My mom had beautiful eyes

Her eyes were blue and green and gray. The color changed based on the weather or her mood or when she wore her favorite sweater. She was hopelessly nearsighted at a time when contacts and LASIK surgery didn’t exist. She would joke about her teenage vanity, saying that her dating years were a blur because she would whip off her glasses whenever a cute young man entered the room. I don't think I've ever seen a picture of her wearing glasses until after she was married. 

As her children grew, she maintained a calm exterior whether confronted with a temper tantrum or as she rushed one of her daredevil children to the emergency room. But although her face remained neutral, if you looked closely, the eyes always gave her away.

I am the youngest of her six children, a “happy surprise” in her mid-forties, arriving as the oldest child was preparing to graduate from high school. She loved being a mom. She encouraged her children to have fun and gave us freedom to engage our imagination. We would play outside until the fire siren blew at 6:00 PM. She would not hesitate to give up her clean dishes when sandbox pails were missing or tadpoles needed a home. On rainy days she would empty the linen closet for a blanket fort. Sometimes they would stretch from one end of the room all the way to the other! I even remember coming home from school one day to find her roller-skating around the dining room table. She just wanted to see if she still “had it”.

As I got older it was obvious that the thrill of parenting yet another teenager was long gone. She had less patience when my friends came to visit or when I needed a ride, and our clashes became more frequent. But now that I’ve raised two teenagers of my own, I look back on those years and see my mother in a new light. When I was a teen, she was in her early sixties. 60! That's older than I am today, and my children are grown and gone from the nest. She suffered from chronic neck and back pain but was still a full time housewife and mom. My father had retired and he was my partner in crime, but she was delegated to the role of warden. So maybe her patience had run thin. It’s a miracle it hadn’t run out.

The mom I remember left us a long time ago. The truth is she was stolen away by dementia and old age. At 97, her physical self remains: immobile and plagued by the effects of years spent worshipping the sun. It gets harder and harder to visit her at her care facility. It's a well-worn place filled with people just waiting for time to pass. She rests in her hospital bed or her wheelchair, usually lost in a fog. Sometimes she seems to know who I am, although often she thinks I am her sister. Other times I can see her searching her memory for a name to put with my face. But the hardest days are when her gaze just trails away blankly.

Today I am so thankful for all the time I had with my mom, and for her selflessness, her humor, and her sage advice. ("Mother's Law!") She taught me how to love my children unconditionally; how to make others feel welcome; the value in sticking to a schedule; and that complaining about something won't make it any better.

I sat with her the other day, like so many days before, and held her hand while she dozed on and off. It was one of the bad days, when I just couldn't get her to engage. At one point l bent down and looked into those blue eyes, now red-rimmed and watery. “Are you in there?” I asked softly, expecting the usual empty stare. But this time she lifted her gaze and looked directly into my eyes, and then slowly nodded her head yes. Yes, she is still in there. I squeezed her hand and whispered that I loved her. She squeezed my hand back and whispered, “I love you, too.” And then she slipped away again.

Who's a Big Schweetie?

One of the things helping me survive this brutally cold Midwest winter is my dog blanket. By that, I mean our 40-lb "lap dog", a mutt named Schatzi. In that golden period when we unwind after running around all day, Senior and I wait to see which one of us will be the lucky one to wear the dog blanket. Schatzi will charm her way in-between us, regardless of how close we may be sitting together on the couch. She'll turn in a circle a couple times and then flop down on one of our laps. You know you are truly the chosen one if she gives a huge doggy-breath sigh and melts into a lap puddle. I often win the prize because a) her arch-enemy, the cat, has lately decided that Senior’s stomach is the perfect place to make kitty bread [cat lovers know what I mean] and b) I usually have snacks.

We got Schatzi as a puppy in the dog days of summer, just before The Girl went off to college. The Boy was feeling lonely at the thought of being an only child when his sister went away, and played the guilt card expertly. We had often talked about getting a dog for our children but with demanding jobs and frequent moves it had never seemed like the right time. One August night while Senior was out of town on a business trip, The Boy talked me into stopping off to see a rescue litter just to pet the puppies. We found a box full of little black pups, six in all, named after the cast of Scooby Doo. The mother was a Labrador-Beagle mix, which kept her on the small side, and the father was a mystery (the vet thinks he was a Boxer). The Boy was in love and secretly so was I. He had picked out a pretty little female with big brown eyes and crazy long ears. I looked at her dainty paws and decided she wouldn’t get too big, and next thing you know (and much to Senior’s dismay) she was on her way home with us.

Her name on the paperwork was Daphne but we thought it sounded too close to Daffy. It took a while to settle on a new name. The Boy and The Girl were inspired by her shiny black coat and her birthdate, 06/06/06, and began calling her “Satan”. I put the kibosh on that pretty quickly, along with their other helpful suggestions “Diablo”, “Lucifer” and “Beelzebub”. We went through a host of standard doggy and people names but nothing seemed to fit. Finally The Boy, who had studied German in his language class at school, came up with “Schatzi”. It’s a term of endearment, something to be treasured - loosely translated to “Sweetie” but sounding a lot more badass.

