Now Norma Knits

An Ode To Misshapen Carrots

Oh, carrots.

Each year I plant you. 

And nurture you.

And love you.

And hope.

And each year you stab me in the chest.

I treat you nice, like all my other garden children. 

But you are my nasty child.

I wait and wait for your sprouts to emerge.

(Because you are hateful.)

(And selfish.)

(You sneaky little shit.)

And I water you and care for you. And your green tops look so pretty.

And then, when you are the right size, I thin you out so that you have ample room to grow. 

And your green tops look frondy and luscious,

and make soft, loving promises.

You fill up the bed and smell so sweet.

You whisper, "I love you, too, Sweetie. Don't worry. I'm right here, growing for you. You'll be so happy, I promise."

All the while, you are cavorting with the bad boys on motorcycles. 

 

Twerking in that soil, you grotesque little hussy.

WHY you gotta be spiteful that way?!

You distorted beast!

That is ... I can't even.

Twisted.

And distorted.

And sick beyond belief.

--------

Each year I believe you.

And each year you say:

"SUCKAHHHHHH!"

..........

So....

maybe...

next year,

then?

 

Not Much To Show For My Efforts

After my day of work finished, I had about two hours free to knit. So I was going gangbusters. And then I realized I had made another mistake. So I ripped out all that good knitting and started over. And then I did all that again. 

See the pattern I have going on here?

Lots of knitting.

Not much knitting.

If you catch my drift. 

 

At least I have a pretty yarn bowl to look at.

(It's from Yellow Dog Farm. They have an etsy shop here.)

Someone's Gonna Have A Dapper New Jacket

Hey! Look at this! It's knitting! Not only is it knitting, but it's colorwork! And it's luxurious alpaca yarn.

And it's growing! Don't worry about that wonky-looking bit in the middle of the first row of houndstooth -- that is just the opening for Sir Jefferies' harness hook.

However: You will be pleased to know that some things never change. 

e.g., during my knitting and blogging hiatus, though I can now run a 5K and lift a lot more weight than I used to be able to, and drink green smoothies and caption medical classes faster than a speeding bullet, apparently my ability to count to four has not improved.

So yes, do worry about the third row of houndstooths that, because I got off course, look more like spiders than houndstooths. Look at that photo again, in case you didn't catch it the first time.

Riiiiip.  

First, though, I have to get prepared and ready to go to caption UVM's Convocation which is late this afternoon. 

But isn't it going to be a great new addition to Mr. Jefferies' wardrobe?

 

School Is In (Or A Series of Edifying Links)

I've been linking a lot of these things in Facebook, but for readers who are not there, I bring to you A Series of Edifying and Thought-Provoking Links for your reading (and hopefully mind-opening) pleasure:

1. Our Founding Fathers Were NOT Christian

2. The Clitoris Is Much More Than Previously Thought (I knew THAT would get your attention. Please come back here when you're... ahem... finished reading.)

3. Women Should Be Pissed Off

4. No, I mean they should be REALLY PISSED OFF.

5. I'm not kidding, they should be REALLY REALLY PISSED OFF. 

I propose what someone in all my internet travels wrote: This November, we should make like their stereotypes of us and CLEAN HOUSE.  

Oh, and for those who don't like politics, here is a really great chocolate cake recipe. I sprinkle about a half cup of chocolate chips on the batter before baking. Delicious, super-easy, and no frosting needed.

But seriously YOU SHOULD BE REALLY PISSED OFF.

 

Dear Eveready Diner

We love you, you know we do. But THIS is what silver-dollar pancakes look like. (Regular-size blue dinner plate for scale.)

The backstory: When Jenn, Sandy, Leigh and I went for breakfast at the new Eveready in Rhinebeck, right across from the fairgrounds, Jenn ordered silver-dollar pancakes. Ha. When they arrived, they were about 5 inches in diameter. I suppose compared to their regular pancakes, which are the size of a dinner plate, these were to be considered diminutive. Not.

Maybe we've all just become old and crotchety. Or is it sensible? (Because, let's face it, we have all been crotchety for as long as we can remember.) The one complaint we had about the meals we had during this last trip to Rhinebeck was that the portions were too big.

At the Terrapin, we could have died in ecstasy about the wonderful flavors; the warm, fun atmosphere; the great service. We prefer it to the CIA in just about every way. (I know! I dared to say it!)

But the portions seemed, well, out of proportion for a nice restaurant. Too huge! Cut it back, people! I shouldn't have had to take home half of my meal of amazingly tender and delicious venison tenderloin, sauteed spinach and cheesy mashed potatoes, and then, because I had driven all day and it no longer seemed appealing or even safe to eat, thrown it away. That is just tragic and wrong.

