Something’s happening here
My grandmother died of ovarian cancer when she was in her early sixties. That’s probably the reason why I never miss an annual physical.
Until this year.
I was up on the table a few months ago, trying to feign comfort in my Cinderella’s-castle-blue paper gown when I learned that my new health insurance doesn’t cover complete exams.
I suppose I should be glad that my trusty R.N., Elizabeth, paused to review the limits of my new insurance. She’s been doing my exams for over ten years now. Usually, she’s focused on my body. Not this year. This year it was all about the chart listing services and prices. “Let’s not skip your thyroid blood work for $75; that’s needed to keep your medication current. We could do the pap for $345 (plus lab charges) but I recommend you call your insurance first to find out which office provides those for the co-pay.”
Like most companies, my employer offers a variety of insurance options. There’s a basic PPO that’s available for free or plans with wider coverage offered for various fees. I still have the luxury (knock on wood) of not having any special needs, so I went with the free plan. How bad could it be?
Well, it turns out that if I want a complete physical, I have to make three separate appointments at three separate offices, pay the $45 co-pay each time, and miss about a day & a half of work. Ultimately, I’ll be lying back half naked in front of a stranger.
The day, last November, when everything else on my desk seemed more important than reading those annoying insurance booklets, I made the mistake of not doing my research.
It never occurred to me that getting the most basic medical care would be difficult. I’ve heard politicians talk about people faced with terrifying choices and limits, debt and death as a result of “the broken health care system.” I know my situation doesn’t even compare to people with real challenges. And yet, I’m super annoyed.
Here’s hoping that I’ll stay healthy until the next “open enrollment” period when I’ll have a chance to upgrade my coverage. I’m grateful to be employed, and to have . . . wait a minute.
Wasn’t it supposed to be easier?
Sweetness
Our cat has OCD. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. / beat / Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. / beat /
Her nickel sized paw pads — bigger with claws extended — scoop litter in predictably rhythmic strokes. Specifically five strokes. Repeatedly. Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. / beat / Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. / beat /
Cat nails on plastic, accented by faux sand. This is the sound that woke me up. At 6:55am. Today. Put another way, before 7am on the first day I’ve had a chance to sleep in since Monday.
Deep in a Pleasant-none-of-my-blog-readers’-business-Dream one moment, only to hear Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch. / beat / Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch from the other end of the apartment the next. My thoughts came slowly: Lily. 6:55. Saturday.
And it’s 100% good.
Beautiful
On a completely different topic than the video above, no I haven’t given up blogging. I will be writing again sooner than later. I miss it. Hi Mom. Thanks for stopping by. Love you!
Real Niece-love!
Here’s that picture I wanted to post at the beginning of my trip East. Oh, December 19th – when Sam and I took this picture – seems so long ago. I wish I could go back in time. It was soooo good to be with my family. I miss everyone so much already.
UPDATE: I forgot when I originally posted this that it was my big bro’s birthday. I hope it was a happy one, Mister!
Blogligatory Post
Heading off to the shoppes with Mom downtown. If you have to be a last-minute consumer, I’m thinking that being at a place that looks like Stars Hallow is the way to go.
UPDATE: Now that I’m back at home in L.A. & I have a little more time, I can’t resist offering the update that although Mom & I set out for the shoppes downtown, after breakfast we made one stop at the place below and proceeded to lose our energy. So it goes:
Which day of Christmas is this?
We’re all sniffles & coughs around here at my Maryland holiday residence. The nephew is relegated to a diet of saltines (please let him keep them down!) and not allowed to travel away from his flu-bucket for more than a minute or two. Thank God for buckets.
I’m pausing to get in my 50 word commitment prior to packing up the car & driving to the eastern shore for a couple nights. How on earth did I ever fit six sweaters into this suitcase last week? As a good friend of mine says, “It’s a quality problem.”
Niece-love!
If it doesn’t already, the next edition of Emily Post’s guide to manners will include something about how when a house guest, one should never, under any circumstances, plug one’s own mobile iDevice into the host’s computer. Doing so would be sort of like chewing food, removing it from the mouth and putting it on a dining companion’s plate. Ghastly. Imagine my my brother’s computer trying to sync with my iPhone – our contacts co-mingling, the exchange of thousands of photos. Frankly, I don’t even know what would happen, I just know that it would be bad.