She quickly acclimated to the family and basically has us wrapped around her paw. Like most spoiled dogs, it only took a few weeks for her to graduate from “absolutely no dogs on the furniture” to “we have to buy a leather couch because the dog hair won’t stick”. She can decimate a squeaky toy in less than 30 seconds. She insists on being walked on the leash twice a day, even if when we're out camping. I find myself talking baby talk to her all the time (WHO’S A BIG SCHWEETIE? YOU ARE!). No trip to the grocery store is complete without picking up a dog treat.

Why am I so ridiculous? It’s true what people say about unconditional love from a dog. Every time I walk in the door she’s waiting, almost vibrating with joy. Sure, owning a dog can be a big pain. Forget the freedom that comes from being empty-nesters because one of us always has to go home and let the dog out. She needs to be walked in the rain and snow. She smells like a wet sock, pees whenever someone comes to visit, and sheds black hair everywhere. And I can’t imagine life without her.

The Intruder

Temperatures had barely climbed above zero all week, and since I'd just returned from vacation at a Florida beach, I was struggling to stay out of hibernation mode. I was very grateful that Senior had installed a remote start on my Buick as a Christmas present.  At the end of a long work day I hit the button and let the car warm up as I wrangled myself into gloves, boots and coat. It was late, and most of my co-workers had already left for the day. I was distracted as I picked my way across the icy parking lot, repeating my usual winter mantra of “don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall”, but I did notice that I’d left my wipers on intermittent mode. I said a mild curse under my breath and hoped they hadn’t been iced up, afraid I would find a strip of rubber left behind as they skimmed over the windshield. By the time I got to the car I was cold and cranky. I reached out and yanked open the door handle. What happened next scared me to the point that I nearly wet my pants. 

HOLY CRAP, THERE WAS A MAN SITTING IN MY FRONT SEAT!!!

It’s amazing how quickly our brains can process high stress situations. In rapid fire succession I realized:

 a)     I knew this guy

 b)     This WASN’T MY CAR

 c)     This didn’t even look like my car

 d)     The driver had noticed my approach and even lowered the window to see what I wanted (a fact that totally escaped me as I opened the door)

 e)     I was about to die from embarrassment

I stammered out an apology while, thankfully, he just laughed. I’m pretty sure I made an uncomfortable joke about it being a good thing I didn’t try to sit on his lap, then my brain kicked into escape mode and I slinked off to find my (real) car. It was parked a couple spots further away. I got in and slumped down to try and disappear, peeking in the side mirror until I was sure he had left before getting my act together and driving home.

I really need to get back to the beach.

Fatty Fatty 2x4

This morning one of our local news channels interviewed Florine Mark, the president and CEO of Weight Watchers. She pointed out that the state of Michigan had one of the highest rates of obesity in America. This hit a little too close to home. I've always had to work at keeping my weight under control, and since I've spent the last couple months slacking off at the gym and indulging in too much holiday cheer, my pants are getting snug. So I was prompted to do a little research, fully appreciating the irony that rather than actually exercising, I was looking at fitness rates on my laptop while lounging on the sofa under my dog blanket.

The most recent data I could find came from Trust for America's Health, a non-profit, non-partisan organization, and the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. They've been researching and issuing an annual report on "The State of Obesity" for more than 10 years. On the positive side, the current report shows that childhood obesity rates have stabilized, and the rate at which adult obesity rates are rising is beginning to slow. On the negative side, adult obesity rates did not decrease in any state, and still remain far too high across the nation. 

So...We're still fat, just not getting fatter as quickly as before. Michigan came in at number 11, with 31.5% of adults having a Body Mass Index (BMI) of 30 or more. Normal BMI ranges from 18.5 -24.9. 

BMI is a simple measure of fatness based on height and weight. Naysayers point out that body mass index calculations don’t distinguish between fat and muscle, nor do they take into account things like a person’s frame size. It's far from an exact science, but it does provide an easy, quick and reasonable estimate for a person like me with an average build and a typical activity level. I've used online BMI calculators to monitor my weight for several years. At 5 feet, 4 inches tall, my "normal" weight range is between 108-145 pounds. That's achieveable for me. Do I stray towards the high end? Yes definitely. And when my weights creeps up over the high end, like it has now, I feel crappy. My joints hurt more, my energy level takes a dive, and my clothes don't fit which lowers my self-esteem. That's my signal to take action.

I'm fortunate enough not to have any physical or emotional issues that impact my health and my weight. I know that the amount I weigh is in direct relation to how often I have a fork in my mouth. I struggle not to judge others when I don't know what's behind their size, although let's be honest, I feel self righteous when my shopping cart contains quinoa and strawberries and yours is full of cheese puffs. And I think it's kind of a sad statement that on those occasions when junk food makes its way into my own cart, I don't feel bad because now I'm just one of the crowd.