Feed me well and tastily, but don't overfeed me, please. Thank you.

Now, back to those pancakes that I got up at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday to create for myself. I was thinking about them all night, so it was good that the time change allowed for me to get up at what my body was telling me was 7:30, but was really 6:30 on the clock, to make them.

I was so excited to use the newly purchased, fairly locally produced, buckwheat flour and "artisan buttermilk" (Pretentious much? I know. Shut up.) from Maine.

I had read up on the abundant heart (and general) health benefits of buckwheat, and I wanted a change from my usual breakfast of late: steel-cut oatmeal with egg white protein powder and ground flaxseed added. I simply could not wait to bounce out of bed and make my pancakes, eat probably too many of them, and be well fueled for a planned day of decluttering and cleaning in this house that has been crazy-neglected for too long now. Yes, I have cleaning help, but honestly it's become pretty much an act of charity on my part to have them come anymore. I feel sorry for them, they're getting old. They do a shitty job and it's getting shittier every week. Let's not talk about it anymore, OK? 

Where was I?  Oh, yes. Pancakes. So I made my batch of wonderful pancake batter using this recipe (I omitted the sugar), and I made and scarfed down a considerable number of those delicious babies. 

And they were so light and delicious and SCRUMPTIOUS, and did I mention LIGHT, that I started to wonder how that could be the case. And then I read the package of the flour I had bought. I thought I had bought wholegrain flour, but I had not. The words "whole grain," or in the case of buckwheat, which is technically not a grain, "whole groat," are missing. And the fiber content per serving is listed as zero (although I will note that on their website, 2 grams fiber per serving is listed -- also, a serving size on the website, 3 Tablespoons, is not the same as the serving size on the package, 2 Tablespoons.)

Anyway. Great gluten-free flour, made AMAZING pancakes, but isn't what I was hoping for -- which was low-glycemic, high-fiber, highly nutritious. I'm sure that many of the other nutritive benefits of buckwheat that I was hoping to gain by eating these pancakes have been milled out as well, and so basically what I have here is ...... white flour. *sigh*

My Overactive Medical Life

Man. Is this the year that I FALL APART COMPLETELY? 

Let us recapitulate the highlights of late, shall we?

1. There is the as-yet-not-completely-diagnosed heart thing, which now has added to it frequent moments of lightheadedness that my doctor's nurse says is "just me getting used to the medications," and some never-before-experienced shortness of breath and a pain in my abdomen just under my ribs, when doing the only thing I am allowing myself to do for exercise -- walk. The folks in my gym are acting like the freaking exercise police and won't let me do more than walk. I got pulled off the rowing machine by my wonderful friend Cindy the Wonder Therapist one day last week. Cripes. I guess nobody wants to have to pick me up off the floor and throw me in the ambulance. It would be rather disruptive, I guess. But, I told her, the hospital discharged me, telling me to "continue normal activities."  She gave me a rather acerbic glare and made me go to the treadmill and do "gentle walking." This, from a Brazilian jiu jitsu black belt. Sheesh. She empathized with my groans, "But it's so borrrrrrinnnnnnnng," but still. 

2. Just before the heart thing happened, I was diagnosed with the narrow-angle glaucoma. Well, not glaucoma really, until and unless an attack happens, and we hope it doesn't reach that point. And this was no big surprise, as my optometrist had been watching this condition closely for about the last three or four years. We are doing the prophylactic laser surgery for that, as I think I mentioned a few posts ago. We did one eye last week, and the other is scheduled for late Monday ("today," probably, by the time you read this. Or maybe "yesterday.")

Well, everything is good with the first eye we did, except when I'm wearing my contact lenses. Every time I blink, I get a line that follows my eyelid down and up. At first I thought it was fluid in my eye that needed to drain out, probably an after-effect of the laser surgery. I thought it would go away in another day or so, or at least I hoped so. But it hasn't. I have narrowed it down to happening only when I wear my contacts, and believe it or not the iris in that eye looks larger than it did before, and larger than the other one, so it appears that now my eyeball is perhaps a different size -- probably as a result of pressure relief from the surgery. In truth, maybe it's not the iris that is larger, but the sclera is smaller. Who knows.

At any rate, now I guess the contact lens does not fit right, and that is what is causing the weird line, like a fishbowl effect, up and down every time I blink. It doesn't happen with my glasses, so it's got to be the contact. Great, so now I guess I have to go in to my optometrist's office and get re-refracted and/or resized for my lenses. I am ecstatic about this, because I haven't had quite enough doctor's appointments lately. 

