TAB (Take A Breath) Lauren's Cooking!

My oldest child is entertaining for the first time this evening in her own abode. She has had friends over before but to a Mom beer pong festivities do not count as REAL entertaining. This should be interesting. Lauren is great at making grilled cheese on her George Foreman, fried eggs, the occasional hamburger and of course reservations. 

It is truly hard to believe that a young woman who can stick tubes up people’s orifices as an ICU nurse is the same woman who called her mother up to learn how to make a pizza. I was so proud! I told her that I had some dough in the freezer she could use, fresh basil in our garden and there was a jar of homemade sauce at her disposal. She quickly stopped me in my tracks and said, “Wait Mom, wait! TAB (take a breath), I just wanted to know if I take the cardboard off the bottom of this before I stick it in the oven.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. On the way to the airport she told me how she mastered titrating drugs, and bonded with a man that was constrained which led to her being sent in other “challenging” patient’s rooms. I slowed down to five to drop her off for curbside check in and she began to panic. “Wait! Where do I get my boarding pass? Where’s the gate? Can I take this bag on? Where are you going?” she asked. I told her I was in total disbelief that she had just finished telling me how she responded to a code but couldn’t get herself on a plane. 

Like I said tonight should be interesting. One thing she has going for her is her tremendous childlike enthusiasm. She is the only 23 year old ICU nurse I know that still stands on couches when she is bursting with excitement and does a “happy dance”.  Good luck tonight Babe with your first non-kegger”. Remember to take things out of the box before heating them up.

Is it Time to "bust" out the Tree?

I did something I NEVER do; take someone of the male persuasion to work with me. I cover the social events of my community and was invited to a lovely (AKA jaw dropping gorgeous) event in which I actually took a male friend.

The party was very subdued, the conversation light and the food could have been someone’s last request before departing this world. I thought we were in for an evening of quiet elegance especially when we found ourselves seated next to two lovely ladies from the opera guild. One of the women asked if I was finished with my holiday decorating. I told her that I was except I was debating whether it was worth the effort of taking the Christmas tree out of the attic that I put in my bedroom. The other woman then asked my date if he thought my room could use some holiday spirit. He told her that he has yet to see my bedroom.

The women who are both aware that I have been through a cancer journey looked at me and informed me in no uncertain terms that they believed it was time for me to get my “tree” out. I reminded them that my tree has been in the attic a LONG time and that it is now missing a few ornaments and even though they have been “replaced” I am still getting used to them. The ladies would not retreat. I was then told that having a firm base and warm welcoming branches are the most essential criteria for a good tree and that MAYBE it was time to light that baby up!

Advise to ponder ladies! 

TRYING to Make Sense Out of the Senseless

I have been blessed with the ability to lift myself and I hope others, out of the minutia of life with humor.  It has been my coping mechanism that has gotten me through the murky waters of everything from a failed marriage to cancer survival. My editor (I have shoes older than she) is demanding…I mean firmly reminding me, that an article for my column is due.  After the recent unimaginable assault on the innocent in Connecticut, I just have not been able to “find the funny”. I am numb.

Paul Simon wrote lyrics about grieving. I am paraphrasing but as I recall he refers to a great loss as “A broken window on the soul where everyone can hear the wind blow.” Recently I had breakfast with my dear buddy and fellow cancer survivor Mike. He has buried a beloved son and a grandson. Mike is a man of faith and miraculously carries on even though there are still audible “gusts” of loss. Being with him, I understand there is no greater loss than that of a child.

I know no words of comfort for the families of such a senseless slaughter. The pain is beyond our comprehension and somewhere parents of the deceased are at this very moment reminding themselves to breathe. I had the pleasure of bonding with a bright eyed little 6 yr. old at a holiday party who told me all about the inside scoop of being a “mouse” in the Nutcracker while putting 8 layers of shiny lip gloss on me and giving me “princess eyes” with her stash of make-up. I had an “exhibit A” reminder of that magical age of twirling in dresses, Easy Bake ovens, and endless wonderment standing before me. How does one go on after the loss of one of these treasured “twirlers” and “explorers”?

I have lived peacefully with hunters up in our retreat up north and understand the right to bear arms (although I am more for “arming bears”) but could someone please explain to me why a semi-automatic weapon is needed to “harvest” a mammal or for target practice? Could someone please fill me in why parents of troubled teens have multiple weapons of destruction in their homes? I am the mother of an ICU nurse that deals with heroin addicts and gunshot wounds. Is it normal for me to be equally concerned about my middle daughter who will soon to be entering a classroom as a Special Ed teacher? Like the many educators I am blessed to have in my life, I know she would protect a child at all costs. PLEASE tell me when “hiding children in a closet from gunfire” became part of the criteria of being an effective teacher.