So thanks, Florine, for giving me the push I need to put my fork down. If you need a push too, go check out your BMI. And put those cheese puffs back on the shelf.

Resolutions

Is it just me, or are more people than ever are looking forward to a fresh start in 2015? I haven't heard from as many cynical people who say their only resolution is to never make resolutions. Actually I haven't seen a lot of resolutions of any kind, just a general optimism fueled primarily by a tweet from that guru of enlightenment, @BradPaisley.

I like optimism and fresh starts too, so I'm planning on becoming a better me. One of my objectives is to spend more time with people who matter and less time on the Internet. So while I was reading important entertainment gossip on Daily Mail Online, my favorite Internet mag, I was thrilled to find an article that promised to show me 25 easy resolutions to transform your health!  (Yeah, I realize my "research" wasn't exactly in line with my new resolution, but sometimes you have to sacrifice a little in the name of blogging. I'm working on it.)

These resolutions are brilliant! Here's a summary-be sure to click on the original link above to read the full advice for each topic.  Remember that this appeared on a UK site, so some of the resolutions don't make sense for every Yank here in good old USA:

25 easy resolutions to transform your health

1. Put your toothbrush in the dishwasher
Isn't it just as easy to toss it and use one of the twenty new ones the dentist gives you?

2. Stop using armrests to get out of a chair

I speak from experience: this is not recommended for those of us with the clumsy gene, especially if your chair has wheels. 

3. Eat a pot of yogurt every day

How much is a pot?

4. Blow one nostril at a time

This, above all, makes this list brilliant.

5. Open car windows

This is supposed to reduce your risk of getting the flu when you're riding around with sick people. My advice? Don't ride around with sick people.

6. Turn the heating down by a degree

Ha! I'm menopausal. There's already frost on the inside of our windows.

7. Bin your digital alarm clock

I think this means to toss it out, right? They want you to go back to the old-fashioned type. You know, the one with the blood-curdling fire-alarm bell that scares the bejeezus out of you when goes off and wakes you from a sound sleep.

8. Swap ibuprofen for paracetamol

I had to Google that one.  'Paracetamol' is acetaminophen. They recommend you switch because ibuprofen can damage the stomach lining. They don't mention that paracetamol doesn't fight fever and can damage the liver. I have a sneaky suspicion that they put some form of this on the list every year and just waffle back and forth.

9. Count to seven while breathing in

Mindfulness - I like this one. But I would have made this #7 on the list. Just because.

10. Use the upstairs loo

Honestly, I didn't even read this one because I was too busy wondering where they came up with the expression 'loo'. 

11. Do the email stomach crunch
OK, I'm going to try this one!

12. Eat a portion of leafy veg A day

Veg A?  I hope that's a typo. 

13. Watch an hour less TV each day

And get off the internet.

14. Get regular kicks with a coffee

Amen! You're preaching to the choir here, baby!

15. Go to bed 15 minutes earlier

According to this I'll be in bed by 8:45.  Kudos for making it #15 though.

16. Give up one-mile car journeys

Silly Brits!  We 'Mericans ALWAYS take our car.  Especially here in metro Detroit.

17. Lose 5 per cent of your weight

Aim low! It's doable.

18. But a 'wobble cushion'

I'm guessing this is a typo and they mean Get a wobble cushion. Or maybe it should be Butt a wobble cushion,  because basically it's an exercise ball with a saddle attached. Either way, that clumsy gene takes this one out of my wheelhouse.

19. Use the 5:2 rule for alcohol
Only two booze-free days required every week!  I think I can achieve this one.

20. Sneeze into your elbow

This is a good one! I do this and wish everyone else did too.  I watched a guy's nose explode into his hand at the store the other day.  Then he pawed through an entire rack of greeting cards.  <<shudder>>

21. Stand up on your commute

Won't work here.  See #16.

22. Add up your shopping bills

I've tried this and failed miserably.  

23. Start coughing at your desk

I can't wait to try this one at work. I'm sure it will be hugely popular in our open office environment, along with my armless chair and my wobble cushion.

24. Drink cocoa at bedtime

Sounds delicious.  

But wait a minute… where's #25?  We got gypped!!!

Hiatus

About six months ago, I said I was taking a break from my Waconda blog posts until our house was complete. Once I decide on a particular theme, I find it really hard to write about anything else. It bothers my sense of order if I throw in other topics willy-nilly, so I just took a hiatus. But I miss my blog and I'm ready to get back to it, willy be damned. So I'm going to end my hiatus by taking inventory of the last half year:



THUMBS UP:

• The Girl and The Boy are both (mostly) independent, happy in their relationships, gainfully employed and exploring homeownership. 

• Senior hasn't turned into the Incredible Hulk as a result of the stress in his life, and continues to be my Marvel-ous hero (you see what I did there, right? Aren't you glad I'm back?)