3. Let's see. What else. Oh, yes. My legs and arms have been feeling like lead while exercising. LIKE SOLID LEAD. And yesterday while on the elliptical machine -- OK, so I lied. I don't ONLY walk. When the exercise police in the gym are not watching, I use the elliptical machine at times, too. But I consider that walking, unless I'm doing the thing I used to do before all this fun stuff started -- that is, using the Tabata Protocol while on it. I hope it is needless to say that no, I am not doing Tabata at all these days. I'm not totally stupid. -- But yesterday while on the elliptical machine, I felt like I was going to topple over, and I felt tingling up my inner thighs. And not in the good way. 

So I stopped and did my stretches and then left the gym. 

4. I think it's due to the medications I'm taking, but my usual voracious appetite is way, way down. I am forcing myself to eat 1200 calories a day. Well, this is funny, because before all this started, I was TRYING to diet at 1200 calories a day, and I was starving all the time. Now I'm forcing it down -- in a formula of as close to 30 grams of fiber I can get a day, as low-fat and low-cholesterol as I can get, and with at least 60 grams of protein. This is not an easy feat. And at this rate, you'd think the weight would be positively FALLING off me. But no. I have lost zero weight. So what the hell is going on here?  

I am just about fit to be tied.  

As I was being discharged from the hospital, the very nice hospitalist asked me, "What medications are you on now?"

"None."

He rolled his eyes upward and made a very dramatic gesture. "Oh, boy. I know what you're going to do. You're going to go home and read the internet and you're going to stop taking your medications! Please don't do that!"

"Oh, no. I won't. I'm a good patient."

"You've never BEEN a patient! How do you know?!"

Heh. 

 

Paradigm Shift

Well, fuck. In the last 48 hours, my life has changed quite a bit.

I spent the last two days as a special guest of the Northwestern Medical Center ICU. 

I went in a healthy, happy, vibrant person with no health issues whatsoever, and came out a bona fide cardiac patient, with a pile of drugs to take each day, and a real cardiologist and everything. How the hell did that happen?

Anyhoo. Glad I'm here to say hi. Hi!

I'm sure there will be more to this story once I feel the energy to tell it. I'm feeling FINE, but a bit shagged from the experience. I will lie low today, that's for sure. I've got more tests and appointments scheduled, but the good news is I did not have a heart attack, for sure. But despite my best efforts, I have not been able to beat my genes.

Friggin' genes.

I want to give a shout out to the truly outstanding care I received at Northwestern. This little community hospital has become a real gem. The nursing staff and the doctors were top-notch and impressive, each and every one. Even the guy who cleaned my room was sensitive, courteous, and lovely.

The echocardiogram technician was sweet, smart, and wonderfully sensitive. We had the best chat while he was doing my procedure. He said as he left, "I think we're cut from the same cloth," and I think he is right. My night nurses (both male) were kind and attentive.

Everyone spoke to me as if I were an intelligent person! <--- that right there gets them a gold star in my book; you know it.

The food was almost as good as I can get at some local restaurants, and a damn sight better than I can get in many of them! I'm not kidding. Grilled chicken that was as freshly prepared and good as I could make it. Haddock that was cooked nicely. Green vegetables that were fresh and really green (and you know how much of a vegetable snob I am!).

Don't get me wrong -- I wouldn't want to permanently move into that hotel. But I was so very pleasantly surprised.

I'm very excited about my new cardiologist. He seems perfect for me. He is "with me" about not wanting to jump onto heavy statins right away, and I can't wait to work with him. Well, I mean: I'd rather not have to work with him, but since my life has changed, I'm glad he's my cardiologist and not someone with whom I would have to butt heads or have a personality conflict or who I felt was arrogant or whatever. 

I do have some cute stories to tell about conversations with doctors, but they'll have to wait, because I don't really have the writing energy for that today.

As it turns out, I was in good company in my experience the past few days. Mine happened just exactly like hers! Except it was a Yorkie, not a cat, and there were no strippers or firemen involved. Those damn celebrities get all the fun.

Is There Anything Sexier?

The architect that we hired all those years ago to do two things -- mirror-image the design that I found in a magazine so that it would fit the topography of our lot, and design us a screened-in porch -- was the biggest waste of money we have ever spent.

Oh, man.