I pray that constructive dialogue, change and steps toward keeping our children safe emerge from the carnage. I have nothing to offer to the victim’s families but my prayers and concrete knowledge that even though HOPE is at times frail, it is impossible to kill and that love truly does conquer all.

I'm Back!

I’m back! Let’s see a brief update: Dad in ER, insurance company had my birthday wrong then figured out how much I under paid all this time and took it out of my checking (also found a few bills from “the war” that weren’t processed thanks to their error) and after having a busted water heater, and garage door issues I had to prove that things come in threes by turning on my flat screen TV and seeing pretty vertical lines. It is VERY tempting to WALLOW (especially on a bleak day) but instead I am going to “get my big girl panties on” as Gram would say and face the world with the knowledge that better times are waiting just around the bend. Of course I have a handful of dark chocolate acai berries currently doing the slow melt in my hand that always seem to make things look brighter. Hey, we all have our own ways of coping! Here’s to hoping that things are going swimmingly in your neck of the woods. If not, there is chocolate.

Finding My Inner Wench

The city in which I reside will never be known as the sunshine capital of the world. We run around vitamin D deficient and stare appreciatively skyward when the seldom seen golden orb appears above. Therefore it is more than a tad disturbing after arriving in what is supposed to be SUNNY Florida that I am currently looking out a glass slider at a scene that includes multiple forms of H2O. Rain, mist and fog have joined together in preventing us from appreciating the desirable forms of water we do want and need known as the pool and the Atlantic.

 

A Few of the Darah Women are Getting a Bit Goofy Being Stuck Inside!

 

 Being what I like to think of as highly resourceful (my family calls me “Julie the Cruise Director”) I have been searching online for alternate activities of family fun. Ah! Here we go; “Moon tour of the Lighthouse.” We tried that “fun” in years past during the day and almost threw my oldest into therapy.  It’s what I like to call a “twofer”. We managed to hit both of her fears of height and closed in places in one nightmarish experience. Next…

Hey this sounds more like it. “Cork and fork”; two nouns that could easily turn into action verbs! Here’s one my older daughters would love; “Paranormal Pub Crawl though Historic St. Augustine.” You might actually see a few “beings” after that.

What really caught my eye was not an event or activity but a want ad. “Enthusiast cast members needed for sing along pirate ship.” Reading further, I came to the disheartening conclusion that I am too old to be the “damsel in distress” but I have a real shot at being a wench. Who knows, if this nor’easter doesn’t blow out of here soon you may see me hoisting the colors, raising me rum to grand fortune and saying “Hello Puppet” in my best Captain Jack voice to all who come aboard.  

I told my family my dreams of high sea adventure (well actually the ship makes a loop around the bay) and they are now doing what I think is a primitive “sun dance”. My Mom is opening what she is calling “pirate juice” and frantically searching for a lime. I think she hopes to find her “inner wench”. They say that some of the bleakest days turn out to be the most memorable later in life. Keep you posted.

A Few Words for our Beloved "Double Mary"

I have had a “slam you on the couch” bug all week and have been a bit out of the loop. I was so disheartened this morning when reading the Mary Beth Zolik, who brightens everyone’s morning on 101.5 the River has been diagnosed with cancer. MB came into my life during my days as “critter girl”. I would take animals from the Humane Society to the station in hopes of finding “forever” homes for them through the airwaves. MB connects. She listens. She gives. She is the kind of gal you would want to include in a family dinner and hope she returns for pancakes in the morning. We always joke around that we are born nurturers because we are “double Marys”. I know technically (as my anal retentive physician buddy pointed out) that would mean “Mary” “Mary” but we “get it”. We believe that as a “Mary something” we have an unspoken responsibility and need to make everyone a little better off than when we met them. I still strive for that goal. MB has mastered it.