• My friends are still awesome and girls week at the beach is already booked for February! BTW, have you seen the "Forever 39" ecard? Genius and sadly true.

• The company I work for is growing so I don't have to worry about keeping my job unless I screw it up myself. My department was moved from the high rent district with the nice view to the annex by the parking lot, and I love it. It's much more relaxed and friendly. (Note to self: Topic for future blog post - The Circle of Trust.)

THUMBS DOWN

• I'm not writing this post about Waconda. Enough said.

• My current hobby of sitting on the sofa and eating cookies has resulted in a dozen unwanted pounds and twinges in my back. It's time to get back to my healthy habits. Maybe on Friday? There's still a piece of cherry pie on the kitchen counter and after all, I have priorities. 

• Although there are a lot of great things about being in my 50's, neck wattle is not one of them.

OK, that about sums it up. And as a bonus, by writing this, I can continue to boycott the "It's been a great year" app on Facebook. 

Peace.

Czech it out

I expected a recent business trip to Eastern Europe would find me in a busy, polluted, post-Communist city. I was pleasantly surprised when I ended up instead in the town of Rožnov pod Radhoštěm in the Zlín Region of the Czech Republic. 

I flew out from Detroit’s huge airport on Father's Day, missing a family cookout at the lake. As I waited in line to board the plane, doing my best "bored-frequent-flyer" impression, I heard the guy behind me tell his friend that he was missing a family cookout at the lake. I thought that was kind of a cool coincidence. Then I heard the guy go on to say that the cookout was at his daughter’s boyfriend’s lake house. It was at that point that I realized that his voice was familiar, the daughter he mentioned was The Boy’s girlfriend, and the cookout he was missing was at our lake house. We said hello and laughed, and he expressed relief that he hadn't said anything derogatory about said boyfriend.

The flight was uneventful but included 2 layovers, so the total travel time was about 19 hours (it took 23 to get back home). Usually the plant I’m visiting arranges a driver to meet me at the airport, and usually the driver is late and speaks no English. I was pleasantly surprised when I walked out of the tiny airport into the bright sunshine and found a work colleague waiting for me. He even bought lunch on the way to the hotel.

The hotel was kitschy looking on the outside but very comfortable on the inside. The beds were just firm enough and the room was well equipped, with an unusually strong internet signal and a full restaurant and bar. The only drawbacks were the typical European shower, about half the size of a phone booth (obviously not made for porky American tourists), and the lack of air conditioning or a ceiling fan. The region was in the middle of a freak hot spell, and temperatures over 90˚F every day meant that the small room heated up to sauna temperatures.

I settled in and then met a coworker from Germany for dinner at the hotel restaurant. I needed to get up at 6:00 am the next morning for work and I hadn’t slept much on the flight, so I turned in early. The U-shaped design of the building discouraged any breezes through the opened windows. What did come through the window was the sound of the man in the adjacent room snoring. I tried to convince myself that it was Czechian crickets, which was the only thing that kept me from chucking one of my steel-toed boots through the window at his head. Eventually I fell asleep until the sunrise woke me up. I was really surprised to find it was only about 4:30am. Sunrise in Michigan at this time of year doesn’t happen until about 6:00am (although sunset in both locations was around the same time).

Work kept me busy during the days for the week I was there, but I did have time in the evenings to explore the area. It was a short walk from the hotel to the old town center, through a beautiful park that ran along a river. The first time I went, my German co-worker joined me. We wandered to town and, after deciphering an ATM that only spoke Czech, we stopped for dinner at a small restaurant with an outdoor patio. Just as we sat down a thunderstorm blew in, so we had a great lightening show to accompany dinner. We considered the possibility of a lightning strike as we hugged the pole of the patio umbrella to avoid the raindrops. We decided the trees and rooftop spires around us would offer the least path of resistance (a decision that may or may not have been enhanced by the good local beer), so we stayed outside for the entire meal. By the time we were done the storm had blown over and we stayed dry on the walk back to the hotel.

The local food is really heavy and starchy. Every meal includes potatoes or noodles, something fried and lots of gravy. There was only one night where I was able to find and order a green salad, and it came with a side of cracklings, which were little fried pieces of goose skin swimming in a bowl of semi-congealed fat. I tasted it for posterity, and was reminded of the time my older sister convinced me that I should try a spoonful of Mom’s secret kitchen treat, Crisco. 

The people we spoke to (who were very friendly and vigorous) contribute their good health to Slivovitz, a local plum brandy. It’s clear and smooth and delicious, served ice cold in clever little short-stemmed shot glasses after the evening meal. It’s highly recommended as a digestive aid.