Sadly, that statement is not accurate, because wasting of money we have been quite good at. But stick with me here and allow me the rhetoric, because honestly, he really sucked. I mean, he did the mirror-imaging just fine, but it turns out that my builder said he could have just done that without me hiring the architect to do it. And the one other thing we wanted was a screened-in porch on the back of the house, and the dope architect (and by "dope" I do not mean it in the modern slang sense of the word, but in the traditional way) insisted that we should build a sunroom instead. His words, "Put it this way: You'll either do it now, or later."

So we fell for it. And you know what every couple since 1985 who fell for building a sunroom in Vermont has learned? Building a sunroom in Vermont is right up there in the Top 10 Stupidest Things You Can Do. I won't go into all the reasons why, because honestly, I AM JUST SO OVER IT.

Because now, 24 f^%king years later, after sinking untold thousands of dollars into trying to repair, rebuild, rethink, repurpose that g88damn-piece-of-**** sunroom, we are building.... guess what.... a screened-in porch (with an attached airlock/anteroom thingy). 

Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight than a blue sky over the rafters of a new screened porch?

Me either.

Man, I would like to send that architect a bill. Or let Mr. Jefferies leave him a deposit on his doorstep or something.

 

I Am 52

Up until just a few months ago, I felt like 52 going on 29. 

Right lately, though, I've sort of felt like 52 going on 72. The stiff, achy joints; the sore, tight back; the sore knee -- oy oy oy! When working in the garden, I'm a completely different person than I used to be. It HURTS! I can't reach that zucchini to cut it! I can't bend down to pull those weeds!

This is a rude awakening like no other to me. I was always so critical of people who were "too lazy" to "work hard" and "stay in shape."  

Hell's bells.

I'm lucky compared to many. I don't have Type II diabetes (or anything close to it), I don't have hot flashes (knock wood) or many of the other ailments so common to so many my age. I'm not dead, as are some of my high school classmates. But I do have those blood lipid issues lurking in the background, and I'd better damn well perk up and get rid of these aches and pains. I could have another 45 or 50 years to live, if my genes are any indication, and I don't intend to live them not well.

My name is Norma and I'm middle-aged: Hair dye needed, calorie-counting needed, fiber intake monitoring needed, anti-wrinkle cream needed, no more getting asked for my ID when I buy alcohol.

Sigh.

[sh]It happens, despite our best intentions.

Anyway! I'm not intending to get all morose on ya or anything. My mom's birthday was two days ago, and yesterday I took her out to see Midnight In Paris and to eat French-inspired food at Leunigs (I had beef bourguignon). It was ten freakin' flavors of awesome, all of it. Truth be told, it was just as much my present to myself as it was my present to her. (Bonus!) I wouldn't mind a do-over of the whole thing, in fact.

Here, do this for my birthday: I've adapted it from a meme I've seen on Facebook. 

I would like my friends to comment on this post, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. 

Let's see how creative you are, and how much you can make me laugh. Laughter is the best medicine, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Can't Talk Now (This Post is Rated R for Adult Language, So If You Don't Like Language, Get the Fuck Out of Here NOW.)

Currently pulling my fingernails out by their roots. 

Put in a too-long day in the garden yesterday, and despite it all I was feeling very on top of things. So I took off my work clothes, took a shower, and immediately did laundry.

Score one for me! So very efficient! 

The fucking brand new Incredible 2 was in the pocket of my cargo/gardening shorts.

So as I was saying, I CAN'T TALK NOW. And after I finish pulling out my fingernails by their roots, I will commence various forms of self-flagellation. 

And no, I did not get insurance. THANKS FRIENDS WHO I LISTENED TO, AND WEBSITES I READ recommending not buying insurance. I could have had a new phone for the price of $6.95 (per month for insurance) plus a $50 deductible. Now, I can have a new phone for $439.99, or I can consider buying a "certified preowned" less-than-latest model something-or-other for anywhere from $139.99 to $289.99. (Which I will not do. I have a "certified preowned" BY ME good workhorse of a phone -- my BlackBerry. It's not a droid, but perhaps bad girls like me don't deserve to have a droid anyway.)

Fuck.

After I finish flogging myself, I will commence flogging YOU. But by then I will probably be too tired or dead to be able to hurt you much, so consider yourselves lucky.

I'm trying the rice trick, but since I can see water sloshing around inside the glass, I am pretty sure it won't work. 

Fuck. 

So the old, broken-screened but reliable workhorse BlackBerry has been reactivated. When the helpful lady tech asked me to dial a number to program it, I could not even remember how to do that, after two whole weeks of using the Android that I was only just beginning to love. At least I did not donate the BlackBerry right away to Goodwill, as I had considered doing. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity-fuck-fuck-FUCK. 

And shit.

And piss. 

And bollocks.