Let me set the scene for event number one . As a work at home employee, showering and getting dressed before going into work are kinda optional.  My normal routine is roll out of bed, stumble down the hall, slump into my chair and start my work day. Mid-morning, I break for a shower and breakfast.  Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly lazy, I might wait until noon or even afternoon break to shower. It happens. Occasionally.  The temperature of the extra bedroom that doubles as my office determines my level of dress, or undress, as the case may be. We all know I have no shame when it comes to personal revelations, so it should come as no shock that yes, in the height of summer, when the humidity level is beyond words, as the heat of the day rises up from the basement to the little corner office on the upper level of the townhouse, you might discover me working away in just my undies.  There’s no webcam to spy on me. No one else is in the house.  And it’s freaking hot! Which leads us to the events of this past Tuesday.

Tuesday morning, I had taken Lisa to the Metro, as she was catching a train later that day to New York City for an overnight stay. This meant I not only had to get up earlier than normal, I had to get dressed.  I admittedly did not put a lot of effort into the task, because I wasn’t leaving the interior of the car, just dumping her at the entrance.  Mission accomplished, I headed back home. Rather than log in immediately, I went ahead and showered and re-dressed. Only God knows why I put clothes back on, but I did. That included a sports bra. If you knew how much I detest bras of any kind (although for me, they are a mandatory necessity), you would understand how really, really unusual that act was. So, basically completely dressed, I finally sit down to work.  Things proceed to norm. At 1:30, I log out for lunch. I washed some dishes, did a few chores, then headed back upstairs to the office, banana and yogurt in hand. I sat down in my chair and pulled up my time tracking application to see if my legally required, at least 30 minute break, had expired. The clock read 1:51.  I had to kill 9 minutes. Just as I got ready to move to my personal computer, I heard this low rumbling. At first I thought it was the garbage truck. Tuesdays are trash day. Living in a townhouse that is one of many in a row of townhouses, directly across from another row of townhouses, whenever the garbage truck, or the school bus, or a delivery truck drives down  our little street, there is rumble.  So, garbage truck. But…the sound grew a bit louder. I thought, must be a semi, moving someone in.  The rumbling increased. A lot. Accompanied by shaking.  My next thought was, is it the dudes the association has clean the gutters? They stomp across the roof like a herd of dancing elephants; it always scares me until I figure out what it is. By this time I was on my feet, turning toward the hallway which leads to the master bedroom, which looks out on the street. Before I could move, the rumble grew into a roar and the house started to really shake. Standing in the office, I was struck by the horrifying thought that it sounded a lot like a airplane wayyyyy too low.  We are 20 minutes from Reagan National Airport. Military installations abound. Dulles International is about 30 miles away.  It is the suburbs of DC. A plane was about to crash.  The noise, just a deep, rattling rumble of intense magnitude was overwhelming. Unless you have been in a situation like this, I’m not sure you can understand that all of these scenarious flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds, one right after the other, like dice tumbling along a craps table. As I left the office, I grabbed the doorframe and it struck me. The dice stopped rolling. Holding onto the doorframe, the noise in a rising crescendo, I could literally feel the house swaying and rolling.  Oh. SHi-ooT. Earthquake. Despite every instinct I had to get out of the house, I forced myself to stand in the doorway, holding on as tightly as I could. I watched the upper rail of the stairs shake. My heart, which had already been racing, sped up to infinity, jumping to the back of my throat. Although the noise of the earthquake was creating this deeply intense noise, I swear, my head seemed so still and quiet, I could hear every heaving breath I was taking. I could hear the blood rapidly thrumming through my veins. It was like something out of a movie. Starring terrified me.

The noise and the shaking subsided.  The whole thing lasted less than a minute, maybe 45 seconds; it felt like forever.  I stood in the doorway for probably another minute, shaking like a leaf, sounding like I had run the 40 yd dash, waiting for an aftershock.  Or for the house to come down around my ears.  Or the apocalypse.  When I could finally engage my brain to engage my legs, I ran into the hallway and down the stairs. When I say ran, I mean, ran. If you know me, you know I don’t run. Even when an elephant in a village in India is bearing down on me,  I do. not. run.  Tuesday, I ran.  I don’t know how I got down the stairwell without killing myself, but I did. I sprinted for the front door, fumbling with the lock, wrenching the door open, then out into the blessed light of day.  I stood on the front stoop, gulping for air, my entire body shaking.  I looked across the street. One of the neighborhood stay at home moms, a young hispanic girl, was out on her steps, phone in hand, looking around in wonder.

“Was that an earthquake?” I screeched.

