Saturday in Napa

Yes, I know we’ve been home a week already, but I needed to think about how to best convey the utter perfection of our second day in Napa, and these things take time to percolate. Plus, the hustle & bustle of real life intervened, so there’s been a mountain of laundry, baseball games, homework, and errands aplenty since our return from the Golden State. Then there were some humorous interruptions, like Payton’s poker face (or utter lack thereof) and a couple of doctor appointments forcing themselves to the head of the blogging queue. Couple all of that with the arrival of our dear friends from Boston for their semi-annual visit, and you get a better idea of why this little blog has been neglected. Never fear, it is back to business now.

I’m not quite ready to let go of the Napa trip. So much of what I blog about is yucky stuff–cancer, infection, surgeries, drug therapy, and assorted pain & suffering–so when I have a lovely topic, like a trip to Napa, I’m gonna milk it for all its worth. Then maybe milk it some more.

If I still write about the trip and continue to post pictures, it lives on in the forefront of my memory and isn’t yet consigned to the dusty, slideshow status of trips gone by, and it doesn’t quite get crowded out by the workaday stuff that has to get done around here to keep this household running. Our long weekend in Napa to celebrate one of my BFF’s entries into the “Over 40 Club” was the stuff that legends are made of (at least in my mind). It was a celebration of Yvonne’s 40 years on this Earth, and for me, a smaller celebration of life finally, at long last, returning to some semblance of normal after a long, unpleasant, bumpy ride.

Which brings us to Saturday, Day Two in Napa. Friday, Day One in Napa, had been what I thought was the perfect day in Wine Country, but Saturday was even better.

Before I get into the nitty-gritty details, let me share two of my favorite photos from the preceding days. This one  is from Thursday afternoon at the Franciscan in San Francisco, before we left the Bay City for Wine Country. It’s a fave because The Birthday Girl had arrived to start the party-filled weekend, because we’re surrounded by great wine & yummy food, and because it was a harbinger of all the fun times to come. We were still waiting on the rest of our crew to arrive, but we went ahead and got the party started.

This was at Silver Oak on Friday, where we met the infamous Walter, who will live forever in our memories of Napa. In fact, if I recall correctly, the infamous Walter took this very photo. Just after this photo, we moved on from Silver Oak to Quintessa, and the day just kept getting better and better.

But back to Saturday. The day began with mimosas and a bloody mary to toast The Birthday Girl at breakfast. I mentioned before that this was the best-ever bloody mary, and I stand by that claim. Wish I had one right now. But I’m drying out, so that would be inappropriate.

After breakfast Saturday morning, we grabbed to-go cups and hustled outside to meet our ride and the rest of our merry party. While these aren’t exactly Texas-sized to-go cups (or “roaders” as we like to call a drink on the go), they certainly were tasty and really, who needs a Big Gulp when you’re off to taste a hundred wines in one of the best places on Earth? As delicious and festive as those bloody marys were, I’m glad I wasn’t confronted with the dilemma of having a refill to say no to; that would have been tricky.

We were off to Quixote, my favorite of all the wineries we visited. Suffice to say that if our trip had ended after the visit to Quixote, I would have been satisfied. The fact that it didn’t was icing on the cake. Or an extra olive in the bloody mary. I will write about Quixote soon; need to sort through the photos and do it justice. For now, know that it was phenomenal in every way.

None of us really wanted to leave Quixote, and once we were ready to shove off, we were delayed a bit while our driver borrowed a toolbox from Quixote to remove the limo seats to retrieve a fallen iPad. Once that was done and we packed into the car, we headed to Mumm, on the suggestion of Robert, our tour guide at Quixote. He did not lead us astray. Like all of the wineries we visited, Mumm is gorgeous. Stunning views and beautiful flowers everywhere. And the champagne–did I mention that? My favorite drink, being produced in plentitude. Ahhhh. Happy girl.

We hadn’t scheduled an appointment, and Mumm was bustling and busy on that beautiful Saturday, so we each ordered a glass off the tasting menu and strolled the grounds.I’m not sure where I was in this shot, but hopefully I had a glass in my  hand. I might have been in the restroom, checking out the great quotes on the walls, like this one from Bette Davis:

And this one from economist John Maynard Keynes:

Or I might have been mesmerized by this display in the gift shop:

Also in the gift shop was a small shrine to Carlos Santana, who we had seen the previous day at Silver Oak. He’s a regular around there, and Mumm had a signed guitar, a couple pieces of Santana-inspired artwork, and his own vintage of bubbly.

The patio at Mumm was beautiful, overlooking the vista of the vineyard. The weather was perfect, with blue skies, abundant sunshine, and cool breezes. 

There’s also a small art gallery at Mumm, with rotating exhibits. The day we were there it featured black & white photos of “then & now” shots of all sorts of people. Siblings as kids then as grown-ups. Mamas holding babies, then grandmas holding their generation’s next generation. Cool.

After Mumm, we headed back to V Sattui for picnic provisions and ate a quick lunch before our appointment at Stag’s Leap.

The wines at Stag’s Leap were not my favorite. In fact, of the 7 tastings they poured, I didn’t finish any of them. It was still a lot of fun, and being in the tasting room while the rest of the visitors milled around the common area was nice. We had a place to sit while we dissected the wine, and a chance to catch our breath before moving on. 

With our visits to Quixote, Mumm, and Stag’s Leap, we were done with tastings for the day and headed back to our hotels to get ready for dinner at Bottega. Just in case the day hadn’t been perfect enough, we still had a fantastic dinner to look forward to. Rest assured that dinner lived up to its expectations. Being at the chef’s table toasting The Birthday Girl with wines chosen from our tour will forever be one of my all-time favorite things.

The day was indeed perfect. Every bit of it was just plain perfect. Each winery we visited offered something different, and while Quixote was my favorite, by a lot, I enjoyed the others, too. And as if the wine wasn’t good enough, there was the uninterrupted time with great friends, gorgeous scenery and beautiful weather, and for me, freedom from cancer and its messy aftermath. Now that’s a great day.


Pics, as promised

I really missed my easy access to photos and images while posting from the road. Even though I had several tech-savvy traveling companions, there wasn’t time to set up a functional blogging station (or at least, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice wine-drinking time to getting techy). I had to make do with the cranky iPad, but now that I’m home and plugged in, I no longer have to rely solely on my words to portray the utter fabulousness of our trip to Napa.

The trip got off to a great start with an upgrade and Vueve Cliquot while awaiting our flight out of Houston. I love, love, love my seat assignment of row 1. And if there’s anything I love more than drinking Vueve at 8:00 in the morning at the airport, I can’t think what it is. Some of you who know me well have asked if both of those glasses were for me, and sadly, no one was Trevor’s but he was taking the picture so I didn’t try to steal his glass. Thought about it, though.

Before we got to Napa, we spent some time in San Francisco. Trevor and I arrived before the group gathered at the hotel, so after we checked in we explored the wharf area. A very reliable foodie couple recommended we eat at the Tadich Grill in the Financial District. It’s the oldest restaurant in all of San Francisco, which has no shortage of eateries.

Been in business since 1849, when it started as a coffeeshop. A Croatian immigrant named John Tadich worked at the coffeeshop after coming to San Fran in 1872, and he bought the place in 1887 and renamed it. It’s said to be the first restaurant to grill seafood over mesquite wood, starting that yummy tradition in the 1920s. So glad they thought of it, and that the practice made its way to The Lone Star State.