It’s for this reason that the pic above is not the super-sweet one of my feet and my Niecie’s feet posing nearly toe to toe in our new red satin flats. Matching with her is my very favorite thing to do.
Quality Time: 10 year old style
Made it in safely yesterday. I’d write more about what a wonderful day of travel it was but my nephew has a day off from school JUST to spend time with his Aunt. How cool is that? There are some drum sticks waiting with my name on them.
Grateful again
More and more, I’m convinced I live in heaven. Right here. Right now. Heaven.
Tonight, I stood over the stove eating Kung Pao chicken (had ordered shrimp, but the dear got my order wrong) and brown rice hot from foil and paper boxes with my Litchi Martini buzz reading a charming letter from my sweet Aunt Ruth.
Is it because Barack Obama is our President Elect? That may add a certain glee and sparkle to a lot of my moods – but no, that’s not it entirely. It’s that time and time again, I must continue to be awake to the fact that I have more comforts during more moments of every single day than even Queen Victoria did in her lifetime. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Ibuprofen. Chocolate. Pinot Noir. Lavender. Salt. Garlic. Hot bread-climate control-dry clothes-fresh water-WOW! These are luxuries I do not want to take for granted. These are gifts. This is heaven. This must be heaven.
Birthday Gift
One of the many fabulous birthday gifts I received this year is a collection of essays entitled Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing up Iranian in America by Firoozeh Dumas.
Yes, I’ve finished Twilight, as recommended by Jenn. Found it to be entertaining and towards the end — scary! I actually had nightmares. Go figure. I’m looking forward to reading the next installment (especially with Halloween coming up) but decided to take a little intermission with Funny in Farsi.
I’m enjoying Firoozeh’s book so much that I ordered a copy for my 14 year old niece. (Shh, it’s a surprise due to land on her doorstep any day now).
The Library Journal puts it this way, “Today, as Middle Easterners in the United States are subject to racial profiling, stereotyping, and sometimes violence, this book provides a valuable glimpse into the immigrant experiences of one very entertaining family.” Simply, Firoozeh’s essays are warm and engaging. It’s a page turner.
Rethinking food, one meal at a time
The book Andy has asked me not to read.
It’s only because he’s worried I’d starve myself if I learned more about the farm industry. I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve got animal produce coursing through my veins right now. In fact, I’ve had two cheeseburgers in the last 8 days. But another truth is that slowly I’m learning (even without having read Peter Singer’s investigation of food production) to make better choices.
Our lives changed over a year ago when Andy and I watched Richard Linklater’s “Fast Food Nation” on DVD. I’m pretty sure he stopped eating meat on the spot. I tried abstaining, but psyched myself out after only 8 days.
My excuse? If meat is eliminated, the spectrum of what I’m immediately ready to eat is sharply reduced: I’ve been a “vegephobe” since birth. My strong aversion to the smell and texture of vegetables, combined with my even stronger gag reflex made meal times miserable for my family all throughout the mid ’70s. Whatever pop psychology my mom innocently subscribed to back in the day only served to reinforce my stubbornness.
Green beans haven’t touched my plate since that night in 1977 when my exhausted parents realized that being sent to bed before “Sunny and Cher” was a sacrifice I was prepared to make on a regular basis. Yep. I won. I’ve never even eaten a single leaf of iceberg lettuce. Salad dressing won’t help – mayonnaise is higher on my list of NEVERS than cooked spinach and broccoli.
Over the course of the last 15 years, with help from a good therapist (“Perhaps lightly stir fried Asian dishes with a sauce you know you like”), some great friends, and time spent listening to my beloved Tony Robbins’ tapes (NLP ROCKS!), I’ve been able to incorporate a few vegetables into my diet. But I’ve never made a habit of it. And I’m a long way from being able to put just any old thing in my mouth. God help the person who tells me, “Just try a bite.”