She nodded, “I think so.” Her accent was heavy, but she sounded so freaking calm.  Two houses down from me, a door squeaked loudly as it open. I spooked like a frightened horse; my head whipped around like a bobble head baseball figure. The older Asian woman who speaks very little English tottered out, looking over at me.

“That was an earthquake, right?” I was kinda pathetic in my after-panic.

She shrugged her shoulders, nodding, calm.  Whatever!

Up and down the street, you could hear people exiting their houses, gathering in the street. Not me. I went back in the house, locked the front door, slowly climbed the stairs, grabbed my phone, sat down at my work computer. And watched my work IM and my email and Twitter and Facebook and my personal email explode.  Social media, ya’ll. It’s insane.

I couldn’t call out on my cell or landline. I couldn’t contact Lisa, who works in a high rise close to DC. I used my work IM to ask my BFF in Texas, whom I also work with, to call my mom and sister, to reassure them I was okay. Lisa emailed me. She had been on the train to NYC and knew nothing until they stopped the train to check the tracks and bridges ahead. I felt better once I knew she was okay. I spent the next hour talking to friends and coworkers and family. I kept waiting for an aftershock, but it never came.  I methodically toured the house, looking for cracks or damage.  The back gate had swung open. An ornate beer stein on the fireplace mantel had slid precariously close to the edge.  That was it.

I’m grateful for a few things. First, I had on clothes.  I feel fairly confident, had I only been attired in undies and possibly a tee, that’s how I would have existed the house, ending up as a front page feature in the Washington Post: “Stupid Texas transplant experiences first earthquake, panics, runs into street half nekkid; terrified neighbors drop dead on sight.” Lesson learned; I have been mostly dressed for work every day since. Second, I’m grateful neither myself nor the house suffered any lasting damage.

That’s my earthquake story.

The next night, around 11:30 pm, I had to drive into central DC to pick Lisa up at Union Station.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Union Station in DC, but, even during the daylight  it’s a scary place. Vagrants and pickpockets and skeazy characters abound.  When I drove up in my little Honda Fit, there were four police SUVS stationed all along the entrance.  I found a well lit area to park, hoping the train was on time. I had deliberately left very late, so that I would not have to linger. I pulled into my space behind two other waiting vehicles, locked the doors, killed the engine, dowsed the interior lights, clutched my phone to my chest, and willed a text saying ‘come pick me up’.  A long, dark car parked behind me. Some dude gets out and starts walking toward my car. With intent. I have my hand on the ignition, prepared to start and dash.  He walks past.  Two cars ahead of mine, another guy gets out of his vehicle. The man who had walked past me starts yelling at the guy who just exited his vehicle. They stand and yell at one another.  There is no angry gesturing, but at this point, I am assuming guns are about to be drawn, shoot outs will commence, and my dead, lifeless carcass will be splattered all over the front page of the WaPo: “Stupid girl who should have known better, casualty of gang warfare”  I am about to start the car to get the hell out of South Central/Compton/Oak Cliff/Dodge, because I can just drive around and around until Lisa gets in, when the text arrives, “Heading out the door.’  I realize she might try to walk out to the so-far-failed-to materialize-throwdown in the parking area, so I frantically text her to stay there, then turn the engine on and whip out of the parking space. Without turning on my head lights. Luckily, I did not hit a yelling dude, who may or may not have been a drug dealer, pimp, gang member, taxi driver, tourist or innocent bystander.  WaPo headline: Stupid girl who should have known better, hits bystander. Angry crowd of one drags Stupid from car, beats to death”. Needless to say, I picked Lisa up without further incident and we got home safely.

That’s my Union Station at midnight story. Yes, I realize it’s not weather related, but it was a part of my personal Trifecta of last week

The Tri part: Hurricane Irene. I’m glad to report I don’t really have a hurricane story, other than, HELLO!  HURRICANE!  I will say, going to the grocery store Friday morning was like going to Walmart the day before Thanksgiving. Or any day government checks get delivered.  Almost as scary as Union Station.  But not quite.  WaPo hurricane headline: “Stupid gets a clue, stocks up early, stays at home.  All is well.”