We walked to Tadich Grill, which I mentioned in a post last week, to find out if they truly do have the best cioppino in the city. The answer: yes. 

Hell, yes.

I could devote an entire blog to this bowl of stew. But I won’t.

This was by far the best ever. Especially after a long plane ride that started early. Especially after a 1.5 mile walk in cold, windy weather. Especially with some hot, fresh, crusty sourdough bread. San Francisco is known for its sourdough, and I tried it everywhere we went. Never had a bad piece, but this was some of the best. So good it didn’t even need butter. 

This scallop and its twin were floating in the tomato-based broth, minding their own business and likely oblivious to the fact that scallops are perhaps my all-time favorite food. I spied the two beauties and saved them for last. After the shrimps big & small, the whitefish, the mussels, the clams, and the crabs. Saved the best for last. And they did not disappoint. I’ve eaten a bunch of their friends over the years, and I can easily say they were the cream of the crop. I miss them. A lot.

Trevor had another yummy dish: shrimp and avocado mixed with rice and covered in a creamy sauce then broiled to a cheesy, bubbly state of bliss. The shrimp and avocado combined with the creaminess of the sauce made for one scrumptious combination. It didn’t sound all the special on the menu, but it came together to be pretty spectacular. Too bad the photo isn’t all that spectacular. It’s probably blurry because I couldn’t wait to tuck back into my cioppino.

On the walk to Tadich, we passed many restaurants, including one that claims to be the best Indian food in San Francisco (a ballsy claim, I’d say), and lots of shops. It’s always interesting to get to know a bustling, pedestrian-friendly urban area, since it’s very different from the life we lead in our SUV-driven suburbs. Pun intended. One shop we passed caught our attention because of the smell wafting out of its doors: buttery, brown-sugary, and mouthwatering. Ahh, a candy shop. Trevor vowed to hit it after lunch, and I’m glad he did. He chose some handmade fudge and we picked up some stuff for the kids, then noticed the source of the amazing smell: homemade caramel corn.

In an old-fashioned popcorn popper. Popcorn is one of the few snacks I can take or leave, but this stuff was of a whole different order. We weren’t going to buy any because we’d already ordered the fudge and were stuffed from lunch, but the heavily-inked salesman threw in a gratis bag, probably because I asked him a lot of questions about his tattoos and he assumed they were of the admiring sort of inquiry. I was really just curious to learn if the tattoo on his lip hurt when he got it. Yes, in fact, it did.

Candy in hand, we said adios to the tattooed candy man and headed back to the wharf. The caramel corn made it a few blocks.

After a short respite, The Birthday Girl arrived, so we hoofed it down to the wharf to meet her and Thad at The Franciscan, a huge, white boat-shaped restaurant overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf and sporting the best view of the water.  

We arrived before the crowds so were able to get a table with a view, and we soaked it in. Diana and Celeste, two more of our group, were already there enjoying the view and a snack. It was time for wine! We ordered a yummy bottle of Sauvginon Blanc and toasted our safe arrival and our good fortune to be in the Bay City, drinking wine and watching the maritime world go by.

Trevor and I were the only ones who had eaten, so the other 4 ordered some good stuff: a sizzling plate of crab legs, mussels and shrimp all perfectly seasoned on their cast-iron platter. It was similar to the sizzling fajitas platter that we all know & love in Texas — the sizzle gets the other diners’ attention, and the smell makes them think they ordered the wrong thing.

Once Lisa & Larry arrived, our group was almost complete, but since Jill & Keith weren’t landing until 10 pm, we went on to dinner without them. We needed 2 cabs to get from the wharf to the restaurant, and the girls all piled in the first cab to stop. That poor cabby was overwhelmed. At first he said he could only take 4, but we had 5 and didn’t want to split up, so we talked him into it. We “buddy buckled” 4 of us in the back, with Celeste in front to keep the driver company. We crested some of the city’s highest hills and squealed all the way down as if we were on a roller coaster. Our driver did not regret picking us up one bit, I’m sure; probably the wildest ride of his night. Sushi at the hip & happening Ryoko was delicious, and the place itself was unusual. Kind of a cross between a bedouin palace and a Japanese tea house, with funky music and chill people. We sat on cushions and ate at a low table. They serve sushi and beer until 2 a.m. but we had to get back to the hotel and drink champagne and await the arrival of Team Cremer.

The Birthday Girl had a conference room adjoining her hotel room, so with sushi-filled bellies we gathered there, ready to party. The bubbly was chilled and the music was loud. I’m sure the neighboring guests smiled happily at our raucous celebration. If anyone called to complain, we didn’t hear them. Once Team Cremer arrived, the party was complete. Because we had an early start to Napa in the morning, we shut it down around midnight.

Saying good-bye to San Francisco wasn’t too hard because we were on to bigger & better. Well, smaller & better. Or maybe equally good but different.

We checked into our Napa hotel and were greeted with the most friendly of things: a champagne cocktail. They must have heard I was coming. Yum! Normally, I like my champagne straight, and will even ask for my mimosas without the OJ. But this was delicious. A hint of lime syrup to complement, not overwhelm, the bubbly and a flower-shaped lime-peel garnish made for a perfect start to our visit to Napa. I meant to ask the bartender to tell me exactly how it is made, but we got busy heading to our first winery, and then I realized that even if I had the recipe, it wouldn’t be the same at home so I need to leave it where it is: in the rolodex section of my brain reserved for the fondest memories.

The flower-shaped lime-peel garnish was a harbinger of things to come: there were flowers everywhere in Napa. As we drove into town, I noticed huge hanging baskets of flowers on the streetlamps. I always love seeing that as it lends such beauty and serene feelings to a city street.

Our hotel had gorgeous gardens, from perfectly composed splashes of colorful perennials to lush greenery and everything in between. The poppies were my favorite. I’ve tried to grow them in my garden, but they don’t like the Texas heat as much as the Napa dappled sunshine. The Villagio had poppies in the most beautiful colors: yolky yellow, coral, delicate pink, and bold red.

I’m a sucker for flowers.

The wisteria-covered walkways were gorgeous, too. Walking underneath a canopy of green and smelling the unique scent of those fun purple flowers never got old. Reminded Trevor and me of the old Schlumberger building in Austin.

Most of the wineries had beautiful arrangements inside, too. This was my favorite, from Quintessa. The size was impressive, and the colors spoke to me. The forsythia was the best, though, because it reminds me of Big Ed, who loved that flowering shrub, because it screams “springtime!” and because of a funny story.

My Aunt Sophia’s sister Polly, may she rest in peace, was at our house a few years ago when we had received a gorgeous cut flower arrangement. It had tall branches of blooming forsythia and Polly told me that once the cut flowers were dead, I could stick the forsythia branches in the ground and they would grow. I thought that sounded kinda dubious, but decided to try it. What’s the worst that could happen — they didn’t take and I had a dead plant in the ground? 

Well, Polly was right. Here’s what those few ornamental branches look like now.

If she were here now, she would have every right to say “I told you so!”

That handful of branches turned into a full-blown tree. It anchors the far right corner of our back fence, near where the pool floats are stored. That tree provides some shade in our little backyard oasis, and its delicate foliage sways gracefully in the breezes. We have to hack it back every year, as it grows quite forcefully. I guess it likes its new home.

But back to the flowers of Napa. This was our first view of our hotel and its beautiful grounds. The fountain out front is ringed with colorful flowers: the poppies I love, tulips, daffodils, dianthus, and primrose in every color.

