friend is high tea, change it to the summer and its fresh lemonade. Cool early spring evenings are coffee, no matter how many people are present. But sometimes, it should be beer. As stated before, I'm a beer snob. So cool early spring evenings is Guiness, whereas fall should be a hoppy ale, perhaps something like a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. But every now and again, particularly in late spring to summer, its something more refreshing. Margaritas, Long Island Ice Teas, or what I call the beer cocktail.
Beer cocktails are one of my glaring exceptions to my otherwise snobby beer life, and my snobby beer friends often believe it a complete falicy bordering on blasphemy, but I stand by it. What I call a beer cocktail is when one adds things to beer normally reserved as an ingredient best found in a carved out watermelon--some kind of fruit salad beverage. In my case, corona with lime. If I think of it as beer I find it coming up short, but as a summer beer cocktail I find it refreshing. It's all in the presentation to the mind.
We had a great grilled steak meal, the cocktails, great conversation, and then the floor show with dessert. Dessert was Nox Blox. Nox is a brand of unflavored gelatin, that when added to jello it makes the jello easy to cut into nearly indestructable cubes. You know how your jello gets a bit melty around the edges on a warm day? Not so with Nox Blox.
The floor show was performed by a 5 mos old beagle puppy named Haley, which my friends have had for just under two weeks. Out of curiousity we put a piece of Nox Blox down onto the deck for Haley, where she eyed the wiggling, jiggling red form suspiciously before lighting sticking her mouth near it for inspection. We were watching her only idly, getting ready to turn back to the conversation when Haley began what I can only assume was some doggy method of exorcism.
The Beagle did NOT like the Nox Blox--not the taste so much, but the whole existence within her world of something totally alien and evil. She pounced to it, front paws on each side, then she'd back up, turn around--giving the Nox Blox fair chance to run away (it just jiggled remorselessly)--then she'd pounce it again. She would paw at it, but at it's touch, she'd leap backwards. She'd pounce towards it, paws framing the threatening cherry dessert, then circle threateningly. She looked to us for help, but she could see no help was to come from people who actually had the gullibility to EAT the evil things.
She would try putting it in her mouth, just at the very edge, but it would wiggle between her doggy lips and out it would go. Nox Blox are fearless, they do not respond to barking or physical threats--sure they quake a bit in fear, but refuse to leave one's territory. Finally she tried tricking the Nox Blox by rolling her head near it. She'd walk up and begin to turn, clearly intending to roll it under her head, but at the last minute she'd realize it would require her touching it, and back off to roll a bit.
Obviously, the only recourse is to walk off and ignore it, but sometimes it seemed to want to follow her--hanging, rolling, or dragging under her chain as she moved away. Eventually unhooked from her leash, she could safely pretend she had never seen it before, and hope it would take a similar stance towards her.
This is a level of denial I would love to attain. Animals are curious about things like Nox Blox, or maybe mirrors, only long enough to ascertain they indeed do not understand it--then one never need believe it's even there again after that.
I think I may try this method of dealing with my boss. When he talks to me I will not look at him, if he moves into my path of vision, my head will simply turn away. When someone points at my manager, I will stare hopefully but full of confusion at the end of their finger.
The animal kingdom understands denial in ways we can only hope to one day crack.
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