I had a week last week, ya’ll. I’ve tried to recall a time in Texas when I experienced so many near disasters in the same week; I’m failing. There was that horrible winter of THE ice storm, when two days of frozen sleet and rain turned our little section of north Texas into an ice skating rink for about a week, when that first terrifying night, sans electricity, it got so cold, I thought I was Laura Ingals Wilder in The Long Winter, and the massive old oak trees along the street and in the park, uprooting, snapping in half all night long, sounded like booming canon fire. We survived; in the end, it was just one long event. There was that night one December when I heard a fire siren really close by, then a few more, and went out on my balcony and saw multiple firetrucks pulling into my apartment complex and a fireman in full gear showing up a few minutes later to tell me I was being evacuated because there was a fire in the building next to mine and the winds were so bad, they did not think they could keep my apartment building from being engulfed in flames. That was a frightening 15 minutes of trying to figure out what to save and what to say good bye to. But, the buiding was saved and it was resolved in a few hours.  There was the night I drove my sweet Mustang convertable rag top home from work in a severe thunderstorm, pounded by hail, lightening strikes sizzling and so frequent, the midnight sky was like day, and I watched in horror as tornadic fingers swirled and dipped out of the edge of the wall clouds. But, I drove out of the worst part and made it home safe. Lots of things have happened to me over the years, but last week? That was a 3 headline week, ya’ll.  I’d like to put in my request to go back to one headline at a time, please!

When we were young, she wanted to go to Machu Picchu. When she finally moved to pursue her degree, I gave her a poster, that iconic image of the Incan ruins. She took it with her in all her journeys. Twice, she let me know the poster had degraded to the point that it could no longer be used, twice I went on a scavenger hunt to find a new poster. For me, that place represents all the hopes and dreams and joys of two young women, embarking on their lives.  I have that same image as my wallpaper on my work computer and think of her every day I log in. Some day, I will stand in Machu Picchu and lift up her memory. For now, I walk.

Please consider donating to help the Komen foundation fund the fight to find a cure for this devastating disease.  You can link into my fund raising page here: http://globalrace.info-komen.org/site/TR/GlobalRaceForTheCure/GlobalRace?fr_id=2024&pg=pfind.  Enter my name, Cheryl Byrne, to access the donation page.

Thank you.

As a result of my deep abhorrence of the fruit of the sea,  I really, REALLY prefer to avoid seafood restaurants and the like. This puts me in direct conflict with Lisa, who, naturally, loves the stuff, A to Z.  However, in deference to my objection to Poseidon’s goodies, we generally stay far away from seafood restaurants, and she rarely orders it. The occasionally sushi, since it does not have a distinct odor, but otherwise, she just says no to fish.  I feel bad about it, but…yeah, I’m happy, lol!

So, today, Valentine’s Day.  We had mutually decided low-key, nothing big, but I decided to cook something nice. All morning, I thought about what I wanted to fix for dinner. Steak and mashed potatoes is always a hit, so that was the preliminary call.  As I scanned the sale circular for the local grocer, I spotted an ad for North Atlantic lobster tail.  Okay!  There’s an idea.  To show my appreciation for all those stinky fish choices Lisa has passed by, I would surprise her with lobster!  But…that meant, actually, you know, touching the thing.  Oh, the horror!  Oh, the humanity…er… crustacean!  I was wavering in my commitment; my BFF, Patty D, reminded me the lobster would be the unselfish thing to do. Arg!  Patty Poppins, practically perfect in every way…and always tweaking my conscience.   Fine.
Quick run to the grocery store for the aforementioned lobster tail, couple of steaks, a few other items, and I’m set.  Couple hours later, I am standing over the sink, staring at the black package of two small lobster tails, a thin layer of plastic wrap the only thing standing between me, and fish stink.  I gingerly picked up the package, staring at the alien life forms.  It takes me a couple of minutes to get up the nerve to peel back the plastic, but eventually, there they were, out in the open. I was just grateful there were no tentacles or beady little eyes attached.  I so did not want to touch the motley looking things;  just looking at them gave me the heebie jeebies.  However, I couldn’t find the handy little plastic gloves I normally use to seed hot peppers.  I literally had to talk myself into picking one of them up. It was terrifying.  The back fan of the tail kinda flopped.  The shell was cold and hard.  And there were these little, tiny crawly leg thingies all along the underside.   Holy shades of a cockroach, Batman!  I dropped the damn thing and scurried to wash my hands.  Yeah. There’s a good chance Lisa will come home to garlic mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon and scallions, a perfectly cooked medium rare steak…and two raw lobster tails still lying on the counter.

I glanced at the clock and realized I was going to have to pull up my big girl panties and get over myself.  And get to work on the crustacean.  I picked up one tail, grabbed my kitchen shears, re-read my instructions and began the process.  Oh, my word! I was to cut along the tail meat, as close to the shell as possible. Okay, that would be fine, except the membrane is really tough and those tiny little legs are squigging me out and I so don’t want to be doing this.  I finally get the scissors to cut. The sound is as disgusting as touching the tail.  Every snip brings another agonizing crunch, like the sound of breaking bones. The tail fin keeps flopping and oh, gag, gag, gag!!!!! Lobster juice,  all over my hand where I’m cradling the stupid tail! Is that whimpering? Am I really whimpering? I cannot get this stupid membrane cut and off the meat fast enough.  Finally, finally, I scrape the stuff off the top, then take my fish boning knife (which I have actually never used before) and run it along the sides and bottom of the shell to loosen the meat.  Done. One more to go.