Such a lovely site, and I never got tired of seeing it. We were sometimes rushing to and from the hotel, to hop in the limo to start the day, or staggering out of it at the end of our tastings, but I savored the site of those flowers nonetheless.

The rest of the hotel grounds were equally stunning, and not just the flowers; there were some cool sculpture pieces. This was my favorite. She looks likes she found just the right spot in the soft grass just off the beaten path between rooms. She was about halfway between our room and Thad & Yvonne’s room, so we passed her several times and she was peaceful yet full of presence every time. I can really understand why she likes hanging around this place so much.


I heart Napa

All right people, I’m slumming it by typing this post on the cranky iPad in the interregnum between a full day of drinking and before dinner at Bouchon, so please bear with any typos, nonsequiters, or other nonsense. I’m usually a bit of a stickler for nun-style adherence to spelling & grammatical rules, but not today. think I’ve mentioned in this space just how important this trip to Wine Country was for me; not just because I’m a big-time wino but also because I needed concrete proof that the cancer, infection, and hospital mess is behind me.

Well, the proof is in the pudding, and in this case the pudding really is a wine glass. I am beyond thrilled to have made the trip, and it is shaping up to fantastic. Great friends, gorgeous scenery, the most yummy food, plentiful wine, outstanding weather, and a Russian limo driver, “Mike,” who never once laughed out loud at our idiocracy. I think he secretly liked our iTunes playlists that we blasted all day. Everything from Earth Wind & Fire to Eminem to whoever sings “Brick House” to Nelly to the Eagles. good stuff.</p

Really good stuff.

We started the day with all 10 of us, and our luggage, crammed into the limo. And when I say “crammed,” I mean it. We’re lucky we didn’t have to strap suitcases to the roof. Our first stop was to jettison some of the luggage at our various resorts, and we were quite disciplined in not drinking in the limo (but quickly made up for lost time). We had already driven past Domaine Carneros, which was going to be our first stop, so instead of wasting precious imbibing time by doubling back, we went to Chandon for some bubbly refreshment. Sitting on the patio at the beautiful winery overlooking the hillside of Napa in the sunshine with great friends and a magnum of Chandon was the best way to start our tour of Wine Country.

From there we skedaddled to V Sattui for picnic provisions and yes, more wine. Set 10 hungry, buzzed friends loose in an upscale food shop and watch the food magic happen. We had crusty baguettes, cheeses crumbly and creamy, a fig & olive spread, roasted vegetables, pesto pasta salad, some kind of gross salami for the carnivores, marinated sun dried tomatoes, salt & vinegar potato chips, Greek olives, and giant peanut butter cookies dipped in dark chocolate. Oh, and some wine.

Yes, of course we had more wine.

We filled our bellies then heeded our summon from “Mike” the driver to stay on schedule for our reservation at Silver Oak. We tasted 3 reds and enjoyed the lesson from our 23-year-old docent Walter. Yes, that really was his name. He was a lot of fun, and has the most intenseli ice-blue eyes, and we had a great time. The view from that winery was a sight to behold. Literally. We all paused and took it in. I have photos but can’t upload them on the cranky iPad, so hang on and use your imagination for now.

After Silver Oak we hit Quintessa for a tour with Lori, who wasn’t as cute as Walter but lucky for her, the winery and its products blew the doors off Silver Oak. We looked at the machinery, vats & barrels, then went into the cave for the cave tour. Wow. Oh wow. Incredible. And we hadn’t even had any of the wine yet.

Lori escorted us to a room off the reception area with a long, rectangular wood table filled with candles and place settings of 3 glasses of red: a 2007, a 2006, and a 2005 — all Cabernet, all incredibly delicious. A small but scrumptious cheese plate was the perfect partner for these sublime wines. We thought that was as good as it could get, until Lori brought out glasses of the 2009 Sauvignon Blanc. OMG. I’m not a big consumer of white wine, but this Savvy B could convince me otherwise. What an unforgettable experience.

We filed back into the limo and drank in the scenery, watching
the verdant rolling hills and endless, orderly stretches of grapevines with appreciation and contentment. While our tours & tastings were over and our bellies were full, we nonetheless stopped at a wine shop to get a few bottles of bubbly to take to dinner. One of the highlights of the trip was pulling up to the limo to the bustling shopping area, Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” blaring, and the hoi polloi gawping to see if anyone famous was getting out of that limo. We tumbled out, laughing& singing, and told the looky-loo crowd to go on about their business because Fergie was not getting out of the limo. I think they bought it. Good story.

That shopping trip complete, we headed to our hotels for a little R&R (and sobering up) before dinner. Lo and behold, our hotel, the gorgeous Villagio Inn, had its own tasting right there waiting for us. We needed more wine like we needed a hole in the head, but it was too good tom pass up, so we had a terrific Hall Savvy B and Cabernet, along with more out-of-this world cheese crackers, figs, etc. The cheese in California is making me so very happy.

Now that we’ve rested and fueled up with our in-room espressos, we are ready to hit Bouchon for more food and wine. Then we’re gonna do it all again tomorrow. Ahhh, this is the life!


1 week ago today…

I was out cold in the OR, having unspeakably nasty things done to my body to restore the damage wreaked by the post-mastectomy infection. Whew!

The first couple of days of week 1 are pretty hazy, thanks to my BFF morphine. Love that stuff. But my BFF knows its proper place, and we have short but infrequent get-togethers. This time around, my BFF gave me a terrible headache, which was quite rude, so I bid adieu to the pain pump as fast as I could.

Let’s start from the beginning. Or as much of it as I can remember. Readers, feel free to chime in when you notice I’ve left something out. We got to the Medical Center on time (6 a.m.) and I got right into my pre-surgery room. My beautiful gown and compression stockings were waiting for me, but I waited until the very last minute to don them. After some precursory steps, like accessing my port for the administration of the really gooood drugs, a gaggle of white coats entered the room.

Dr Spiegel led the way, with her PA Jenn next, followed by their resident, Dr McNight, then my favorite plastic surgeon. He was the only guy in the room. Yahoo, girl power! He had a cool wooden box in his hand and when I asked if it was a present for me he gave me one of his looks. Someday he’ll appreciate my humor. Inside the box was not a present, but his loupes, which sadly he didn’t offer to model. I’d love to see him in a pair of goofy glasses.

Dr Spiegel and Jenn started marking my belly and I’m so mad I didn’t think to take a photo because it was cool. They used a blue sharpie for arteries, a red sharpie for blood vessels, and a black sharpie for incision lines. Lots of arrows and lines later, there was a roadmap of sorts. Very cool. At one point, Dr Spiegel wasn’t happy with an incision mark so she had Dr McNight scrub it off my belly with alcohol and re-do it with the black marker.

After that it was time to head to the OR, and they must have given me a cocktail in the pre-surgery room, because I don’t recall anything after the sharpie party. When I woke up, some 8 hours later, I felt pretty good…but it was because I was wrapped in the loving embrace of some big-time anesthesia. Dr Ashmore, my hand-picked anesthesiologist, did a fantastic job of putting me to sleep, and more importantly, waking me back up. It was good and restful.

I’m not too sure about whether I was in a recovery room or went straight to the ICU, but once I got to ICU I recall that it was HOT. And I’m a Texas girl, so I know about some heat. The docs had warned me that the room would be warm, to help my newly transplanted blood vessels learn to regulate themselves in their new northern home. But wow, was it hot. Between the high temp, the two heaters, and the squeezing of the compression hose, I was roasting. I tried to be nice about it, and I think I only lost it once, when I begged one of the ICU nurses, probably Carol, to please please please just crack the door and let some AC in. Just for a second. She declined my request.