The best night was a super evening arranged by the Plant. They organized a private English-speaking tour of the Wallachian Open Air Museum, a well-known landmark in this little town. Afterwards we headed to Pustevny in the Beskydy Mountains for a hike and dinner at Hotel Tanečnica. The views were spectacular, and I managed to keep up even though I didn’t know about the hiking part and wore ballet flats. Dinner was excellent and the company was even better. Here are some pictures from our adventure:

        

      

My last afternoon was on the summer solstice, and we finished work early. My coworkers headed back to their homes, but my flight didn’t leave until early the next morning. So I explored the town again, venturing outside the parameters of the town square. Most people live in colorful but shabby apartment buildings. Trimming the grass is not a priority. People get around on bicycles or foot-powered scooters. I bought a chocolate gelato (served in a silver holder, which I nearly walked off with before realizing they were just offering a hands-free serving), did some window shopping, took some photographs of the scenery and relaxed by the river with a book. There was a festival going on in the park with many local musical groups performing short sets - an indie-flavored pop act, a quintet of high school girls playing classical music, children in traditional costume singing folk tunes, fresh-faced boyband wannabes and various duos with guitars. It was a peaceful way to end a hectic work week and a nice segue to my long flight back home.

These truths I hold to be self-evident

It doesn't matter what locker I choose at the gym. The Swedish Olympic women's volleyball team will choose the locker right next to me. The intensity of their blond gloriousness will be in direct proportion to the amount of difficulty I have getting out of my sweaty sports bra.

It doesn't matter what table I choose at my favorite "seat yourself" restaurant. Before my food comes, and regardless of how many other tables are unoccupied, the table next to me will be chosen by either a family with a disgruntled child or someone shouting into their cellphone.

It doesn't matter which hands-free sink I choose in a public restroom. It's a crap shoot whether the soap or water dispenser will work, and the faucet will only extend an eighth of an inch over the bowl, no matter how big the sink is.

It doesn't matter which lane I choose at the toll booths or how many times the fare is posted. The person in front of me will spend several minutes hunting for change. They will wait to do this until we are far enough into the chute that I can't change lanes.

It doesn't matter what color dress pants I put on in the morning. If I choose a dark-colored pair, the white cat will rub up against my legs. If I choose a light-colored pair, the black dog will do it.

It doesn't matter what the calendar says. In Michigan, it snows in March. And April. And sometimes May.

It doesn't matter if things go wrong from time to time. Life is a wonderful and precious gift.

Sweet Boi

Last night I was foraging in my refrigerator when I came across a shrink-wrapped package of lunch meat marked B. Sweet Boi. I had no idea who Sweet Boi was, or why his lunch was in my refrigerator. Then Senior told me that one of his coworkers had given him some bear meat. I was impressed. I've never met Sweet Boi, but he must be kind of bad ass to have killed a bear.  

Turns out that Sweet Boi went on an organized bear hunt up in northern Ontario. They flew up with a guide who took them to a baited site. The 'hunters' relaxed in an old motor home in the woods and waited for the bears to come to the party. It was pretty much a guarantee that they would get a shot since there was a barrel full of tasty bear snacks - mostly expired Hostess cupcakes and Twinkies - standing outside within firing range. This strikes me as unsportsmanly, but then again I don't have a lot of sympathy for bears after hearing how destructive they can be. Friends of ours have had their cottage decimated by bears on more than one occasion, even though they take great pains to make it bear-proof. 

Since it was Sweet Boi's first hunt, the guide gave him some pointers. He told him that most newbies got excited and shot the first bear they saw. Bears are big, right? Even the little ones. So the hunters should use the treat barrel as a guide. When the bears walked by on all fours, if it was as tall as the top of the barrel then it was full grown, and that would be the one to shoot. Sweet Boi hunkered down in the motor home an' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!" A bear ambled out of the woods, went over to the treat barrel and immediately knocked it over on its side.  Score one for the bears for figuring out the guide's system.  

So with no ruler to gauge the relative size of the critter, Sweet Boi did what any good newbie would do and shot the bear dead. Turns out it actually was a pretty good size, somewhere over 300 pounds. I'm not sure what he did with the bulk of the meat or the hide. Maybe Sweet Boi now struts his stuff in a fur coat or spends his evenings lolling around on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. But he had some of the meat made into sausage, and was nice enough to share it with Senior.

Now that I knew what was in the package, I had to try it. The meat was sliced thin and had the consistency of salami. It had a really nice smoky smell and looked like a well-balanced meat-to-fat ratio. I rolled up a slice and tasted it, but was surprised to find it was sweet. Really sweet, with not much other flavor. I rolled it around on my tongue trying to pick up some gaminess, but all I could taste was a Twinkie-esque flavor.  I wondered how big an impact the bear's junk food diet had on the flavor of the meat. I really did not like it. I turned to Senior and commented on how I was surprised at the strange flavor.  He, however, wasn't surprised.  "The package is labeled," he told me. "B. Sweet Bol...Bear Sweet Bologna." Ohhhhhh.