The second tail was just as uncooperative as the first, but eventually yields.  I think I might have washed my hands for about 5 minutes. Lobster juice…shiver!!!  I made a quick marinade of butter, garlic and lemon juice, which I used to liberally baste the tail meat. I wrapped those alien sea roaches in foil and set them aside. Once I had rubbed the steaks with olive oil and given them a quick sear, I placed the surf and turf into the 450 degree oven and finished up the side dishes.  Can I tell you how thankful I was that lobster really does not have a fishy odor?  The steaks were actually much more aromatic, which was wonderful.

I was careful to watch the time, taking the steaks out and letting them rest about 5 minutes before I pulled out the lobster.  I moved the foil packages to a plate.  Thus ended my interaction with the ugly little buggers. I refused to even unwrap them and plate them for Lisa.  She’s a big girl; she can take care of that herself.  Thankfully, the lobster was a huge and welcome surprise; she kept repeating how she couldn’t  believe I had actually touched them to cook them, lol!  And while I was happy to know the lobster tasted good, I could have done without the empty husk of  lobster shells staring up at me.  Aliens, I swear!

Unfortunately, I have opened the floodgates; apparently no good deed goes unpunished. Lisa thinks since I’ve proved I can handle this crustacean, Alaskan King crab should be the next challenge. WHATever!  I’m already afraid I’m going to have nightmares replete with those cockroachy little swimmeret legs crawling all over me, slathering me in disgusting lobster juice.  I don’t want to add giant claws, snapping at my head, too!

An example of how the citizens of Rome view their past occurred in one of my favorite conversations. I had reserved a car to pick us up and transport us to the hotel.  We’ve learned in our travels to just suck up the cost, reserve a hotel shuttle or a car and driver, and get to the hotel as soon as possible.  Saves on additional stress, hauling luggage, buying tickets, all the things having to utilize public transport entails.  So, for this  trip we used Rome Cab (highly recommended; they were great).  Our driver was a lovely woman, whose name, sadly, I do not recall.  She was very engaging, gave us a running commentary on the city as we drove in from the outlying airport, and was very indulgent as I attempted to converse in my simplistic version of Italian.  As we approached Rome, the large dome of a church dominated the view. She had informed us there are over 950 churches in Rome alone;  I asked which one this would be.  She replied “It’s a new church,  only 150 years old or so: St Paul Outside the Walls.”  Lisa and I laughed out loud.  I guess when your city has churches that predate entire countries, 150 years would be infantile.

In some ways, the city feels very NYC, fast-moving, cosmopolitan, teeming with life. We found the people of Rome, of Italy, to be kind and helpful, especially if you make an effort to communicate in Italian.  Even bad Italian.  I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to put my 6 week class to practical use…and be understood, despite my Texas accent and poor grammar.  Thank you, Janine, for being such a wonderful teacher.  She urged all of us in the class who were planning trips to Italy to not be scared, to open our mouths, to try.  She gave me a base of vocabulary that came in helpful in so many ways. Not just in breaking the ice or reading signs, but in interacting with the locals, instead of standing to the side, touring.  I particularly enjoyed my mild flirtation with one of the street vendors, an older man, in his late fifties, early sixties, who had a fruit/vegetable/snack/drink cart a block from our metro, a few blocks from our hotel.  Our first night in Rome, after a long day of ancient Rome walking, his cart was a haven.  I bought a banana and a coke, the transaction initiated and concluded in my meager Italian, much to his amused delight.  It was the beginning of a nightly ritual.  By mid-week, he was teasing me about my choices, joking with me about the cost, all in Italian.  He was a perfect gentleman.  He was Italian.

The food….oh.my.  Are there words to describe the delectable goodness of practically every meal we ate?  Italians love food, the love to eat, they love to feed you.  All of that love seems to permeate the dishes, imbuing it with the singular taste of Italy.  Pizza, spaghetti, salads, bread, wine, sauces, cheeses, just a scrumptious sojourn into heavenly taste.  Pasta will never be the same for me.

I’ve tried, diligently, to compile a list of ten things I loved, as well as five things I didn’t.  As I begin to move my journal words into blog form, I hope to be able to better describe the why’s of each.

Top Ten Italy

1) Sistine Chapel–I went to church; I felt the presence of God in the work of Michaelangelo. Amen.