I spent the night in ICU, but thankfully the flaps, aka former belly skin & fat that were magically transformed into breasts, behaved and there was no drama (other than me begging Carol to crack the door, turn down one heater, turn up the thermostat or bring me a gallon-sized frozen margarita). The flaps had to be checked every hour, yes every hour, with a hand-held doppler. There were (until yesterday) some wires stitched on top of my chest that somehow transmitted audible sound of the blood rushing through my newly transplanted blood vessels through the doppler. It sounded a lot like a fetal heart monitor. And we heard it a lot. My flaps were cooperative, and the nurses were able to hear the blood rushing almost instantly after putting the doppler onto my chest. One nurse told me that sometimes it took 20 minutes to find the sound. I started to panic after a few seconds of not hearing it, so can’t imagine the size margarita I would need if it took 20 minutes to register.

The ICU room had a wall of windows with mini blinds, and the nurse was right outside the door at a desk looking into my room if not attending to her one other patient. Some people might think that would make you feel very safe and catered to, but it made it hard to sneak anything by her because she was always watching. If she wasn’t watching, somebody else was walking by. It was a constant parade of doctors, residents, nurses, PCAs and other people peeping into my room.

I got released from ICU after some really delicious jello and a contraband peanut butter & jelly sandwich (liquid diet…pffft) into a regular room on the 8th floor of Dunn Tower. Lovely view out the window of the heart of the Texas Medical Center, and more importantly, no heaters. It wasn’t exactly chilly in the new room, but so much better than the ICU room. Nevertheless, I did beg to have the tight, scratchy, hot compression stockings removed. Those nurses were not swayed by my shameless begging.

Apparently the docs were pretty pleased with their handiwork, and if you missed Trevor’s and Amy’s guest blogs while I was too loopy to post, go back and take a peek. Long story short, the flaps were cooperating, the morphine headache abated, some regular food arrived, and life rolled on. At some point they moved the flap checks to every two hours instead of hourly, which was mighty nice. It’s amazing how your perspective changes in a situation like that. After umpteen hours with no food, a simple PB&J was a delicacy. After being awake most of the night, a short cat-nap seemed a decadent luxury.

I’m sure I said some goofy stuff and probably offended someone at some point with my off-color humor. Apparently I channeled my mom, too, telling my friend Laura who works at Methodist and who visited me several times a day, “Thanks for dropping by.” Every time she came by. I was just being mannerly and didn’t realize I’d seen her a few hours previous.

There are conflicting reports on how the turf war between the Drs S played out. All parties are being quite cagey on the details of who did what part of the surgery, and like a good murder mystery, we may never know who real killer was. I have my suspicion, but even asking point-blank hasn’t garnered an answer, so we may have to label that information “permanently classified.”

I did get to skate out of the hospital a few days ahead of schedule, and even though I received impeccable care, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Coming home is always sweet, but never as sweet as when I’m leaving a hospital room.

I have more mobility than I did after the mastectomy, but not as much as I’d like. The first few times I had to get up without using my arms but relying on my legs and abs, the hip-to-hip incision on my tummy protested mightily. But it got better every time, and now I do it almost without thinking about it. Almost. I still can’t walk completely upright because the incision is still very tight, but I’m not quite the Quasimodo I was in the hospital. I get a bit straighter every day.

I came home with 6 JP drains this time, and had to upgrade my VB sling bag to a bigger VB bag that could accommodate the drain party. I knew from last time around that 4 drains fit nicely, with a little extra room for my Blistex, some folding money, and a teeny ziplock bag of pills, should they be necessary. Six drains would have burst my handy little bag right open. Wonder how many drains this lady is toting in her VB bags?

I had my first real shower today, not counting the seated variety the hospital offers. Again, it’s the little things we take for granted. I’m down to just 2 drains and back to my sling bag, thanks to Jenn removing the 4 drains up top yesterday. She gave me a good report; everything looks good and is healing nicely. 

While I feel a whole lot better and am ready to get back to normal, my handlers think one week post-op is a bit premature to jump right back into the day-in, day-out routine. I am trying to take it easy. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m back to one outing a day for a while, and sadly, a doctor’s appointment counts as an outing. Yesterday I had a small entourage escort me to see Jenn, and we had a bite of lunch (sans margaritas) beforehand. The handlers insisted on snapping a photo of this maiden voyage, and there was some talk of me earning a margarita for every device I had removed at the subsequent appointment. Between the two doppler wires and the 4 JP drains, somebody owes me 6 margaritas. No salt.

Although I complain about going to the med center, there’s always something interesting to see along the way. Getting out of the suburbs is a good thing, and there’s a whole ‘nother way of life in this big city of ours. Last time I was at the med center for some testing, I saw this car and had to take a picture, to show Macy. I knew this car would appeal to her:

She loved the polka dots and said she’d like to have that car, then she saw the back and said forget it. Fickle.

Yesterday on the way home from the med center, I saw this:

and had to snap a picture. Yes, it is a zebra car, complete with a long tail. Gotta love the big city.


Happy Fat Tuesday!

Well, lately every day had been fat whatever-day around here in the Weight Gain 4000 pursuit of more belly fat for the docs to use to build my new boobs, so today being the official Fat Tuesday finds me in healthful not gorgeful mode. My effort in the last few months to gain a few lbs so the Drs S had plenty to work with was a huge (pun intended) success. I need to write a thank you letter to Shock Top beer, as the deliciously craveable wheat beer helped me reach my fat-ass goals. And now I’ve got a flatter tummy but fatter ass, for sure, but the beer is delicious enough to say who cares? If I drink enough of them, I don’t even care about my backside. And really, who’s going to be looking at the backside when there’s now actually something to look at on the front side? After 10 months of nothing but flatness from clavicle to belly button, there’s now something to actually look at on the front side. So there.

Anyhoo, back to Fat Tuesday. I don’t know much about it beyond it being a great day to overindulge in food & drink (a wonderful pasttime, I must say), and prepare for the much less fun but symbolic Lenten season. I did not know that “Mardi Gras” is French for “Fat Tuesday,” but if you think about foie gras it makes sense. Kind of. Or as much sense as anything French actually makes, but that’s just my opinion. Actually, thinking about foie gras makes this vegetarian girl kinda nauseated, so let’s move on. And you can thank me for not linking the PETA video of how the ducks get fat enough to make the foie gras. Eek. Let’s move on, shall we?

For our own Fat Tuesday, we have a king cake, complements of Christy (thanks, friend!). There’s something irresistible about the festive colored sugar on the frosting, and I can see why it’s a staple of Mardi Gras celebrations. We were lucky enough to have a homemade version in the Cremers’ kitchen a while back, and wow, was it good.

As if the king cake weren’t enough, we also have a very special treat this Fat Tuesday.

Locals readers, I know you recognize this box….

And you know that only good things come out of a Maureen’s Bakery box. Really good things.

If you live anywhere in the Sugar Land vicinity and have not been to Maureen’s, please for the love of all things sugar-loaded and frosting-drenched, get in your car and go now. Don’t even finish reading this post; you can get back to it once you have some deliciousness in your hands. Crumbs on the keyboard are a natural state, so get there and get yourself some Maureen’s.