I am sorry that cancer has come knocking at your door MB. I know you will let it in with grace and dignity. The “unwanted guest” arrives with a suitcase of fear and a backpack of guilt. If you think as you like to call it “Catholic guilt” is heavy, wait until you try to lift the weighing questions of “Why did I let this into our home?” and “How are my kids going to handle this?” As a member of the “C” survivorship fraternity (incredible members BTW but the initiation is brutal) I can tell you that you will be amazed at the blessings to come. So open the door MB, and embrace the unknown foe that entered. As with any unwanted houseguest you will survive its stay with your incredible wit, positive outlook and baked goods. It’s difficult to believe, but this unwanted intruder also arrives with a big hunkin’ duffle bag of grace, love and above all HOPE. It will strengthen your faith and teach you a few lessons. I also know, that in the very near future, you will kick its a** out the door.

In true “double Mary” form, I will pray and pray and pray some more. I carry you in my heart MB.  One final note; I am available 24/7 for panic attacks rarely occur between the hours of 9-5, nose hairs are not only decorative but functional (stock up on tissues) and if you have to “wig out”, go for the dramatic. I was far too conservative and ended up looking like Leave it to Beaver’s Mother June.  

Sleeplessness, Moose Boxers and an Abundance of Gratitude

 I attempted sleep last night (key word here is attempt when you are waiting for the return of a teen from a night out) and hunkered down under my favorite blankie with thoughts of Veterans’ Day firmly planted in my head. I am the granddaughter of a Marine surgeon who spent years operating in the Pacific theater during WWII. We have his diaries where he horrifically recalls the nameless pained faced of the mutilated that he tried to put back together under harsh conditions. The numbers are staggering. Once he operated on 1,300 men in a week, working around the clock

My Dad was an Army guy. I am in constant amazement of how anyone could get through basic training after hearing his stories. I had a miniscule taste of what he went through when I was under the misconception that taking a semester of ROTC as a college sophomore would lead to an easy A. Easy “A” my A**! Speaking of which, Sgt. Major Walters put his foot on mine when I was firing an M16 with a firm “Keep you’re a** down unless you want it shot off!” I wished him a Merry Christmas before winter break and his knee jerk response was spitting out “Christmas is like any other day cadet” two inches from my face. I told him that it isn’t. Somewhere after I pointed out cookies and twinkle lights, he had what I believe is called a conniption.

Here’s the thing that kept me from slumber. How do you adequately express gratitude to someone who willfully leaves their family, their children, their country knowing they may not make it home? Someone I have never met is keeping guard and willing to take a bullet for ME and my freedom while I go about my busy life until I wind up snuggled in my toasty bed in my moose boxers.

The unique thing about Veterans’ Day is that we have the opportunity to honor the dead and living. THANK YOU to those who rose to the occasion in times past and those who currently serve, for having my family’s back and protecting this great country.

Nothing but Love for the Freakish Fur Ball

I am happily writing a newspaper children’s book review on “Wise Wiley”. It is the second in the series written by Animal Cruelty Officer Nancy Schilb about her animal adventures. She was kind enough to call me and say she could come to my home office (AKA the kitchen table, basement, spare room, my beloved purple chair…I’m pretty nomadic). It didn’t enter my mind that having her park the cruelty vehicle in my driveway could get a few tongues and tails for that matter, wagging.

My next door neighbor was giving me “Is there something you want to tell me face” later that afternoon. Eventually, my interview with Officer Nancy came up as well a relieved smile on the face of my worried next door resident. She said she could never imagine me mistreating my highly loved (nice way of saying spoiled rotten) pooch. The only thing Mags has to complain about is that she may be short on a few belly rubs and back massages during my deadline week. I’m sure she is also miffed I took away the peanut dog treats after a few gastric “issues”.

 

Maggie is my toddler with fur. This freakish little shedding fur ball (if Corgi fur were a commodity I would be living in Aruba right now) with two inch legs has taken up permanent residence in my heart. I cut her some slack when it comes to her attachment to my fuzzy slippers and “Oh happy day” reaction for any under garment left on the floor. In return, she doesn’t care if my pile of ironing hasn’t been touched in three days (fine WEEKS), that I fast forward past the abs workout on my exercise DVD or if my checkbook balanced. Having saliva on your fuzzy slippers and dog fuzz on your suit as you walk out the door is a pretty small price to pay for having a steady supply of unconditional love.

Brace yourself. The women of this house are going to attempt take our holiday photo. We continually supply the “Exhibit A” for why some families should not attempt this annual tradition. All you would have to do is look back to the photos of my youth and see that we should stick to Santa or elves and not include a shot of the "fam". In one of our holiday photos, I look like the poster girl for a Midol ad, my brother looks like he is about to deck more than the halls, Dad looks like he took a peek at Santa’s “naughty” list, and my Mom looks as if the photographer must be wearing nothing more than mistletoe and doesn’t know where to look. This photo also doubled as the shot for our church directory. One look at it and you can easily see why we regularly ended up on the prayer list.

