Saturday, April 19, 2014

Salad Dressing (Recipe)

I love salads, but only if they are smothered in dressing. Preferably the creamy type, or the type that's not allowed on my diet. I used to eat lots of salad, but without good dressing I don't see the point. I've tried oil and vinegar and oil and lemon juice, but I'm not fond of the taste of raw olive oil or any oil. I can tolerate some apple cider vinegar, partly because I know vinegar is really good for adding acid to your stomach making digestion more efficient, but it still doesn't inspire me to eat salads no matter what I put in them.

 
The above salad includes green leaf lettuce, red leaf lettuce, carrots, avocados, onions, broccoli, and red peppers.

One of the local hardware guys has volunteered to be my advisor on all things construction including the building of a tiny house. He won't do it for me or even do it if I pay him a whole lot of money. He's building a house so he doesn't want time taken away from getting his house done. He came over a week ago to offer some advice on a variety of construction projects I am planning. When I finished with my list he asked, "Is that it?"  Just then I spied the new bathroom faucet I purchased over two months ago just before I found out my plumber quit his job. That bathroom sink has been leaking in many places for a while. I've tried fixing it myself, but I can't get the knobs to turn. I think they might be rusted or something. Complications I don't know how to troubleshoot. "Hey, I can't get the water to turn off under my bathroom sink. Can you watch while I do it and you can give me advice or instruction if it goes wrong?"

He did for about two minutes, then told me to get out of the way. He fixed the whole thing and replaced the valves in about ten minutes. You can't imagine how appreciative I was as trying to find a plumber is near to impossible these days. I offered him money and he shook his head so I invited him for dinner. I know he's a junk food junkie so he asked first what was on the menu. As luck would have it I didn't eat lunch and had salmon steaks thawing in the fridge. SALMON! Hey, it could have been hot dogs or something less desirable! He might have preferred hot dogs, but he always tries to tell me he eats healthy aside from the junk. I asked if a salad was OK for a side dish, but I didn't have dressing. He asked if I have fresh lemon as lemon juice would be fine for him. Yep!

As we are sitting down to this magnificent feast and I hand him the fresh, squeezed lemon juice he says, "Sometimes I add orange juice to the lemon juice to make it less tart and more sweet."  Hmmm... that sounds interesting. I have an orange! It was heavenly! Squeeze one half lemon and one half orange. Pour it on. Truly yummy. And it's so easy. Who would have thought I'd get healthy recipe ideas from a constantly caffeinated processed food addict? He actually joked through the meal all the healthiness might make him drop dead.

As he was leaving I again thanked him (about the seventh time) for fixing the plumbing that had been sitting around waiting to be fixed for months, and he said in that smart-ass tone he always uses, "Yeah, how much money did that save you?" I always forget it doesn't pay to thank men too much or they assume you owe them. And not in a good way.

I responded, "A lot! How much money do you think a totally organic, fresh salad with wild-caught Alaska salmon, personally cooked and served by a charming, conversational hostess cost? Oh, and you don't have to do dishes either."

He laughed and said, "I'll trade work for food." I don't think he remembers he offered this once before, but when my eyes lit up he quickly backpedaled with "Just joking!"  I'd gladly cook for someone who would do all my construction for me.



Thursday, April 17, 2014

War Wounds

WARNING: The photos are not for the weak at heart. Not pretty.

The first day after my injury, my foot started feeling better. I continued to elevate and ice it and didn't notice much bruising or swelling. Then for some reason I woke up a day and a half later and noticed my foot was more swollen, cold and numb due to the lack of circulation caused by the swelling. This worried me. The swelling should be going down not getting worse. I called around trying to find a doctor. Most couldn't see me until next week. The hospital was going to charge me $700 just to be looked at not including x-rays, so I went back to a doctor I saw eight years ago.

I'll call him Dr. Dumb Shit. I have absolutely no confidence in this doctor as during our previous appointment I told him once a month I was getting incredibly sick with symptoms of severe dizziness, vomiting, diarrhea, fever, migraines, shivering, respiratory problems and passing out. I was being poisoned. (It was the water.) He prescribed headache medicine. Really? Do you think that will help with the passing out? This was after his assistant told me it was probably all in my head, or psychological. When I sent them payment for my co-pay I wrote a letter complaining about the incompetence and I said clearly although it was only $20, it was not worth it. Oops! Nothing like burning my bridges....