2) St Peter’s Basilica–stunning. overwhelming. a marvel.

3) Roman Forum–I walked in the steps of Caesar and Augustus and Mark Antony.  History come to life.

4)Colosseum–Can you hear the roar of the blood thirsty crowd, howling for the blood of the fallen gladiator? I did.

5) Florence–a wonderful city, the heart of the Italian Renaissance. Like a walk back in time.

6) Michelangelo’s David–marble perfection

7) Galleria Borghese–the first floor is a sculptors heaven. And, if you must, some Caraveggio’s

Duomo–the exterior is exquisite; it dominates the heart of Florence.

9) Public transportation–easy to use, affordable clean, bus or metro, the only alternative to walking.

10)  The expensive cab ride–I was exhausted. The cab saved my life. Lisa rolled her eyes at the price but I paid it!
Five things I could do without:

1) cobblestones–in every shape and size  you can imagine.  Pave a road, why don’t you?

2) Stairs–ever heard of an escalator? Who cares if the place is a national treasure! Get with the times!

3) Children–seriously, did we encounter ever single class field trip in the country of Italy during our week?

4) PDA–Italians kiss. Everywhere. All the time. Ad nauseum.  Nauseating the rest of us. Get a room, already!

5) My bad back–sadly, it hated the cobblestones. And stairs. And endless walking. And standing in line. And me.  Gotta love naproxen.

Regardless of the not so fab five, I love the trip. I loved Rome.  Grazia, Roma!

I must note how disappointed I was in the turnout.  Since this was my first walk in the area, Im not certain how many walks there are in the area or how it is promoted, but I would estimate there were maybe 300 people in attendance.  That’s actually less than the last walk I did in Sherman, before they moved us all to Dallas.  Possibly the Dallas experience has spoiled me, but beyond the incredible numbers advantage, the Dallas walk has numerous pavilions and activities and giveaways.  Plus, it’s home, ya know?  Anyway, I was kinda disappointed at the low turnout.

In the few minutes leading up to the beginning of the walk, some skinny personal trainer wench led the crowd in a really weak round of warm up calisthenics, the only part of which I enjoyed was Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.  They counted down the last ten seconds and we were off.

The walk itself was unexpectedly picturesque. The start ran alongside the road for just a few hundred yards, then went down a slight slope to wind along a large creek.  The only bit of steep occurred in this first section, otherwise, the walk was fairly flat.  After such a long, hard winter, it felt great to see so much green, so many plants in full bloom.  A fact which was underscored by my allergies, dormant for the most part in Texas, but completely on display here in Virginia.  I took my Zyrtec about a half an hour before the walk, but my eyes itched most of the way.

My biggest concern for this year’s walk is whether I could make the entire walk. With the exception of my first walk, when it rained so hard, you couldn’t even see the path, I have never not finished the route.  This year’s outcome was put into doubt, though, when last weekend, I got my back in a real mess.   Did a few things that got it quite stiff and unpleasant, then had to work overtime during the week, which meant 10+ hour days.  Spent most of the week babying the damn thing.  On Thursday, Lisa and I took a simple walk around the neighborhood that nearly did me in.  I was very worried about this morning.  However, by Friday afternoon, it seemed to be loosening up.  Saturday morning, I went to water aerobics, sat in the hot tub, and then sauna.  Combined, this all seemed to help.  This morning, I was happy to not be stiff but still concerned.  Once the walk got underway, I really struggled. However, saving grace, in the form of beautifully spaced park benches, gave me the extra bit I needed.  That and the persistently stubborn  Swede, who basically coaxed me along, patiently waiting as I rested way too often, but mainly encouraging me to simply go as far as I thought I could without hurting myself.   As far as I could go was to the finish line, and not the last one out, which I am really grateful for!

After the walk, we went back to the pavilion to get water and a turkey sub, courtesy of Subway.  We sat and listened to music and watch the kids and dogs and then headed for the car.  It wasn’t an ideal walk, but I finished, which is the important thing. Oh, and raising money for the babies.  Because the babies?  That’s what it really is all about.

Good Grief, I suck at blogging!  LOL!!!  What a procrastinator I am!  I would love to say I’ll do better, but..yeah. I know myself. I will continue to suck

So, for this past Christmas, Lisa got me Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  Yes, the one that Julie Powell blogged about, spent a year cooking every recipe, got a book deal, then had the book become a movie.  A movie we both loved, btw.  Additionally, I love to cook.  It’s one of my favorite past times.  It’s even better now that I can cook for someone other than myself.  Thus, when I opened the present, the first request from Lisa was Julia’s Boeuf Bourguignon.  I agreed.  Then promptly got distracted by other things. Now,  I’m not Julie Powell, I have not deadline or timeline in mind, in fact, I’m not sure how often I will be doing this, but I did promise to cook from the book.
Tonight, as requested via a pout and a mild whine (in which I was reminded I had not cooked the Boeuf Bourguignon and winter is almost over), I am attempting Julia Child’s version.  Allons-y!