So now, although I’ve obliged Andy’s request not to even skim Singer’s book, my attraction to both the forbidden and horror stories have made doing so sickly tempting. Just imaging how animals on factory farms are treated has caused me to replace my daily milk and yogurt staples easily with organic soy versions. They don’t taste the same but are delicious in their own way and seductively guilt-free. Meanwhile, I have occasionally dared to glimpse at sites like The Unhappy Cow. Luckily, it’s possible to make the transition to compassionate eating without dwelling in the heart-wrenching terror-filled realities of factory dairy farms and slaughter houses.
Leaving the “how” out of it and learning about who we eat is compelling enough.
“Each cow has the ability to recognize more than 100 other cows, and they form close friendships with members of their herd. Researchers report that cows grieve when their friends or family members die.”
“Pigs are curious and insightful animals thought to have intelligence beyond that of an average 3-year-old human child. They are smarter than dogs and every bit as friendly, loyal, and affectionate.”
“Chickens understand sophisticated intellectual concepts, learn from watching each other, demonstrate self-control, worry about the future, and even have cultural knowledge that is passed from generation to generation.”
“Some fish gather information by eavesdropping on others, and some even use tools.”
Thank goodness, with sites like VegCooking and GoVeg.com and really yummy scientifically engineered tofu products, eating ethically has never been easier.
My conversion is slow going. There’s a half devoured wedge of Cambozola in the fridge now. God, I love cheese. So the research du jour becomes finding farms where the cows are treated with love and, in good health, are left to have a full range of moods, including happiness.
My whole life
39 years ago today, I was the uncomfortable addition to my mother’s torso, the months long anticipated sibling to my brother, but I hadn’t yet actually arrived. 39 years ago today was the last 24 hour period my family was just three.
Yesterday, I finally made the time to catch up with Mom on the phone. We had a nice chat, but the thing that kept circling in my monkey mind this morning was a feeling of irritation I had. Annoyed because I felt as if she told me to relax over the election, I conjured up defensive details listing all of the reasons why I felt her to be wrong. I started imagining the post I would write about how important this election is, and how anyone who . . . then I stopped myself.
I thought, “Ruth, a public blog is not the place to work this stuff out. Besides, you’re wrong about what she was telling you.” See, I interpreted what I thought she said, and decided how I felt about it without ever really stopping to understand what she meant. Check out Katie Byron’s, The Work, for more on the topic of how believing our own thoughts is so often the source of our own discomfort.
So I chose to think about other parts of our conversation. The way she listened patiently and graciously to all of my overly detailed stories about the minutiae of my life. The way she’s always, always, so kind to me, no matter what’s going on in her life, no matter how idiotic I may be acting at the time.
She told me the sweetest story about how recently she had chosen a birthday card for me and brought it home, only to have my father veto it. He wanted something with a more profound sentiment, and he wanted to send Hallmark. He takes the “very best” slogan seriously. We laughed about that. So she ended up finding a different card, one Dad liked better. It’s an especially sweet one.
When I was a child and I got myself worked up into a physical state of rage that would spoil the moment for everyone around me, or when I was in heavy complain mode, I remember Mom saying to me, “You have a choice.”
“We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them.” — Kahlil Gibran
What a wonderful gift – to help me to understand from a very young age that I, alone, had the power to determine my own moods and actions.
So this birthday, my choice is to bask in the gift of my family — those three who anticipated me 39 years ago today, and the two (one furry, one human) who share my mornings and evenings here in the place that is now home. I can’t even be conscious of all they’ve taught me and given me throughout my life, but I can offer my gratitude as often as I speak. That’s my choice.
Middle ground
No offense to Morningstar, but interactions with my McCain/Palin supporting older brother have been reduced to this:
This morning Andy & I tried Morningstar’s Veggie Breakfast Sausage links. I highly recommend them. The texture does not feel like meat (I actually prefer this texture). But because of the seasoning the flavor is very sausage like.
Downside: rather high in sodium. Upside: no cholesterol, some fiber, protein & vitamins, two links = 1 WW point.
Of course, what he probably hears is this:
This morning my liberal intellectual elitist cohabitant and I tried commie hippy rabbit food packaged up to look like Read the rest of this entry »
Ode to Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston
I thought I was pregnant once when I was 17. I have no idea why I was so paranoid – I think my period was only 2 days late; plus, I was on the pill. Still, there were about 24 hours that I was convinced that I must somehow be pregnant. I was terrified. Terrified and miserable. I saw my whole life stop dead in its tracks. I was passionately in love with my boyfriend; and he loved me, he really did. Yet I knew I was too young for motherhood.