Well, where else am I supposed to go? No other doctor in the area could get me in until next week. His schedule seemed to be wide open. (That's a clue!) And he's close by and since I needed to drive using my left foot to get there, I didn't want to be traveling for too long. I just needed some x-rays to see how bad this was.

As I sat in the waiting room I watched a video on how women ignore their health issues. Yep, that's me. I'd do nearly anything to stay away from a doctor.

Dr. Dumb Shit is really nice and personable, but like I said, I have no confidence in his ability to know anything. He's incredibly obese for starters and known around town for his daily visits to McDonald's. That says it all. Not many people have confidence in him. The justification for my first visit was I had hoped he could tell me if other people in the area were experiencing the same once-a-month illness, or, was it an environmental problem? I didn't notice any stink then, but today, whatever he was wearing burned my lungs. It might have been toxic deodorant rather than cologne because it was mild enough only to cause discomfort. I just wanted to find out if my foot was broken or not.

When I was transferred to the exam room and sat waiting under the glare of florescent lights I saw my foot for the first time. GOOD GOD! Where did those bruises come from?? They covered both sides of my foot! And the swelling seems to be getting worse.  I suddenly remembered I had a camera with me. Oh, how fun! Documentation!


Above is what it really looks like. There is little bruising on the top since I kept icing the top, but I failed to ice the sides adequately. You can definitely see the swelling at the ankle even though that's not where the pain was. Later the doctor said my foot actually looks really good compared to the ones where the person didn't elevate and ice and the whole foot turns black. The next two photos are side views and I think the angle of the camera distorted the foreground making it look like my leg and foot are about to explode, but you can see the bruising around the ankle.

 


I swear my foot doesn't look like that last photo. My cheap camera must have distorted the view. It's pretty horrifying, but entertaining.

I did not break any bones. In fact, I have never broken a bone in my life so I really didn't think I did, but x-rays showed chips in the bones so slamming it into cement did create some damage.

Dr. Dumb Shit said to continue icing, elevating and take Advil. Nothing new there except it cost me lots of money to hear I should continue doing what I've been doing.  He said if it doesn't get better I am to get one of those post-operation shoes to walk in. Or maybe wear tight shoes for now. Hmmm...I hope that's just him feeling confident in my ability to heal rather than ignorantly failing to prescribe adequate treatment. Then he said if it doesn't improve I am to go to a specialist. Well, there you have it. He's already claiming lack of knowledge, and if my confidence could have gotten any lower than it already was, it would have. But hey, I don't want to see a specialist! I've already spent all my vacation money on this injury.

I'm trying to stay off it as much as possible, but it's not like I have someone to run errands or cook for me. My dirty dishes are piling up because I don't want to stand to wash them. What a huge inconvenience! Spring is finally here and I was just about to start some fun projects. And I've become addicted to jumping around on my rebounder and I won't be able to do that for weeks. Damn.

Please send me some positive healing energy my way so this will go fast!

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Let the War Begin...Again.

Yesterday I happened to be out on my porch, enjoying the sunshine and fresh springtime air, and I noticed the soft buzzing of a bee. I enjoy bees. Hearing them buzz around the garden is a sign spring is here and that's always a happy sign. They pollinate my flowers and trees and I grow plants that will attract them. We have a mutually respectful, reciprocal relationship.

I smiled at the sound and looked up from what I was doing just in time to see a pretty little bee land on the side of my house and crawl IN THROUGH A SMALL HOLE under the siding. OH SHIT! I've seen online photos of giant hornet's nests or bee hives in the walls of houses. I watched for a few seconds as three or four more bees landed and disappeared. I ran upstairs to see if I could hear any buzzing in the walls. No. Then I ran to the hardware store in a panic.