Let’s see, things to understand before you cook this dish. You need to cook this in something that can do stove-top to oven and back again. Julia refers to it as a ‘casserole’ dish, and I suppose it is. I think a Dutch Oven would probably work, as would one of those large, stove to oven pans. BUT, you need some room for the ingredients. So, last night in the drizzle, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond to purchase a real stove to oven casserole dish. Lisa bought a VERY nice, cast iron, made in France, lovely blue ‘coccotte.’ And yes, I recognize I am spoiled rotten. Get over it!  Anway, damn thing is heavy enough to kill you…if you could lift it over your head! As a result, it was necessary for me to have Lisa on call to do the heavy lifting early in the recipe. I am a delicate flower…

Stop laughing now!  Beyond the cooking utensil requirement, additionally, we had difficulty finding a few ingredients. I could only find bay leaves at Whole Food s. Small white onions, (pearl or boiler onions) are apparently a seasonal thing. At least according to Saratoga Springs Giant, Whole Foods and Trader Joes. However, Springfield Giant had a bag. Yay!  Finally–CLOSE YOUR EYES, VEGETARIANS–completely out of luck in finding a chunk of 6 oz bacon with RIND!! Yikes. If I make this again, I’m going to have to locate a butcher store, which I’m sure there must be one in the area. As it was, I got some fatty bacon and did what I could.

If you are going to the trouble and expense to do this right, you cannot just use some ordinary cooking wine or Ripple as the basis of your stew.  So, acting on Julia’s advice, while at Whole Foods, Lisa picked out a very lovely, full-bodied young red wine, Cotes du Rhone, which she very much enjoyed emptying when I had finished with what I needed to for the stew. Oh! Also while at Whole Foods, they had a wine tasting table, presenting some new wines. We tried a FABULOUS Washington Reisling. I generally dislike wine, but this white wine was really mild and sweet, with a lovely bouquet.  Wish I could recall the vineyard. We didn’t get a bottle

The cooking: Good LAWD, that Childs woman is crazy!!! I read through the recipe last night to get my list of ingredients. After grocery shopping this morning, I re-read the recipe this afternoon, twice, then assembled everything. It was apparent from the way the recipe is written that the pre-oven cooking part is like an assembly line, and if I did not have it all ready, I was going to end up with something other than what Julia said to cook.

First, you blanch (boil) bacon with rind. So I blanched bacon bits and some larger pieces (my fake rind). Then, you dry both the blanched bacon and the stew meat. Set aside the fake rind. Get out your new cooking dish and heat some olive oil. Saute the bacon bits until brown, remove, saute the meat until all sides are brown. Don’t dump the meat in, saute a bit at a time. This makes your overall appearance better, plus the meat browns more evenly. Here is where your pre-assembled ingredients begin the conveyor belt of cooking. Saute your slice carrots and onions in the remaining fat. Once sauteed, drain any remaining fat (there was none in mine). Call Lisa to the kitchen. Have her start reading steps out loud from recipe. Add back in the meats. Add salt and pepper; toss. Add flour, toss to coat. Have Lisa move the dish to a preheated 450 degree oven, uncovered, for FOUR MINUTES. Prep your garlic, thyme and basil leaf (which you forgot to prep). Have Lisa remove the dish, you toss to coat, Lisa sticks it back in the oven for FOUR MORE MINUTES. Move your pre-measured wine, beef stock, tomato paste, garlic and herbs to the side board beside the stove top. Lower oven temp to 325. Remove the dish, stir in the wine and broth to barely cover the meats. Stir in tomato paste, add the fake rind, press the garlic cloves, and let Lisa toss in the herbs–so she can say she helped cook   Cook to simmering, stirring now and again. Let Lisa  stir so she can say she really helped cook. Once you have a simmer, turn off the gas (an important instruction Cheryl sometimes forget to do) and cover the dish. Have Lisa carefully move it back into the oven. Take a deep breath and clean the kitchen. Round One of Three is done. You have 2-3 hours before Round Two has to be complete.

Round Two: the onion and mushroom sautes. These are two separate recipes in the Julia book. BIG thing to know… the onion saute thing? Supposed to saute, THEN simmer on low for 40-50 minutes. Good thing I finally READ that part of the recipe with an hour left of the main dish cooking time, duh!!!