The Appetizer Book

Senior and I spent a recent chilly Saturday exploring a wonderful little shop called The Great Midwestern Antique Emporium. Tucked away in a back corner, beyond the life size plaster owl mold, the Luftwaffe dagger and the glass replica of a human head, we discovered a bookshelf full of vintage cookbooks. I thumbed through a few of them before coming across this little paperback gem:

Isn't this awesome? Look at that spread! Why haven’t I ever thought of disguising an ugly pillar candle with snacks on a stick? I'm going to have to channel my inner Sandra Lee (the sober one) and replicate that tablescape. But not entirely - that steaming hot pot of goodness with the handle sticking out would definitely be a mistake over here at my house on Clumsy Street. 

For more ideas, the photo on the back cover is even better:

The directions for this went something like this: "Fill a basket with nuts, then boobytrap it with sharp pokey things. Let everyone dig in with their hands. Don't worry about germs, because all your guests are going to get food poisoning anyway from the unrefrigerated shrimp. Wash it all down with a really big glass of cocktail sauce."

Good Housekeeping's Appetizer Book was first published in 1958, the same year Elvis was inducted into the army, the first US satellite was launched into space and cocktail parties were all the rage. And after looking at the recipes in this book, I believe that if you served enough alcohol, you could get away with serving all kinds of crap to your guests. Case in point, the recipes on the first page:

Speedy Tuna Dunk

1/2 cup soft butter or margarine

1/4 cup chopped stuffed olives

1 cup chunk-style tuna

Cream butter with olives and tuna until well blended. To serve, arrange in bowl along with dippers (salty-rye fingers, raw turnips, pickle sticks). Let guests dunk their own. 

I’m all about a creative dip, but butter and tuna? On a raw turnip? Isn't this going to look just like cat food? I’m not even mentioning the scourge of the olives, one of those foods I put in the same category as expired milk.

Peanut Butter-Catchup Dip

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 cup catchup

Corn chips

Mix peanut butter with catchup until smooth. Refrigerate until served. To serve, arrange dip in bowl, surrounded with corn chips. Let guests dip their own.

So not only is this dip weird, it's phonetic. Who thinks these things up? Curiosity got the best of me, so I whipped up a partial batch. It turns orange, similar to the color of cheese in a can. It tastes a little like a peanut and butter jelly sandwich. 
If it was left in the sun. 
For six days. 

Speaking of disgusting, how about this one:

Crostini di Fegato di Pollo

3 tablesp. butter or margarine

1/4 cup very finely minced onion

4 chicken livers, finely chopped

6 crushed fresh or dried juniper berries

1/3 cup white wine

Buttered Italian-bread slices. 

An hr. before serving: In skillet, heat butter until golden in color. Add onion, saute until light golden. Add chicken livers; saute over high heat, stirring, until mixture bubbles. Add juniper berries and wine; simmer, uncovered, a few moments, or until wine evaporates. Remove from heat; cool. To serve: cut bread into bite-sized pieces. Let guests do the spreading. 

The chicken livers aren't my problem, it's the juniper. I guess that “di Fegato” is Italian for “cat pee”, because I’m pretty sure that’s what juniper berries smell like. I'm not sure where you would find dried ones. Wouldn't those be juniper raisins? And isn't it hard to crush a raisin? 

I think some of the other recipes were named after the cocktail party guests had been imbibing for a while. Want to whip up a batch of Peppery Nuts? Nosegays? Hash Mounds? Meat Frosties or, during Lent, Fish Quickies? There is even a whole page devoted entirely to balls - Cabbage Balls, Clam Balls, Blue Balls (don't worry, they're made with bleu cheese). And if you are feeling particularly crafty, you can create one of their signature garnishes. My favorite is a lily made out of rolled bologna slices and strips of pickle.

The recurring theme in all these recipes - throw it in a bowl and let the guests take it from there - is a host's dream. But this handy book also includes some clever shortcuts if your prep time is really limited. For example, challenge yourself with this recipe: 

French Fry Appetizers

Prepare frozen French fries as label directs; serve hot as is

The best part is that the previous owner of this cookbook underlined that recipe somewhere along the line. Just in case he or she forgot one of the steps and needed a quick reference point.

And finally, my favorite recipe.  This one is pure genius:

Bacon Crisps

Thin lean bacon slices

Saltines

Cut each bacon slice in half, then wrap each half around 1 saltine cracker, Place on a rack in a shallow pan and bake at 400 degrees for 12-15 minutes or until bacon is crisp. 

Serve piping hot.

I adore the authors of this cookbook. And now I have to go plan my next cocktail party.

Stereo-Tastic

Mammograms are never fun. You start out sitting in a waiting room full of uncomfortable women who are either checking their iPhones or reading an outdated magazine, flipping pages carefully to prevent their untethered parts from slipping out of the ill-fitting hospital gowns. Finally it's your turn to go to a small room where a pleasant stranger helps you hike your breasts, one at a time, into a giant George Foreman grill. If you're lucky, all is well and you're good until next year. But sometimes you get a phone call asking you to come in for "re-imaging" because there was something that didn't look quite right. So you go back and repeat the process, maybe with an ultrasound thrown in for good measure. And every once in a while, those results are still atypical. There's a lump, or calcium deposits, or a big thumbprint on the film. So they recommend you have a stereotactic biopsy, which is a fancy way of saying they want to stick a large needle in your boob. I recently had a stereotactic needle biopsy to sample some micro-calcifications. Long story short, they were benign and no further treatment is needed. Long story long, (and at the risk of "TMI") here is how it went.