Nearly a year earlier, when I made the decision to begin taking birth control pills, I shared the idea with my mother. She was open minded, loving, and she was a good friend. She told me she worried that I would be hurt – emotionally – if I began having sex with my high school sweetheart. We talked about the risk of disease. She made it clear that she preferred that I wait. Until marriage. But as we continued our long talk, she accepted the fact that it was really out of her control. She made me feel loved, even though she was concerned about my decision.
At the end of the conversation, I asked her not to tell Dad. I could talk to her about this stuff, but I was mortified for my father to know. It was bad enough having him drive us home from the mall, years earlier, the day we purchased my first bra. I may have even begged, “Please don’t tell him, Mom.” I’ll always remember what she said:
“I share everything with your father.”
One simple statement. Such a huge lesson: this is the strong bond of a healthy marriage.
It was probably a good 10 days before I could look my dad in the eyes again. But I was consciously secure knowing that my parents were a unit.
As that first relationship ran its course – we were together for five years in total – a lot of our friends encouraged us to get married. I was 21, he was 23. We talked about it. We were in love. We said, “Well, we’re either getting married, or we’re breaking up.” Why break up? To see the world . . . to see what it’s like to fall in love again . . . to let each other grow up independently. I needed to face my fear of being alone. And face it I did. And survive it, I did. I’m so grateful for the years of growth and education I’ve had since that time in my life. I’ve cultivated the resources and energy to contribute positively to my community.
I think about Bristol and Levi and how different their paths are from mine. I’m sad for Bristol and her sisters that their mother isn’t more like my mom was. To be 17, pregnant, and suddenly a very public pawn of the RNC, is unthinkable. The platitudes make it sound simple: “There’s a new life coming into the world,” “Two families uniting in marriage.”
Don’t you suspect that Bristol and Levi might have chosen something different for themselves?
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09/14/08 UPDATE: To any teens out there who may not be able to speak to their parents on the topic of sex – I encourage you to seek out Planned Parenthood. The time to learn how to take care of your body is BEFORE you begin a physical relationship with another person. Those who promote “abstinence only education” have forgotten what it’s like to be young. If you’re left to educate yourself, you’re not alone: Planned Parenthood, will help.
What Planned Parenthood may not teach you is how to make sure you’re selecting a sexual partner who is worthy of your attention, how to figure out the difference between real-mutual-love and infatuation, and how to think highly enough of yourself to take charge of your own pleasure. These are important questions. Whoever you are, I hope you’re in a position to be able to hold out for real love with a caring partner.
My precious
The first time I heard of ocean glass I was less than 4 feet tall standing in church. The person giving the children’s mini-sermon let us reach our hands into a paper bag of dull shards – bottle fragments worn harmless by the tide and sand.
Broken glass submerged, tossed for days and years, until every edge is eroded smooth. That is how the universe heals all of us. Isn’t this ring amazing? No one died for it, no one was enslaved for it. My mom cringes when I talk this way because diamonds are so so lovely to look at and wear. I assure her, and all of my friends with pretty gems that my avoidance of the precious jewelry trade is a personal decision. It doesn’t reflect on my feelings about their wardrobes at all. But I’m getting ahead of myself here . . .
This past weekend, my far away niece and I did some on-line shopping together to celebrate her birthday. We’ve shopped this way together before, but this time I gave her a “birthday gift allowance” and I told her, we’re not going to the ordinary virtual mall to patronize Aeropostale. I introduced the idea of shopping from and supporting artists instead of big companies. We also spent some time at The Animal Rescue Site and their partner shops, where she could read first hand about fair trade. We had a great time. She found a lot of very cool jewelry. And so did I.
The ring pictured here is enroute to me now. It was made by a woman who has an Etsy shop called Morasha Jewelry. And guess what? She blogs!. I hope you’ll swing by her shop periodically. Her work is special. Stay tuned for more on my thoughts about this ring. But first, my day job is a-callin’.
p.s. Anyone who buys that Vintage Fruit necklace had better be prepared to share it with me. I’ve got my eye on it!