This morning, I greet the day with less than enthusiastic warmth.  Being a big girl means that smashogram has to mash a LOT of mass and it often is painful, depending on the tech and the machine.  I get off work (love working at home!), and head out, my Garmin and I. Also,2 bottles of water, because I have to drink 20 ounces of water before the ultrasound.  Being an idiot, though, I apparently did not write down the instructions to NOT pee before the ultrasound.  Had I been less stressed about the unfamiliar drive in rain with idiotic Virginia drivers, I might have realised, there is a purpose for the water, GOOBER!  But I digress.  Thankfully, no directional issues occur and I arrive before time.  Because I really need to pee now, I slip into the convenient restroom and relieve the bladder, feeling soo much better.  I do the paperwork thing, pull out the paperback and wait.  Sooner than I expect, I get called back.  The assistant asks if I drank the water. Yep, sure did!  She didn’t ask if I subsequently released the water.  I didn’t share.  I get into a lovely gown, the kind that leaves my big ol’ ass out in the breeze.  I get directed to a room and a really lovely Indian woman greets me, explains the procedure is a two parter, the external ultrasound and then an internal exam, similar to my well-woman but without the speculum.   A’ight! I am still not clued in.  I hop on the  table.  She goops my belly, starts the machine and away we go.  I know something is immediately wrong by her frown. Note to ultrasound techs: frowning while performing the ‘sound does not engender happy thoughts.  She starts quizzing me about my water intake. I am all about the two bottles of water I drank, but she says my bladder isnt as full as they like it. OOP!!!  Big Clue Machine whacks me upside my head.  I sheepishly confess, she frowns, but says she will try to get good pictures, but she will really have to press. Oh, goodie.  She wasn’t lying.  I thought that fracking tool was going to rip into me, she pressed so hard.  Beat me with a bag of oranges next time. Oh, wait. My bad! ACK!

The tech finishes up, then shows me the bathroom to ‘void’ the remainder.  Clinical speak is so cold.  I do my thing, again, then head back to the room, where I get installed in the stirrups. Okay, so when she said ‘like a well-woman but without the speculum’, I figured she was going to poke and prod on my tummy area.  Oh, no.  She says, ‘We ask the patient to insert themselves.’  Ummm, excuse me?  I am a blank slate.  She then proceeds to pull out this PROBE that is as long as my forearm.  I swear, my eyes bulged and my mouth gaped.  She was unfazed.  She hold it up, ‘I am removing the protective wrap’ RIP!  She presents it, almost like a waiter with a new bottle of wine. Gaaaaa….. ‘I am placing a lubricant on the shaft.’ On the WHAT???   She spreads a thick layer of goo, then turns to offer the prepped instrument to me.  ‘You only need to insert the tip in about a half inch. ‘ Dear sweet baby Jesus. Okay, lady, but normally, this is done in the privacy of my bedroom.   So, there I am, legs splayed wide open, lower half covered by the paper blanket, gingerly holding this medical instrument, trying to find the…goal, while averting my eyes from not just her, but the process.  It was…an experience.

I got the damn thing in the right spot, and she takes over, under the cover.  I lay back in the semi-darkness and close my eyes.  I mean, what else was I going to do?  It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable; it was just freaking surreal.  She had to have me push in on my tummy a couple of times so that the ovary would show up, but otherwise, I was free to just lay there.  So to speak.  It really wasn’t too much of a big deal, until she moved to the left side.  I don’t know what the hell she was doing, but it felt like she was driving a truck through my uterus.  I finally had to object, because, hello!!!!  Not an S and M kinda gal.  At least not with a complete stranger. She apologized and said she was having to angle to get a good shot.  Whatever.  GET IT OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW!!!!  Okay, I didn’t say that out loud, but I was screaming it in my head.  Finally, she says ‘Only two more minutes.’  Longest two minutes of my life.  Really.  Eventually, she eases ‘it’ out of me.  I didn’t know whether I should ask her to cuddle or get her number.  I mean, what’s the protocol for getting probed?

In comparision, the smashogram an hour later was a real let down.  Cold hands really spoil the mood, ya know?

As her portray er, I was equally entranced with Carrie Fisher.  Obviously, when you are a part of not just pop-culture but humanity culture, you are probably not going to ever top yourself professionally.  Unlike Harrison Ford, Carrie and Mark Hamill never again caught lightening in a bottle.  However, along the way, Carrie’s fabulously snarky sense of humor won her rave reviews and a legion of admirers.  I know that anytime she is doing a guest shot or at an awards ceremony, she will make me laugh out loud. Normally at something offensive and deeply inappropriate, but also immensely brilliant.  She is smart and funny, two of my favorite combos.