The frosted sugar cookies at Maureen’s are one of my all-time favorite things ever in the world. Right up there with world peace and golden retriever puppies. Love them. Don’t indulge very often, though; maybe once every 3 years, because I do sincerely fear a diabetic coma. Maureen’s website doesn’t even mention the sugar cookies, nor does it feature a photo, because the place might seriously be mobbed and people could get hurt. So if you readers take my advice and drop everything to go there now for a cookie, please, use your manners. Don’t push & shove. Wait your turn and if the cookies are all gone by the time you get to the front of the line, then you have my permission to chase someone down in the parking lot and club them over the head and take their cookies. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

The other thing that Maureen’s makes that will make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven is petit fours. Oh mercy, are they good.  “Club someone over the head” good. Boss Lady Staci was kind enough to bring the coveted white box into my house yesterday, and I can’t stop thinking about the contents. There were 6, even though the photo only shows 4. Don’t do the math. Really, it’s best for everyone if you don’t.

If I ever had to choose between a Maureen’s sugar cookie and petit four, I would be in a serious quandry or, as my mom used to say, “a world of hurt.” I guess I’d do what I do when confronted with the choice of Maureen’s petit fours in chocolate or vanilla. Normally, I am not a chocolate cake kind of girl. Don’t know why, because I like chocolate in other forms, but not cake. However, after being schooled by Jill Cremer in the fine art of Maureen’s petit fours, I realize that not only do I like that chocolate cake, I don’t have to choose between chocolate and vanilla: I have both.

See, there’s this magical process called division. Non-math people like me tend to shy away from those kinds of processes, but I must admit, these processes can come in handy. Like when you want a little bit of chocolate and a little bit of vanilla. You take a knife and cut one of each of those delicious petit fours in half, and eat half of the chocolate and half of the vanilla. Or half of the vanilla and half of the chocolate. Either way. Just don’t be tempted to shove the entire half in your mouth at once. These are to be savored. Coming from a “hurry up, I wanted it yesterday” kind of girl, you know it’s true.

So Staci brings some of each kind of petit four (thanks, girl!) yesterday, and it was like a little ray of sunshine in a partly-cloudy day. One of the great things about having longtime friends is that they know what you really like, and they know just when you really need a dose of that something. I’ve been so fortunate to have an abundance of great friends by my side in this “cancer journey” and sometimes it’s an embarrassment of riches, but one I’m happy to have.

Now here’s the funny part: Trevor and Macy were talking about the oh-so-delicious petit fours this morning, and he said something about how he hopes there’s a vanilla one left when he gets home from work. I suggested, in my bossy yet worldly about all things petit-four related way, that he set one aside in a Tupperware right then & there and hide it somewhere good, to ensure that it will be available when he wants it. That’s what I would do if I were in his situation.

Macy jumped right in and waved her index finger around, saying, “You think that’s how petit fours work? I’ll tell you how it works: I get them all.”

See why I have to hide things?


Away we go…

Of course I’m up early on my big surgery day…you didn’t think I would actually sleep until the alarm went off, throw on some clothes and jump in the car when I could post one last time, did you?

It’s 4:15 a.m. and we’re set to leave the house for the med center at 5:30 for my 6 a.m. arrival. I sure hope that when we pull up, Dr S and Dr Spiegel aren’t fighting it out about who gets to do which part of the surgery and who’s in charge of follow-up care. Of course they wouldn’t be, and I’m 100 percent sure that every aspect of this procedure has been planned, checked, and double-checked to ensure excellence will result.

The last few days have been a whirlwind, with last-minute preparations and socializing. Yesterday afternoon and evening, my phones both rang off the hook, with calls and texts full of good wishes and genuine love. Several people have asked if I can feel the love, and the answer is YES! And THANK YOU! A huge part of why I am going into this big ol’ surgery with such peace is knowing that my posse has got my back. I appreciate each and every one of you. If you happen to come to the hospital for a visit and see me wretching uncontrollably, don’t worry: I didn’t have too much champagne or margartitas. Coming out of the anesthesia tends to make me barfy. Don’t panic. It’ll pass. Last time around I puked in front of lots of visitors; the kids in the room thought it was neat.

Yesterday was another perfect day: my last tennis drill with my team was spectacular. Mid-seventies and sunny with just enough warmth to get a sweat going, and birds singing like crazy because it feels like springtime. I made some good shots and thoroughly enjoyed my teammates’ company. Love those girls.

Loved them extra hard after this: 

Surprise champagne in the back of Julie’s SUV after drill. We tailgated in high style. It was such a fun treat, and I adore you girls for having such a brilliant idea and for sending me off in the most perfect way. I will be counting down the days until I can get back on the court with you.  Meanwhile, Go Alley Cats! Beat Westheimer Indoors today. Hit it where they ain’t!

The rest of the day yesterday was fantastic. Busy, but fantastic. My dad arrived, and  he took Macy to the pet store to buy the daily allotment of crickets for Cincko. That little gecko is on a major growing tear and has been eating at least 12 crickets every day. My dad will be interrim assistant zookeeper while I’m out of commission, so Macy broke him in with on-the-job training right away.
We had our belated birthday dinner for Dad, after a bottle of Vueve Cliquot (yes, I know I had champagne twice yesterday; at the tennis courts and at dinner. Why do you think it was such a great day??). Our Tuesday night tradition of watching “The Biggest Loser” was fun, as always, and there’s something especially satisfying about watching that show after a most delicious dinner.

It was all going swimmingly until Macy‘s bedtime, when I went to tuck  her in and she started crying. The big, rolling tears that linger and pool in the eye before breaking free and trailing down her face. Her ginormous eyelashes were soaked and matted, and the look of utter desolation on her face made my heart crack right in two. She was trying to be brave, but that well of genuine emotion that makes her the astoundingly compassionate little girl she is came gushing out when it was time for her to tell me good-bye. She was trying to be brave, but struggling. We talked for a long time about how mommies always come back, and even when they’re away for a while, they carry their kiddos in their hearts. I told her about my favorite e.e. cummings poem, i carry your heart with me, and how the words can certainly apply to anyone you love, whether a pet or a friend or the most amazing little girl ever. We talked about how she wouldn’t get to talk to me today, but tomorrow I expected a phone call as soon as she got home from school, so she can tell me all about her day. She cheered up a little bit when I told her that I need her to be in charge around here, and help my dad find the jelly in the door of the refrigerator, stay on schedule when driving the carpool, etc. She is on the job. She sent me off with Baby Snoopy, one of her most prized stuffed animals, to take along with me for company. She’s thoughtful like that.

Payton was busy, busy ignoring a math project that’s due Thursday, so he didn’t have much to say in the way of good-bye. Not surprisingly, as he is a man of few words. He too has instructions to call me Thursday with a full report on his first Little League game of the season. I need to see how long it takes him to “lose” his Yankees hat and replace it with a Red Sox version. It’s hard enough on him to have his mom in the hospital, but to have to don the dreaded Yankees uniform too? Poor guy.

I’ll leave you with the “before” photos. Don’t worry, I won’t publish the “after” photos —  you may just have to see them in person.

This is one of my favorite tennis tops. I have it in at least 3 colors, maybe more. Wear it all the time, hence the funky tan lines. Every time I wear it, I notice how seriously flat my chest is. Maybe because of the “V” neck of the shirt, I don’t know. I’ve had this uber-flat chest since May 13 and am quite used to it. In fact, if not for the mess left by the post-mastectomy infection, I could have envisioned not doing reconstruction at all, or waiting a lot longer. But, the mess must be cleaned up, so away we go. And yes, my chest really is that flat in person…until tomorrow!