The next generation of holiday photos did not see much improvement. Two years ago, a neophyte male photographer quickly realized that placing well endowed teens stomach down on the cold marble exterior floor in front of the Museum was not a brilliant move.

I wish I would have rethought last year’s photo. I guess the shot of me and the girls dressed in wrapping paper with the message “Unwrap the Blessings of the Holidays” written in pretty calligraphy could have been misconstrued. 

Almost Toasted!

I swear my poor guardian angel is about to throw in the towel. I’m certain she is somewhere putting her feet up, having a nice Shiraz and mending to her singed wings. My child with ADD, who will remain nameless, decided to take a luxurious bath yesterday. I thought I was being very mature by not demonstrating any outward signs of envy considering the only time I have been in our big tub has been with scuba Barbie, surfer Ken and the kids. She had the works; candles surrounded her. In fact the scene reminded me of the time I went to see a movie with my Mom and Aunt where we witnessed intimate scene of candlelight and caressing. My Mom tried to cover my virginal eyes while my Aunt whispered in my ear, “If you find a man with a bathtub like that, you have my permission to do whatever you so desire.”

 

 I left for an event leaving her to soak in the ambiance. When I returned home she had left for the evening to go back to her other life at the dorm where there are no tubs and shoes are required to take a shower. I don’t recall the exact moment that I became the age when going to sleep becomes more exciting than heading out, but I am so there. Exhausted, I fell into bed. The Corgi could tell you if snoring occurred but she is never going to rat me out.

It had to be around 2 AM when my guardian angel sprang into action. I saw a strange light coming from the bathroom and a “popping sound”. Apparently, my daughter neglected to blow out the birch bark wrapped decorative candles from Pottery Barn! If I hadn’t discovered them I would be a crispy critter! Thankfully, being a survivor with implants, you wouldn’t need to dig out my dental records. I once saw a CSI episode where some “dude” torches his wayward girlfriend and all that is left of her is her “enhanced Ds” complete with serial code. At least part of me will live on!

So the tip for today comes from our courageous firefighting Uncle Donnie who suggests if you must have candles (he is not a fan) count how many you light and make sure you come up with the same number when you extinguish them. Tonight my little protective angel is most likely wondering why she drew the short straw when she could be watching over someone with a bit less mayhem. 

Happily Healing

Happily Healing

Today at the Market I stood in front of a scary looking man. He was big, I mean BIG. He had three deep scars on his face that made me wonder if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t have done more for poor Humpty since this guy was miraculously put back together. Our produce mingled at the sudden movement of the conveyer belt and we found ourselves reclaiming our finds of baby white eggplant (mine), ripe bananas (his, I am a survivor but optimistically will always buy green ones) and something labeled “killer cheese”.  Somehow this led to an in depth conversation of whether my mini eggplant was going to be decorative or edible and my inquiry on what he was planning to do with his lethal sounding dairy product. We exchanged laughs and blessings for a good day.

A wise post-op nurse told me “Girl, you will someday realize that you are blessed for having your scars on the outside.  The ones inside are the hardest to heal.” I have a dear friend Heidi who somehow manages to put a positive spin on just about everything. The woman has two baby monitors by her bed; one for her aging mother and the other for her 21 year old son with some pretty high octane disabilities. She is constantly telling him that his challenges are “out there” for the world to see while others inwardly struggle under the guise of a perfectly functioning exterior. I’m so glad I received a well needed reminder that I should  never judge a book by its cover (or a cheese by its name) and even though I’m “in repair” I’m happily healing.



 Trying to be Switzerland!

I am trying to remain Switzerland (Ms. neutrality)  in a house divided. My financial consultant, small business owner Republican Dad on turbo called to inform me he has decided to winterize the Canadian cabin, and begin a new career of selling pontoon boats and snowmobiles. I was invited to head north and told that I could most likely find a job in the Deli at Winkles with my outgoing personality. Meanwhile, my daughter called saying that she and her uterus slept soundly for the first time in months and can’t wait to move forward. The whole “fam damily” as my Gram would say, is heading over here for dinner. I am contemplating making a melt in your mouth roast that does not require any sharp objects to enjoy.

A few of the members of the whole "fam damily!"