Everyone at the breast imaging center is really nice to the patients. In fact, they bend over backwards to put you at ease. My nurse had me sit in a chair and checked my blood pressure. She commented that it was a little elevated (which could be because in a few minutes THEY WERE GOING TO PUT A NEEDLE IN MY BOOB!) Then she sat next to me and explained every single step of the process, even though I had told her that I had already been through it about a year ago, right here in this very room. Next a mammogram tech came into the room, sat next to me, and explained every single step of the process. Finally the radiologist came into the room, stood in front of me, and explained every single step of the process. The radiologist had a dazzling smile and was full of positive energy, like a used car salesman. That's because he knows that no one is ever going to stick a needle in his boob. 

Getting situated for a needle biopsy is quite a production. The exam table is padded with a hole in the middle. You lay face down and put your breast in the hole, letting gravity do all the work. Your position depends on where the abnormal cells are. I was able to lay fairly comfortably, despite the rim of the hole catching right across my bottom rib. The mammo tech elevates the exam table and adjusts some plates underneath that will hold you in place. You're definitely not going to get away, but it's not as uncomfortable as the George Foreman grills.

Once you are position, it's time for the biopsy. The entire process is computerized, and the computer won't let them proceed until the target area is perfectly aligned with the instruments. Once the computer gave them a green light, they told me not to move, which immediately made me start to itch all over. I resisted the urge to wiggle and the radiologist gave me a local anesthetic. It stung a little but wasn't as bad as the flu shot I got a couple months ago. Everything after that was related to sound. They told me to get ready for a loud pop, which was when the needle actually penetrated the skin, followed by a series of buzzing noises, which was the actual tissue sampling. One more twang and a nice little souvenir marker was inserted, and then we were done. I never felt anything, but as they began to put their instruments away I got a good look at the hollow core needle that they had used on me. It was bigger than I expected, resembling the probe that came with our first microwave oven, circa 1980. 

It's no fun going through the fear and discomfort of an abnormal diagnosis,
but it sure does make you appreciate the little things in life.

I had to stay in postion until the samples were checked under

a microscope to confirm that they got all the suspicious cells. I lay there for ten minutes making awkward small talk with the nurse as she crouched under the table holding an ice pack to my chest. Finally the radiologist came back and said the samples were good and they would call me with the results within 48 hours. My legs were wobbly as I climbed off the table, but I still felt very little discomfort and, after one last mammogram for good luck, I drove myself home. I used the ice pack on and off for the rest of the day and took ibuprofen when I needed it.  Recovery was fast and bruising was minimal, and best of all I got a happy ending.

Evolution

It's like looking in the mirror..

I haven't blogged in a while because I've been busy trying to literally put my head back where it belongs. I've always had a freakishly large head, but over the past few years I've developed something called "forward head posture", a common condition also known by the more colorful and totally unflattering term "Neanderthal head".

In my case, my melon sits about 2 inches forward of upright, most likely due to spending half my life hunched over a desk. Keep in mind, the average human head weighs 12 pounds (not including big hair) and is balanced on our spines like a bowling ball on a stick. If you keep tilting that stick forward the ball will eventually fall off. Thanks to my sloppy posture and the business world's general disregard for office ergonomics, this was starting to happen to me. I've had chronic pain in my neck and shoulder blade for several years, but ibuprofen and Senior's awesome back rubs have helped me cope. More recently I noticed that either gravity was pulling my clothes off my left shoulder, or it was now lower than my right one and eventually I'd be swinging from the bell tower of Notre Dame cathedral. I still didn't take any action until I went to the doctor to treat what I thought was tendonitis in my left arm. It turns out that the misaligned vertebrae in my neck were squeezing nerves that run down that side. It was time to do something about my affliction. I despise chiropractors, so I asked my doctor for a script and headed to physical therapy.

Physical therapy isn't a new thing for me. I was a patient four years ago when I blew out a disc in my lower back, and I loved it (the therapy, not the blown disc). It's like having a spa treatment without having to tip anyone. Now, don't confuse this with occupational therapy, which I've also endured after smashing my wrist and having it screwed back together. (I told you I was clumsy.) OT is like putting your hand in a blender. But PT... now that's good stuff. If you have any chronic pain and you have decent insurance, get yourself some PT.