Leavin’ on a jet plane

I’m not really leaving on a plane and my bag isn’t packed yet, but as I ready myself, my home, my kids, & my life for the next round of surgery, I find the lyrics to that song running through my head. Peter, Paul & Mary; Janis Joplin; and John Denver all recorded versions of this sappy little love song, with its catchy yet insidious chorus that will get stuck in your head for half the day if you’re not careful. It’s meant to be an ode for lovers, and I’m usually immune to sappy stuff and odes, but with the big surgery rapidly approaching, I must be going soft because this goofy tune is reminding me how hard it is to leave my family, endure a nasty procedure, and be cooped up in a hospital room. I am a terrible patient. No truer words have been written.

I have written a lot about what a terrible patient I am. Not that I won’t do what needs to be done to get to where I need to be in this “cancer journey” but that I hate every minute of it. I’ve also written my fair amount of scathing posts lately about stupid things people say, so I won’t go there now, but suffice to say if you were planning on telling me that at least I’ll be getting some rest, or to enjoy being waited on, you can skip it. I don’t like to rest and I really don’t like having someone wait on me. As a determined two-year-old might say, “Me do it.”

As terrible as I am as a patient, though, I’m ready. I’m at the point in which I’ve prepared all I can, and whatever doesn’t get done will just have to wait. I’ve been a busy little bee lately, feathering my nest and gearing up for what I know will be a hideously gross surgery followed by a long recovery. This process is akin to getting ready for vacation: at first the list of things to do seems miles long, then time ticks on and the list is whittled, and then you become exhausted from and sick to death of all the prep and can’t wait to just get going. While I’m not exactly going on vacation (!), I am done with all the prep and ready to just get going.

I still haven’t watched the video consultation that explains and illustrates the surgery I’m having tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just use my imagination. You know it’s a big deal with you get 12 pages of pre-op instructions, followed by a 3-page alphabetized list of medicines to avoid.

One of my instructions is to shower with Hibiclens, an antimicrobial wash, for 3 days prior to surgery. No problem. You know what a germaphobe I am. Some of the other text from the informed consent section of the paperwork made me laugh out loud, especially the parts about who’s not really a good candidate for this surgery: women who require more complex breast reconstruction (what’s more complex than this surgery??). Women who are good candidates are those who have inadequate chest wall tissue (me); those who have concerns about breast implants or tissue expanders (I wasn’t too concerned but my body apparently is); and those who may have contracted a post-surgical infection. Yep, that’s me.

The literature then goes on to explain that infection is very unusual after surgery. Yeah, maybe for some people. And that patients must inform the doctor if she has any other infections, “such as ingrown toenail, insect bite or urinary infection.” A bug bite? Really??Oh, mercy, if only it were that simple. How I would love to say I have an ingrown toenail instead of a mycobacterium fortuitum.

There’s also a lot of scolding in the section on bleeding: “Increased activity too soon after surgery can lead to increased change of bleeding and additional surgery. It is important to follow all postoperative instructions and limit exercise and strenuous activity for the instructed time.” Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah.

Yesterday was a near-perfect day: I had a few hours at home to get things in order, then on to Beauty Envy to get the hot new shellac manicure. It’s supposed to last a couple or three weeks without chipping; we shall see. I’m not going to be doing any manual labor anytime soon, so the prognosis is good. Got my toes done, too, which is always nice. Even though my toenails are short as can be, they still take a mighty beating from tennis, but they are pink and shiny now. After the nails extravaganza, it was off to lunch to enjoy the sunshine and margaritas in the company of some first-rate girlfriends–a trifecta for sure. You can have your acai berries and super elixirs; for me, there’s nothing more fortifying than the sun on my face and a drink in my hand with my friends.

Today will be equally good with my last tennis drill of the season, then lunch with whichever members of the team are game for a little noontime tippling. I also gotta make a quick belated birthday meal for my dad, who recently turned 75 but looks a decade younger, easily (I’m hoping it’s genetic, but not very optimistic). I’m whipping up pastichio (Greek lasagna) and a pineapple upside-down cake, two of his favorites. He’ll be ferrying the kids to and fro and keeping up with Macy’s near-constant stream of chatter, so he’ll need a good meal. 

Speaking of Macy, she’s at it again: leaving me a note to find when I least expect it but am most likely to need a little pick-me-up. She’s a little apprehensive about me going back for more surgery, but the long summer of me and revolving hospital door must have toughened her up because instead of being sad she’s curious (which hospital? how long will you be there? can we come visit?) and stoic.

She needs a little work on the spelling (I assume that “Your asomest chid” means “Your awesome-est child”) and “Hopefuley” she will keep writing without regard for menial details like spelling. Most important is the message: if Macy says this is my last surgery, then I can go into it with a clear mind and a happy heart.


Happy Presidents’ Day

The kids were scheduled to be out of school today to celebrate Presidents’ Day. Not sure how exactly to celebrate this day, because it seems an obscure holiday marked mainly by furniture sales. But it is a day for celebration, if not for the presidents than for the fact that school is indeed in session (sorry, teachers). Because of our recent snow day on a day during which there was no actual snow, we have to make up the holiday. My kids were royally bummed about this. Macy circumvented it all by waking up yesterday with a sore throat and a nasty cough; remnants of last week’s strep throat, I suppose. So she’s home after all, and Payton is ticked but working hard to be a good sport.

I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know much about our presidents. I’m particularly ill-educated about the early guys. My kids make up for it, though, and can help get me out of a jam if I need info on the founding fathers.

Payton & Macy are particularly well-versed on the leaders of the free world, past and present-day. Why? Because they’re above-average in every way, like all the kids who live in our suburban bubble, of course. No, really, because of this:

The presidential placemat.

We have one for the flags of the world, too. It’s not quite as valuable as the presidential one, but does come in handy during the Olympics when an athlete is identified by a tiny icon showing his/her country’s flag. Payton gets them every time. 

It hasn’t been used in a while because the kids have progressed, slightly, in their table manners and no longer need plastic sheeting and a power washer after every meal. But it looks like the flags placemat got put away before being sufficiently scrubbed and sanitized. Gross.

To distract my germophobe self from all the petrified crud living on that plastic, let’s get back to the presidents.

For my edification and your entertainment, I’ve listed a fact or two about our presidents. Some you may know, probably from watching “Cash Cab” which is where I find the most useful information these days.

George Washington: was the only prez to be unanimously elected. Upon his election, he only had one tooth. For real. His many dentures were made from human teeth, animal teeth, ivory and even lead, but not wood.

John Adams: our longest-living president. He died at age 90, damn near 91. He missed it by 118 days.

Thomas Jefferson: TJ gets a lot of press, but I wonder how many people know this: he wrote his own epitath and designed his own tombstone, but neither contained a reference to him having been a president.

James Madison: shortest president, at 5 foot 4. Also the lightest, at just 100 pounds. Teeny little thing. Tallest president? See Abe Lincoln. Heaviest: William Taft.

James Monroe: his daughter was the first White House bride, and he was the first US Senator to be elected president.

John Quincy Adams: swam nude every day in the Potomac River. Can you imagine present-day presidents doing that?? Where was the National Enquirer when we needed it? And aren’t you right now picturing this guy in the buff? Thought so. Of course he accomplished a lot of great things, and perhaps is our most pedigreed president, but now every time I hear his name, I’m going to think about him jumping in the Potomac in all his glory.