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09/14/08 UPDATE: I want to thank Christina Schmidt for posting this at her blog. It’s a wonderful story of diamonds, camaraderie, transformation and joy.
Mother knows best
My growing discontent with work (the place where I’m paid to go) has led me to more passionately explore ways to relax in my free hours. Hearing about my yoga/meditation flirtations, Mom recommended that I pull out the old mandala coloring pages.
I don’t have a printer here at home, but come tomorrow night, I’ll have the image above available on a piece of paper. Armed with my ready supply of art pencils, I’m going to fill in some color. I’ll report back to you afterwards to let you know how it feels. I’m breathing easier just imagining it.
Maybe I’ll even do some photography while I’m at it so that I can have a little fun with animation. Ahh, here comes the creativity, already. Sigh. Yes.
Speaking of that, check out what I made last weekend. Fun!
When I’m 90
This morning I considered, without fear or reservation, what it will be like to be 90. To be in this body, and have it be 90 years old.
Up until now, I hadn’t even considered being 64. I had sung the words, but never really let myself think about the day “when I get older, losing my hair, many years from now.” All of The Beatles should have been so lucky. My grandmother, Mary, outlived George Harrison.
Today, I imagined what 2059 could be like for me if I’m lucky enough to have Grandma’s health and prosperity. Assuming that the polar ice caps will somehow hold out, Read the rest of this entry »
Spontaneous Homage to Grandpa
I would guess that Grandpa (and later Grandma) kept their journals to have a record of daily activities. No need to go back and forth discussing what was served for supper last Sunday – the journal would settle it. Weather, golf scores, bedtimes . . . all noted. The pages don’t reveal many, if any, conversations; there are hardly any opinions expounded. Rather, the shape of each day shows up silhouetted from start to finish.
From Mary & Bob’s Journal 1979:
Thursday, August 2
Up at 7:45. Juice, toast, sausage, and coffee for breakfast.
Bob and Cy to course but heavy rain overnight caused course to be closed to carts until noon. Had coffee and went back home.
Bob got a haircut at 11:45.
Mary & Bob downtown for paper and coffee, back home at 1:55. No mail yet!!
2:25 – left for Adrian to pick up prescription and eye drops. Also stopped at Rink’s [?] and had late lunch – Burger Chef. Stopped at Mowry’s on way home. Visited there about two hours, arriving home around seven. Polly stopped in for a few minutes and Burke and Ruth [my great uncle & aunt] also visited for a while.
To bed about 11:35.
I hope Grandma and Grandpa knew that they would have left an imprint even if we never found the spiral notebooks. Maya Angelou said it best:
“ . . . people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Sweet dreams, Grandma & Grandpa. Thank you for making us feel loved.
Stretching before my next real post
What’s the “run the faucet in the bathroom” equivalent to helping a person write? For the last 48 hours, every time I’ve been away from my computer or any paper to speak of, I’ve had blogable (and even some book-draftable) thoughts running faster than . . . see, if I were unloading the dishwasher right now, I’d have a fresh metaphor to use. I’d even have a fresher word than “fresh” to use for describing “metaphor”. But once I lift up the key board lid and set my fingers over the letters . . . . . .
. . . . . quiet.
So today, after bickering with Andy for a moment, because, well, *bickering just happens sometimes, Read the rest of this entry »
But the Top Chefs make it look so easy
Water; not boiling.
Okay. So the salt goes in AFTER the water reaches a boil. Wish I had paid attention to that fact three hours ago when I started this project.
The plan was to make a mac & cheese casserole for a vegetarian friend of mine who just had a baby. I love the custom of bringing home cooked meals to new parents. Then I got this annoying cold and decided that I better not risk infecting the fledging nor her sleep deprived parents with my germs. Besides, I was also a little nervous trying out a new recipe for a gift.
Better to practice on Andy.
It required making a roux and from that a béchamel sauce. Is it just me, or does the word “béchamel” remind anyone else of the Smurfs?
Total success.
I had chosen this recipe because the description said, “The texture is simply amazing – smooth but not runny, cheesy but without clumping or separating.” You know what? It’s true!