Imagine my delight when I was led to a recent blog update, all about weight.  Rock on, Princess Leia!  Obi Wan Kenobi was never your only hope. You were always your own Force.

When I grow up, I want to be Carrie Fisher.

**I can’t get the link button to work again. Copy and paste**

http://carriefisher.com/?p=462

First, we get that whack-job Joe Wilson (so not surprised he’s a Republican) screaming at the President during a Presidential address to a joint session of Congress.  I don’t care what your political affiliation is, I don’t care if you despise and abhor the man in the office, at the very least, the OFFICE  of President of the United States deserves respect.  I believe that Whack Wilson has every right to disagree with the President.  I believe, no matter how idiotic I might think his wingnut backward thought process is, he can express himself however he wants.  What I disagree with, vehemently, is the venue he chose to express himself.  Debate and denigrate Obama all you want, but you better damn well respect the office he was duly elected to. After all, despite 8 years of complete ignorance and redneck stupidity, no Democrat ever stood up and shouted “YOU SUCK!” at Bush.  I just am sickened by the level of incivility in politics, on both sides of the aisle. But Whack Wilson showed us at our worst.  Oh, and can I just mention, Nancy Pelosi (whom I actually think is also a whack job and can’t stand her holier than thou attitude) might possibly be able to use her laser eyes to win the war on terror.  Joe is lucky her aim was off.  I think she singed the leather on the back of his chair.

After Whack Wilson, the sporting world was treated to another display of graciousness and class from Serena Williams.  Yes, she has talent out the ying yang, but OMG!!! Girlfriend lost her ever loving mind!  I was watching and seriously thought she was gonna wrap that racket around that lineswoman’s head!  I haven’t heard that many F-bombs since I was at City Limits ordering my favorite shot!  Wow!  Such a classy champion.  What a fabulous role model for young  tennis players everywhere.  Was it a bad call? Seemed iffy to me.  Did Serena have the right to get angry? Well, yeah!  I would have been.  Should Serena have succumbed to a Mad Max ThunderDome ‘roid rage?  Uh, NO!  The problem is, this is not her first angry pitbull ravaging.  She did it early this year, becoming incensed at an opponent.  Someone needs a bit of anger management therapy. Or perhaps should just stay away from her dad, the King of Asshat Angry.

Finally, Kanye.  Oh, my.  This dude is just flat out crazy. I mean, I feel bad about his mama, but he was batshit crazy before she died.  Now he’s just certifiable.  Next time there is an awards show, he should be required to wear a straighjacket and be medicated.  Because seriously, who in their right mind makes a teenager cry on national television?  It was Taylor Swift, for god’s Sake.  She’s like the stay puff marshmellow of singers.  Pick on someone your own size, bully!  Try pulling that crap on ex- crack dealer 50 Cent.   Why don’t you tell him you thought Ja Rule had a better video?  Gah.  I have as much respect for that egotistical gangsta rap mentality as I do for hot air wind bags O Reilly and Beck.

What a week of whack a doodles!  The problem is, I think the whacks are becoming increasingly angry, increasingly unstable, increasing prominent in our society.  It’s enough to make a girl buy a switchblade.  I will cut a bitch, ya’ll!

“You

are to be applauded, congratulated, praised, cheered, commended, extolled and admired.

WE BELIEVE diabetes runs way deeper thann occasionally monitoring a few numbers.  That diabetes is more than sometimes watching what you eat.  And that diabetes goes well beyond a little exercise every now and again or taking your medication when you can.

You, of all people, understand that diabetes doesn’t work that way.  Diabetes can be equal parts heartless, merciless and relentless.

Diabetes can also be a thief. One that either steals from you and wins. Or one you take on and control.

The good news is, you understand the many upsides of monitoring regularly, eating properly, exercising frequently and remaining vigilant.  This has put you in the strongest position to do, to see and to experience with confidence,  and without limits, a life well lived.

You win,

Don’t quit.

Ever.”

‘vigilant‘  I like that word.  It’s about being awake, keeping watch, standing guard.  It’s about watching out, not just for the things in front of you, but for all the traps waiting to spring.  Food can be sneaky, like that.  You let down your guard, take a quick nap while on duty, and you’ve suddenly put on 10 pounds.  A good word, vigilant.

Thanks to every person who emailed me, inboxed me, commented on the blog, or posted a note on my Facebook.  I don’t just have cheerleaders; I have a freaking army at my back!   Let’s be vigilant out there, ya’ll!

Lost the 2 pounds I gained last week, yay!  Looking to get 2 more less this week