The hardware man's first suggestion was to use a fogger. No way. I think a fogger would kill me. Another suggestion was hornet traps, but those would attract every hornet and bee in the area and kill them. I just want to repulse them away. I don't want uninvited, free-loading roommates with stingers loading honey into my walls. Then someone suggested hornet spray even though I assured them I couldn't see a nest nor even knew where it was. Doesn't matter. The spray will confuse the bees and they will leave or die. There were also "green" or "safe" solutions rather than chemically-based sprays. The one I ended up buying is called WHY. Of course it costs twice as much as the chemical spray. The ingredients are: lemongrass oil, clove oil, rosemary oil, and geranium oil. I don't care for essential oils, but I've used a similar recipe to kill mold. I needed something and I'd be spraying it outside.

Covered in oil. Ewww.
I sprayed it on one side of the house where they were entering and hoped there wasn't another entry way. It stunk to high heaven, leaving oily drips down the side of the house, but tolerable. As I emptied the can I smelled a distinct alcohol smell, like rubbing alcohol. Yep, it has isopropyl alcohol in it, too, probably as a stabilizer for the oils or propellant. For the next hour I watched the bees frantically trying to figure out how to get into their hole, but unable to go near or land due to the stink. It seemed to be working. I kept an eye on them to see if they were flying into another entrance but it looked like they were flying away only to return to try a few minutes later. Hooray!

Later that evening as I went upstairs to bed the whole upstairs area smelled strongly of essential oils. Obviously they were getting into one of the crawlspaces in the roof. I prayed the bees wouldn't find a way into the house as they tried to escape the stink. I think this spray would work on spiders and rodents as well!

WRONG! It doesn't work on anything. Maybe that's why it's called WHY? WHY doesn't it work? Yes, the smell repelled them for a few hours, but by the next morning the smell had all but worn off and they were going in and out of the holes again. I raced again to the hardware store and bought some foam to plug up the holes. This stuff is a special recipe with pesticide in it although it doesn't smell much. I used it on the crawlspace as the instructions say bugs and rodents won't nibble on it because it tastes bad. Applying it sure is messy! By the time I finished plugging up the little holes I had the sticky, icky stuff all over. Seriously, I even dribbled it down the side of my face! The instructions say it comes off with acetone. No way! Or it'll wear off. I remembered tree pitch will come off with mayonnaise so I tried a mayonnaise facial. It removed the sticky part but the foam residue is still there. It looks like I have wrinkles. Well, more wrinkles. Uglier wrinkles.

Confused bee looking at globs wondering what the hell?
Again, I spent an hour watching the confused bees fly from one hole to the next not comprehending why they couldn't get past the unsightly glob of goo. They are very determined to damage my house. More than likely I've trapped the queen in my attic space. <shiver>

I got fed up with their never-ending determination so as soon as the foam was dry I grabbed the broom and started swatting them. They aren't going to return if they are dead! So much for our mutual respect and reciprocity. I have my limits.

So I armed with a broom and saw what I hope is the last living bee on earth. I swing...and the force of my killer swing forces me to step off the porch step. Unfortunately I thought I was on the last step and I wasn't. I overshot the last step, twisted my ankle, and fell smashing my foot into the cement. PAIN. Damn bees have now crippled me.

This house is a never-ending battlefield....

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

The Dead Zone

 
It's the anniversary of my mother's death and that time of the year when a certain morbidity lurks in the hidden recesses of my mind. Mortality haunts me. It didn't help to read a book last week about a nineteenth-century sculptor who made some really cool grave monuments nor order more books on tomb sculptures and cemetery traditions from the library so I could gaze upon photos of crying cherubs and sobbing angels. And it definitely didn't help to find Peter's dead body. The timing for these things is so oddly coincidental. This is my very own personal holiday of death. It unexpectedly surfaces every year at the same time. At least now I understand what causes this mind fuck. So I did what any rational-minded, healthy person would do: I hung out at a few cemeteries amongst the dead and I felt right at home. This also motivated me to drag Peter's decaying carcass out from under the garden shed and give him a proper burial.
 
My Rabbit God statue has been re-purposed and it serves as Peter's very own grave sculpture.

He's buried in the middle of the sunflower garden
where he loved to lounge.

He's such a lucky bunny even in death. Now I have a place I can honor him and remember him fondly as I lay bright and cheerful flowers on the site. He was loved. It does make me feel better.