My “smell up your whole kitchen mouth-watering” English cut roast:

This is embarrassingly easy but you can really wow guests and give them something they can agree on!  
Take one English cut roast and brown both sides under the broiler. Place in the bottom of a slow cooker. Add a layer of thinly chopped onion and a layer of minced garlic. Pour one jar of chili sauce over the meat, onion and garlic. Fill the now empty jar with red wine; pour over meat; and fill again with beef broth. Sprinkle some fresh herbs on top, throw in potatoes or carrots if you so desire and plug in on low, go to work, walk the dog, try to tackle mount laundry, proof read an English paper…six hours later your house smells incredible without a hint of Corgi in need of bath or sneakers thatwere worn without socks by the back door ENJOY!

I had the triple play of rejection. I was stood up by the guy that I called after my garage motor was smoking (at least some part of me is still “smoking”), the lawn guy and the carpet cleaner I hired after the aging Corgi let loose on the only nice rug left in this house. Thank goodness I have a good sense of “self” and can handle dejection…although I did dip into the Costco dark chocolate caramels for a little comforting. In the meantime I am freaking out because there are signs I am quickly morphing into my Mother. I am quickly cleaning up the house so the person I have coming to help me clean thinks I am one of those moms who doesn’t have dust bunnies with a permanent zip code lurking behind the dryer, a bin full of mismatched socks or something that looks like a science experiment lurking in the fruit door of the fridge.

I spent the morning cleaning up substances that came out of the backside of my aging Corgi that would make the most seasoned CSI agent cringe. I believe Martha Stewart, the queen of domesticity, doesn’t have a solution for this mess in her playbook which got me thinking…

Tell Martha That It Takes More Than Windex!

In a rare moment of solitude I found something miraculous, an empty couch and the TV remote in plain sight.  I immediately sat down and enjoyed my moment of power. I quickly flipped past MTV, The Disney Channel and headed to The Martha Stewart Show.  The woman does not understand my life. Does she really expect me to gather eggs from my coop out back while waiting for the dough to rise for stone-ground wheat bread to accompany the three blend juice she just squeezed between her thighs?  Oh, this is even better, tips on the proper way to remove a pesky water stain from a marble surface. Amateur!

 I would like to see her get red hot candies and hardened frosting out of collie fur.  As long as I can remember my family has lived through clean up challenges that have gone way beyond Windex and elbow grease.  My poor mother was forced to contend with my brother who at the age of three discovered a black Sharpie marker. Why he chose to darken his private “anatomy” is still a mystery.  My Mom being from a family of female offspring thought it was going to fall off and needed the reassurance of numerous paediatricians to convince her otherwise. 

 Trickle down DNA reared its ugly head when my eldest child pulled an “Uncle Jim” and found my permanent markers. She however, had a greater variety of hues at her disposal. While I attempted to secure a festive bow around the neck of an unwilling pooch, she was busy decorating her sister’s face before the annual holiday photo. 

In the well-known children’s book, Harold had his purple crayon; in our house Helena had a Bic black ink pen.  It started off so innocently.  She wanted to show me what a big girl she was by using the writing instrument to scribble her “name” on notebook paper. Always one to think outside the box or in this case the lined paper, her pen made a pilgrimage up the side of the off white leather couch until she happened upon the flat seat cushion that would become her canvas. It was difficult to get angry when the subject matter was yours truly dressed in a pretty princess dress complete with dangly earrings. I can now share with Martha, Soft Scrub with bleach, and hairspray are amazing at removing ink from leather.

It is my personal belief that an operator’s permit should be required before purchasing Chapstick. First this unknown substance that I’m certain is a molecule away from something illegal, somehow snuck into the dryer. I would love to know what Martha would recommend for melted lip balm on fuzzy pjs.  The creative middle child discovered that various colours of Chapstick placed between the spaces of a wicker nightstand are a great way to make a rainbow. It does not appear anywhere in the “Parenting 101 Manual” that you could be spending 2.4 hours picking a waxy substance out of  small crevices with a toothpick.

 Martha has returned from a commercial break and is stating with great authority the importance of   “pretty towels”.  I have only known one woman who has successfully maintained “pretty towels”.  I can understand why after seeing the look in her eyes when asked what would happen if someone defaced her latest. It was hanging in her guest bathroom like a museum piece. I naively splurged on pretty towels. One met a premature demise after being bleached from acne face wash and other met its ending with the end of a dog. Enough said.

  Before Martha expounds on the virtues of making homemade candles, as we know this family has its wax issues, I am flipping to the Animal Planet.  At least I will feel relieved that someone else’s pet is misbehaving more than mine.