Andrew Jackson: had a great head of hair. Suffered a bullet wound near his heart in a duel at age 39 and carried that bullet until his death. Upon election, he granted government jobs to some 2,000 of his supporters and established the so-called “kitchen cabinet” of advisors. He was the first, and probably last, president to run a debt-free administration.

Martin Van Buren: first president to be born in the United States. He and his wife still spoke Dutch at home. Tried unsuccessfully to gain re-election 3 times, then gave up. Probably for the best.

William Henry Harrison: catchy name, and perhaps the only president for whom all 3 names are popular modern-day baby names. Sadly, was the first president to die while in office. He served just 30 days because of a nasty pneumonia. Glad there’s now a vaccine for that.

John Tyler: Harry S Truman’s great-uncle. He was disowned by his own party (the Whigs) because they didn’t like his financial policies.

James K. Polk: graduate of UNC. Survived a gallstone operation at age 17 with no anesthesia. Ugh.

Zachary Taylor: served in the army for 40 years and never voted before becoming president at age 62. Kept his army horse, Whitey, on the White House lawn, and tourists would pluck a hair from Whitey’s tail as a souvenir. Ouch!

Millard Fillmore: installed the first library, kitchen stove and bathtub in the White House. Refused an honorary degree from Oxford University because he was unable to read Latin and felt like a sham accepting a degree he couldn’t read.

Franklin Pierce: Installed central heating in the White House. Well, probably didn’t do it himself but had it done. He affirmed rather than swore his oath of office, for religious reasons. Gave his inaugural address from memory, without the aid of even one note card. Impressive.

James Buchanan: the only bachelor to ever occupy the White House. His niece, Harriet, took responsibility for the White House hostessing duties.

Abe Licoln: considered by historians to be our greatest prez, followed by G. Washington. Was not just the greatest, but also the first to wear a beard and the only president to hold a patent (for a boat-lifting device).

Andrew Johnson: was the youngest prez to be married, at age 18 to Eliza, aged 16. Was buried beneath a willow tree he planted himself that came from a shoot of a tree at Napoleon’s tomb. Try getting that through customs these days. He was also wasted at his inauguration as Lincoln’s VP, but had a good reason: he was sick with typhoid and self-medicating with booze.

Ulysses Grant: smoked 20 cigars a day (and died of throat cancer. Hmmmm.). Although he witnessed some of the bloodiest battles in history, he was grossed out by the sight of animal blood and couldn’t eat a rare steak. My kind of guy.

Rutherford Hayes: his wife was known as “Lemonade Lucy” because she refused to serve alcohol in the White House. He kept his campaign promise to only run for one term, and I’m sure the subsequent visitors to the White House weren’t nearly as thirsty as those who came during his term.

James Garfield: our first left-handed president who died from a blood infection caused by repeated probing for an assassin’s bullet. Oh, I how I hate infections.

Chester Arthur: His wife Ellen died before he took office so his sister Mary assumed hostessing duties. He was a night owl, enjoyed night clubs and entertained like a rock star. My favorite quote of his: “I am a president of the United States states but what I do in my private life is  my own damn business.” Amen, brother.

Grover Cleveland: only prez elected to two non-consecutive terms. He served as the 22nd and the 24th president.

Benjamin Harrison: quite the windbag. He made 140 different speeches in 30 days, and I don’t think he had a staff of speechwriters. He was also the second prez to become widowed.

William McKinley: was in terrible physical shape. So bad that his doctors believe that if he’d been fitter, he would have survived the assassination. Let that be a lesson to you, people.

Teddy Roosevelt: a great man, but an attention whore. He was known to want to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. Strange.

William Taft: lots to say about this guy. He was the only one (so far) to serve as both president and Chief Justice. He created the tradition of the prez throwing out the first pitch of the baseball season (and some of his followers needed to work on their windups to avoid looking like pansies). His wife planted the first cherry trees that now adorn the Washington, D.C. landscape and look so gorgeous in the spring. He was by far our fattest president, weighing well over 300 pounds. He got stuck in the White House bathtub the first time he used it and had to order a new one, after a crew of embarrassed staffers wrestled him out of the too-small one.

Woodrow Wilson: an avid golfer, he refused to let the D.C. winters stop him from playing his sport and used black golf balls in the snow. Clever. His second wife, Edith, was distantly related to Pochahontas.

Warren Harding: one of the meanest looking presidents, IMHO. Both of his parents were doctors yet still gave him the middle name “Gamaliel.” Odd. He was the first newspaper publisher to be elected president and was known to be patient with the press, offering lengthy press conferences. Liked burlesque shows and snuck off to them as prez. His great-grandmother was black. He was pretty stern looking, but I like this photo of him and his dog. In fact, I may have to also do a post on presidential pets.

Calvin Coolidge: punched the Boston mayor in the eye while he himself was governor. Nice. Required 9 hours of sleep and a 2- to 4-hour nap every day. How the hell did he get anything done?

Herbert Hoover: was the youngest member of Standford’s graduating class. He and Thomas Edison were named the two greatest engineers by Columbia University. A social butterfly, for the first three years of his tenure in the White House he dined alone just three times. He was the first prez to donate his salary to charity. He was also one of the most honored presidents, with 84 honorary degrees, 78 medals and keys to numerous cities.

Franklin Roosevelt: elected an unprecedented 4 times. Was the first prez to be shown on TV. Claims to have been related by blood or marriage to 11 former presidents.

Harry Truman: Lots of good stuff about him professionally, but here’s something you may not know: his mom was a Confederate sympathizer and refused to sleep in Lincoln’s bed during a White House visit. He was the first prez to use air travel across the country. To recognize his contribution to the health care system, President Johnson presented Mr. and Mrs. Truman with the very first Medicare cards. The “S” that serves as his middle initial isn’t short for anything, so if you see Harry S. Truman, with a period after the “S” you know it’s wrong. An old copyediting pet peeve of mine.

Dwight Eishenhower: Payton’s favorite president. In fact, when P was chosen to portray President George Bush in his first grade program, he was ticked that he couldn’t be Ike. I guess Ike wasn’t current enough to make the program. He is known for ordering the integration of Central High School in Little Rock in 1957. Good man. He was the last prez born in the 19th century and the first prez to be a licensed pilot. He served in both World Wars and was an excellent cook. This photo, by the way, is one of the few in existence that show Payton wearing long pants. Take a good look, people, because it is a rare sighting.

John Kennedy: youngest prez elected (43) and youngest prez to die (46). Was the only prez to serve in the Navy and to appoint a sibling to a cabinet position. Had he not been so young and handsome, his wife may well have eclipsed him in notoriety and popularity, not unlike Charles and Diana. Jackie O was the first lady most outspoken about disliking the term “first lady.”

Lyndon Johnson: I gotta like him because he’s a Texan, but he seemed like a jerk. I do like his War on Poverty (at least in theory), and his civil rights reforms. He was the first prez to reject his official portrait, saying it was the ugliest thing he ever saw. His wife wins the prize for first lady with the best name. Although Lady Bird wasn’t her real name (it was Claudia), a wet nurse or nanny or someone proclaimed she was pretty as a lady bird, and the name stuck. Charming.

Richard Nixon: graduated from Duke, so he can’t be all bad.