Tomb sculptures amaze me. Really good graveyard statues can incite profound emotion and sympathy. I love the distraught figures collapsed at the foot of a grave in pitiful despair or prostrated across it in agony. They weep loudly in silence. The pain is palatable. Loved ones left behind in mourning paid an enormous amount of money to make an immortal expression of their grief.  This is really more about love than death. The adoration is heart-wrenching; the passion is envious. I can't post a copyright-protected photograph of my current favorite tomb sculpture, but click HERE for a link. It's from the Staglieno Cemetery in Genoa, Italy. Ah! Those Italians are so passionate! Even death is sexy.

In my former life I traveled a lot and was drawn to graveyards. I was definitely not a normal tourist in any sense of the word and preferred to spend my time looking at the local dead. "Garden" style cemeteries in Europe were developed in the nineteenth century and the best examples are in Paris where monuments to the dead span hundreds of acres and are like cities with tomb-lined, street-like walkways. Those tombs are as big as houses with elaborate decorations rivaling that of palaces or stately homes. For someone who has been fascinated by death since a child, it was the ultimate tourist experience!

With my recent readings I discovered the tomb of Croce-Spinelli and Sivel in Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. I have been to Pere Lachaise, but don't recall this sculpture. The back story fascinates me. Three French men in 1875 set out in a hot air balloon to break ascension records. They knew they would need oxygen at high levels, but were unaware of the consequences of oxygen deprivation. They became incoherent and, therefore, unable to use their oxygen contraptions in time. Two of them died and the third lived to tell the tale. This, however, isn't the most interesting aspect of their story. The two men who died were buried together and their stone effigies are holding hands. Granted, today homosexuality is much more accepted, but this was back in the 1800s. The French are known for being more open-minded about sex of any kind so maybe I shouldn't be surprised. It would be interesting to know what the reception was at the time of the unveiling of the sculpture. Who ordered and paid for the monument? Today people leave flowers in their linked hands.
 
In a tiny town about an hour's drive away is an even tinier cemetery that includes the family burial plot for my great grandparents and their nine children.


 
The only person not buried here is their sixth child, my grandfather, who wanted to be buried next to my mother. When I was younger I thought his decision was a dishonor to his family, but my grandfather assured me my mother wanted to be buried in her hometown and he considered this a convenience since he would be close enough to visit her grave regularly. His sacrifice speaks to his love for her. I'm surprised my mother doesn't have a huge tomb with crying angels hanging around it. In fact, her gravestone is fairly standard, bland, and very American.

No monuments here. Just square slabs of boredom. Blah.
This style of cemetery is call a "memorial cemetery".
Very popular in America.


Through tidbits of family stories I have forged a connection with one distant aunt and uncle in the Little Falls Cemetery.


 
My aunt Carrie was hit by a train. Details were never given only poor Carrie was young and childless. (In my grandparents' time, "childless" was used as a metaphor for "failed to live life to the fullest." It was always my plan to be childless so I always resented this assumption. Procreation not the only way to live a full life.) This obscure chapter of family history was never discussed. She was walking at the time. That's all I know. What were the circumstances? Why was she walking in front of a train? I wish I knew more. I have a photograph of the whole family posed in front of their farm house. In it Carrie is twelve years old. I always think of her as twelve years old so it's always surprising to me to see her gravestone and remember she was thirty-five when she died. Still too young.

Sorry it's so blurry. The portrait is quite large and backed on stiff cardboard
so it doesn't fit on my photocopier. See Cap the dog?

My great uncle lived for eighty years in the same, tiny town right up until the day he died. He never married and had no children. I have several photos of him. He's sixteen years old in the family portrait. This was an era when smiling or showing emotion in a photo wasn't appropriate so to see his huge grin and the glimmer in his eye suggests he was up to something. His brother standing next to him in the back row has the same devious look. Something was going on!

Another is a studio portrait of him when he is about 20 years old with the typical, turn-of-the-century accouterments suggesting social class and status: furniture, a book, backdrop and curtains. It was taken just before he signed up for military duty in World War I.
Again, I apologize for the blur. It's in a frame.