Each visit starts by lying in a darkened room for about 20 minutes while being swathed with warm, moist, cushiony gel packs. I can feel all my knots unraveling and usually want to drift off to sleep. Next a tech wheels in a cart and performs a short painless ultrasound right on the trouble spot. They warm the gel first, which always makes me think back to my pregnancies and go into curmudgeon mode: "We didn't have any pre-warmed ultrasound gel in my day! These women today have it so easy!" When that is done it's time for the best part - the massage! {{sigh}} I hear angels sing during the massage. The therapist knows exactly what muscles to knead to give you total relief. He usually chit-chats during the massage, and I try to answer him without drooling. All too soon that ends and it's time to be super stretched. In my case, I lay face up on a padded table while the therapist stands behind me and cradles my head in his hands. He gently pulls backwards like he is trying to make me taller, pausing every once in a while to push down on my shoulders. If I had enough visits I would finally have that swan-like neck that I always wanted. Finally, after you are totally relaxed and in a puddle, they expect you to exercise. That part kind of sucks. But the exercises are simple and the goal is to gently stretch and strengthen, not to feel the burn. The easiest and most effective one is a chin tuck, which is basically me pulling my chin into my neck wattle. Not my best look, I might add. But I find myself doing this one a lot, especially when I'm in the car. If you are ever at a red light and notice the woman in the car next to you appears to be doing turtle impressions, that's probably me.

The treatments seem to be working. My neck is aching as my atrophied muscles are built back up, but the constant burning pain in my shoulder blade is gone and the nerve pain in my arm is getting better. It even looks like my shoulders are back at the same parallel. I have a couple more visits left before my script expires, and during the last one they will take measurements to see how far I've evolved back from caveman status. Hopefully I'm developing some good habits to continue to gain and hold ground. Otherwise I'll just start wearing a bone in my hair.

The Cookie Exchange, Part II: Redemption

So, remember when I said I was going to rock the annual cookie exchange? Last year I struggled with my cookies, but this year I planned ahead. I found a recipe for a drop cookie decorated to look like Frosty just defrosted - cute and just a little twisted. Perfect. I did a trial run and decided that while the original recipe, from the Better Homes and Gardens website, was good, I wanted to make a few changes. It was based on a peanut butter cookie, which is always the last kind left on the complimentary cookie trays at those chain hotels that cater to business travelers. The dough was easy to work with, but the cookie was really dry and hard. So I substituted a fudgy, soft, delicious dark chocolate cookie that my family has been making for years. And since my snowman top hat looked more like something a pilgrim would wear, I used a chocolate melting wafer to better define the brim of the hat. I also decided to enlarge the carrot nose by using some orange-tinted chocolate. Now, I'm by no means a baker, but the end result was pretty cute and they were a big hit at the cookie exchange, which was well run and a lot of fun. But in typical fashion, my cookies did not come together exactly as I planned.   

The cookie part went off without a hitch - I melted baking chocolate, butter and sugar together, mixed in eggs and vanilla until it was smooth and glossy, then stirred in the dry ingredients. It's a really sticky dough, so it has to be thoroughly chilled before scooping spoonfuls onto the baking sheets. The cookies came out perfectly and after a brief rest to cool, they were ready to decorate. While they were baking, Best Friend stopped by to lend a hand. I intended to put her to work making tiny snowman hats out of mini Reece's cups and chocolate melting discs. That's when we discovered that apparently The Boy had found the bag of candy I had stashed in the cupboard and polished it off. Senior came to our rescue and ran to the store to buy replacements. While he was gone, I started melting white chocolate and spooning it on the cookies. With impeccable timing, I ran out of chocolate right after Senior returned from the store. The Girl's boyfriend happened to call at this moment, and was the next one to come to our rescue, showing up not only with the candy but also with a great big pizza! It didn't take long to finish the snowman puddles and top off with the little hats and chocolate chip eyes. The last decorating step was the carrot noses. I didn't have any orange food coloring, so I mixed red and yellow drops into some melted white chocolate. It came out kind of an insipid peach color so I messed with the tints for a while until Best Friend got sick of waiting and just squeezed in a big blob of red. I was pretty mad until I realized that I now had the perfect shade of carrot orange. Unfortunately the liquid food color had now caused the chocolate to kind of seize up, and couldn't be piped out of the bag. By now it was getting late and we had already plowed through a bottle of wine, so the logical choice was to mold 60 tiny little carrots by hand. The Girl stepped in to help us with our masterpieces. We had a great time rolling them out and didn't even try to make them consistently. Some were tiny, some huge, and we dropped them on the cookies in random melted abandon. I must admit, a few landed on the cookies... let's say... inappropriately. By the time we were done we were laughing hysterically, but the cookies looked amazing. We put the cookies into cute little snowflake cellophane bags tied with curly ribbons. Our masterpieces:

I haven't really had much holiday spirit this season. But as I settled on the sofa after the kitchen was clean and the empty wine bottles were nestled in the recycling bin, I realized that I wouldn't trade a whole box of perfect, easy cookies for one lopsided snowman cookie that only came together thanks to the group effort of my family and friends. That was an amazing gift.