Gerald Ford: he was born Leslie Lynch King, Jr, but I’m not sure how he came to be known as Gerald Ford. Need to check up on that, but this post is already stretching on and on. Plus, I need to save room for this: he and Betty were both models before they were married, and he campaigned for Congress on their wedding day. She was a patient woman. Or maybe that’s why she needed to drink. Both of the assassination attempts against him were committed by women. Women today owe Betty a big debt of gratitude as she was a big player in removing the stigma from a breast cancer diagnosis. Here she is with her hubby after her mastectomy, reading a card signed by 100 members of Congress. She was diagnosed in 1978 (when I was 9 years old, same age as my daughter now), at age 56 and was very publicly and bravely faced a mastectomy. She became a beacon of hope to lots of women, including Susan Komen, who died from the disease in 1980 at age 36. Komen did say “If Mrs. Ford can admit she has breast cancer and tell the world she intends to fight it, then so can I.”

Jimmy Carter: first prez born in a hospital (as opposed to at home, I presume), and the first to be sworn in using his nickname, “Jimmy” instead of his given name, James.

Ronald Reagan: was our oldest president, leaving office at age 77. He was also the first prez to have been divorced. During his tenure, our first female justice of the Supreme Court, Sandra Day O’Connor, was appointed by a landslide 91-8 vote.

George Bush: Bush is reportedly related to Benedict Arnold, Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, and Presidents Franklin Pierce, Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt and Gerald Ford. Weird. Bush became the first vice president ever to serve as acting president when Reagan underwent surgery for three hours in 1985.  Good thing he’s the only VP to serve as acting pres, since it was such a short time frame, he might easily have become the second person to hold that honor. He’s also the second man in US Presidential history whose son became President.  In 1992, while at a formal dinner in Japan, Bush became ill and vomited on the prime minister of Japan, then fainted. Oh the horror.

Bill Clinton: childhood nickname was “Bubba.” Nuff said.

George W. Bush: press nickname was “Shrub.” Nuff said.

Barack Obama: first president to openly claim he doesn’t like ice cream as a result of working at an ice cream shop as a teen. Then how do you explain this: 

Or this: I could continue, but I think it’s impolite to embarrass the president. Most of them do that just fine without any help, actually.
Happy Presidents’ Day, everyone!


Other than the shooting…

With the exception of being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40, I’ve always had a pretty  healthy countenance. Ok, I know that sounds like the old joke, “Other than the shooting, how’d you enjoy the play, Mrs. Lincoln?” And now, with the flu, the joke’s on me.

Being sick, or being diagnosed with cancer, makes one appreciate one’s good health. For schizzle. Again with the annoying cliches, but somehow we don’t know how good we’ve got it, until it’s gone. Whatever “it” may be. In my case, it’s good health.

Even after my diagnosis and surgery and epic battle with the infection, people would universally remark upon how healthy I looked. As if the stereotypical look of a cancer patient or infection warrior has to fit into a preconceived box. I suppose that’s the very essence of stereotyping: it exists for a very legitimate reason, and the reason is that it is true.

Follow me? It makes sense to me, but it may also be the cockamayme ramblings of a fever-induced, Tamiflu-fueled insanity. Temporary, I hope.

I’ve said it before and will say it again: cancer is not a gift. Anyone who thinks it is either (a) doesn’t have it; (b) has it but is whacked-out on narcotics; or (c) is a lying sack of you-know-what. It’s a disease, pure and simple. It’s a malfunction at the cellular level. Something changes in the DNA that alters the way the cells behave. In breast cancer, in particular, BRCA1 and BRCA2 are tumor suppressor genes — they keep cancer tumors from forming. When these genes undergo change, which can happen for a variety of reasons, they no longer cause cells to die at the right time, and cancer is more likely to develop.

I’m not sure how someone can understand that and still think that cancer is a gift. There’s nothing, not one thing, in gene mutation that even hints at slick, shiny  wrapping paper and silky bows.

Because I’m a realist, I don’t expect people to bump up against cancer–whether with the bomb being dropped directly over one’s house or simply knowing someone who’s been diagnosed–and drastically change their lifestyles. In my case, my lifestyle didn’t need much changing. I ate healthfully, exercised pretty much every day, played as much tennis as humanly possible, chose organic and turned my nose up at pesticides. Granted, I could have cut down on the volume of champagne I consumed, but I felt like that fell under the “live life to the fullest” category.” Sounds good, right?

So why was I the one to get cancer, while people who treat their bodies much less kindly go on to live long, uncomplicated lives? I have no idea. Was my diagnosis handed down from on high, with some mystery contained therein for me to interpret and then carry out? Doubtful. Was it my destiny to contract this blasted disease and then come out the other side a mouthpiece for the Cause? Maybe, although I’m not there yet. Was it random bad luck, in that the great karma wheel stopped spinning and I was the one in eight? That sounds more likely.

No matter the reason, the disease did come calling, and the infection did set up shop, and my life did change. Some of the change was for the better: I’ve learned a little bit of patience, how to let go (sometimes), I’ve become pretty well-educated in a fascinating topic, I’ve learned how to blog, and I’ve made some new friends.

That’s not all bad.


I’ve succumbed

After dodging germs and avoiding family members like they had the plague (well, actually, they did), it’s happened.

I’ve succumbed to their onslaught of germs.

I hate being sick.

I really, really hate it.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m a terrible patient. Not in the
sense that I’m high-maintenance, needing fresh-squeezed juice and cold compresses, but in the sense that I’m horribly impatient and will do just about anything to get better faster–vaseline slathered on the bottom of my feet? I’ll try it. Drinking tea made from crushed twigs and eye of newt? Brew it up, I’ll choke it down.

The one thing I am loathe to do, however, is get in bed. In the daytime. While the sun is shining. Can’t explain it, but that just seems wrong to me. It goes against my grain. Yet here I am, on a perfectly sunny day–the first nice day we’ve had in a while–in bed. In the middle of the day. Still in my jammies from last night.

I got up long enough to drink a cup of coffee and eat some peanut butter toast, and to hopefully shake off the fiery ball of phlegm I felt forming in my chest when I went to bed last night. No such luck. That fiery ball invited its friends over, and the overcrowding is making me cough. The coughing reignites the fiery ball and it burns, baby.

This was not part of my plan.

Sunday is my day to get things done and to get a jump-start on the week. I know, that’s backwards; most people use Sundays as a day of rest, to recharge from the week that’s passed. Not me, I prefer to charge ahead and get the week off to an early start. I usually kick off my Sundays with tennis, then once fortified with 3 sets and a couple of beers, continue on making lists, doing laundry, running errands, and cooking for the week ahead. Lately it’s been all about soup. It’s been cold, really cold (ok, cold for Texas; those of you reading this while enveloped by real winter can laugh at me, but it has been cold here), and for me that means it’s time to make soup.

My soup kick has been good but repetitive of late. I’ve made several pots of vegetable soup. I was inspired by my friend Amy who brought me some yummy vegetable soup a few weeks ago, and it was so good that I tried to recreate it. Her version was inspired by her sister’s housekeeper’s recipe, and it was good. The first version I made to replicate it was the best. I need to stick to that one instead of trying to change it up.

The second time I made it, I added tomato sauce and substituted tiny star-shaped pasta for the diced potato, thinking my kids might eat it. The stars were so cute and inviting, but the incredibly picky duo said nope, not intrigued nor even a little bit tempted.

The next time I made it, I used whole-grain gemelli pasta instead of stars. Oh, and I added okra, too, because I really like okra. I think it separates the men from the boys. After all this research, I’ve concluded that the potatoes are the best in this soup and the okra kinda gets lost among all the other veggies.

Sundays are usually bookended by tennis and soup, not sickness. Come on…I can’t make soup from bed.