The third is a photograph of him with his best friend:


They might be holding hands? I don't know. Again, I wish I knew more details. I remember taking food to him with my grandfather when I was a child right before he died. Although he was quite self-reliant, living in his own house and able to get around by walking very slowly, I remember feeling badly for him for being so old and not having any children to take care of him. I thought it was wrong he was so alone. I thought someone needed to clean his house. I really liked that my grandfather, his younger brother, was helping him. Eighty years is a long time. Why don't I know more about him? How can a life that long be so easily forgotten? I have his portrait hanging on my wall. He deserves to be remembered by someone.

I find it fascinating how easily and quickly people are forgotten after they die. In most cases, unless the person did something astounding, celebratory, or in some way memorable, they disappear after a generation or two. If they were childless perhaps sooner. My mother had two children and as long as we live, she is remembered, but her grandchildren never knew her and have no memories to extend her existence.  I know few details about the lives of either my aunt or uncle. Like them I am also childless and I expect I will be quickly forgotten so our common fate is our bond. This mortality check is a constant reminder of my current isolation. Will I be remembered by anyone a year after I die, let alone a generation? If no one knows me in my self-imposed exile and isolation, do I really exist? What will I leave behind? What is my legacy?

While I was visiting the tiny town I stopped in a newly established antique store. The owner and I got to talking about a portrait she had of a woman from the nineteenth century. She bought it in a garage sale, but hoped someone in the area would recognize the woman. I told her I doubt it as that's what happens to portraits when there is no one left in the family to keep them. The family stories are lost and the photographs end up in a yard sale or worse, at the garbage dump. It makes me sad to see the portraits of someone's relatives being sold at a yard sale. That's the great thing about stone memorials. It's a normal person's opportunity for some immortality.

Cemeteries weren't created for the dead. They are for the living so that those of us in mourning have a place to go to express it. The "garden" cemetery is a relatively modern concept as mass graves on the outskirts of town were the rage prior to the nineteenth century, unless, of course, you were wealthy. Grave markers and tombstones represent memories and serve as reminders of a life lived, but only for those left behind who have those memories. I think that's why I like grave stones with sculptures, poems, epitaphs, reliefs, etchings or other biographical clues. I've often thought it would be fun to have a monumentally naked woman crying in agony over my dead body so those who didn't know me would at least ponder who I was. Oh, she must have been important! Or maybe just rich? Now that I'm older, practical, and less romantic I think I'd rather be cremated and have my ashes thrown into the ocean to float away into non-existence.





Saturday, April 12, 2014

It's Spring. Finally. Where is My Master Gardener?

I've started my gardening ritual: removing winter weeds, pouring slug bait on everything, trimming plants, and general cleaning. It's weird without Peter hopping around pretending to help. It feels very quiet. There seems to be more weeds and his former trails are no longer maintained. Of course. Constant reminders he gone. If I think about it too much I feel sad. So I don't. At the same time I must admit, it's much easier to negotiate the gardens without chicken wire protecting everything from his voracious appetite.

 
I hung my fake hornet's nests, too. As I was attaching one to the garden shed I noticed the roof is starting to get squishy in places. It's old. I guess I'll need to replace the roof. There is a step to the front door made from a huge block of wood. It's been rotting for years, but too heavy for me to move. As I'm poking the roof of the garden shed checking for rot, I gave the step a good, quick kick. It fell apart. I'm surprised I could still step on it without it collapsing. So I took a hammer, donned fashionable, yet protective eye wear, and pulverized it into small, rotting pieces.

Even this reminded of Peter as the hole to his Under-The-Garden-Shed condo was right next to the step. I had blocked it with a large stone to keep predators out in case Peter had indeed died under there. I also reminisced about the wool sweater I sat next to the hole one night that disappeared by morning. I was pretty sure Peter drug it under the shed to use for a bed which was my intention. I hoped it would keep him warm. When the rotten step was removed, I thought I should look under to see if I could see anything. I couldn't. Something was in the way.

I found Peter. He had made a nice little bed for himself of old rabbit fur and grass...and an old brown sweater. He looks like he died in his sleep. Very peaceful.

Sigh.