catheroominations

…sometimes it’s because you just bought a lemon tree.

… and maybe with this lemon tree, you have visions of fresh-squeezed lemonade, lemon sorbet, chicken piccata, lemon vinaigrette, lemon meringue pie, margaritas, hefeweizen, lemon bars, garnishes for cosmopolitans before you go see Sex and the City on the silver screen.
keep reading When life hands you lemons…

It took me awhile, but I finally got around to this.

Dear Body,

I don’t appreciate you. Except when I really need you. And that’s not even appreciation. It’s taking you for granted. Also, I never actually thanked you for all you did for me in my first half marathon. I pushed you harder than you’ve ever been pushed before. And you persevered for 13.1 miles. Sure I gave you walking breaks, but even those were hard on the feet. So thank you from the bottom of our heart, for sticking with me for 3+ hours. I know I hurt you that day. You reminded me for the next two, every time I tried to rise from my chair. But I hydrated you and gave you rest and ice, and we both recovered. Just a warning: we’re going to be doing that again this summer. So get ready.

Now. I need to get some things off our chest. Speaking of that, the boobage area is rather un-big for my liking. There’s nothing I can do about that, aside from having a doctor slice it open and put silicone-filled balloons in there. But I’d rather spend the money on a vacation, or a Nikon camera, or put it in the house fund. Plus, it’s not entirely your fault, but that of genetics. Thanks small-boobed ancestors. I’ll be writing to you later.

keep reading Letter to my body

This afternoon at work, as I walked by the coffee pots, I smelled something. Something different and not at all office-like. It wasn’t the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Or that of a steaming hot mug of Earl Grey tea, or hot chocolate with a dozen miniscule marshmallows bobbing about. I can’t completely describe what the smell was, only that it was familiar. And unpleasant.

Yes. The smell. That smell. Of stale coffee, microwaved Cup-O-Noodles and anti-bacterial hand soap combined with the stench of uneaten hospital food, freezer-burned ice cubes for making ice chips, and pink plastic pitchers. And suddenly I was there. At the oncology floor of Stanford University Hospital in 2002. In an instant I was transported to the kitchen, where caregivers would come to grab a popsicle for their father, mother, sibling or their not-really-a-boyfriend-but-I’m-sticking-by-him-through-this-because-I-love-him. Where caregivers could escape the rhythmic inhale…exhale…inhale…exhale sounds of the pump as it dripped a toxic but necessary concoction into their loved one’s veins. Sometimes I would come into this haven and want to cry. But I never did. Someone might see me and my reputation as “a rock” would be shattered. And we couldn’t have that, could we?

Depending on that day’s menu, I’d often inspect the neglected food trays to see if anyone left their Oreo brownie. (Nearly every day, I’d have nothing to eat but a Nuts Over Chocolate Luna Bar and a grande nonfat latte.) Most of the time I came up empty in my quest for the bland chocolate squares. But the Jello cup was still there. (How is it that hospitals can even make Jello taste worse?) And maybe there would be some mashed potatoes, or a wilted salad left on the plate. No thank you. I avoided the anti-microbial and liquid diet entrees. Nothing exciting on those trays. On the rare occasion that I did find an Oreo brownie or two, I horded them like a Chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. I never ate them though.

Since I had the 6 pm to 7 am shift, my caregiver uniform was a pair of pajamas. The pants were covered in a tiny leopard print and the black tank top had a cat appliqué made of the same print. I shuffled across miles of that plain white linoleum tile in my puffy leopard Dearfoam slippers. Rawr. Caregiver disguised as fierce feline. Oh, and that fashionable pilly gray fleece I wore. Why are hospitals so cold? How many times I asked that.

Some nights, if he was allowed, I would bring him food from the Outback. A baked potato couldn’t hurt, but stay away from the skin. Most of these fancy Outback dinners, barely picked at, wound up in the fridge on our very own shelf. Inevitably the square Styrofoam boxes wound up in a pile in the garbage can because of his vanishing appetite. But popcorn was always welcome. And it went nicely with American Idol. Some nights were 2 baggers.

For a second today I remembered the feel of the stiff white sheets on my makeshift bed (which was no more than a pink vinyl chair that collapsed flat). I felt the coldness against my shoulders. The unforgiving “mattress” that made slumber nearly impossible was more like a box spring. Those sleepless nights are long gone.

Those days were a lifetime ago. And I have worked to lock these memories in a part of my mind where I am safe from them. But today I was back there. Back in those dark days, all because of my keen sense of smell.

This post is random and haphazard.

********

Take a look at my “sideblog” over there —> (on the side, get it?). Feed reader peeps will need to come over to the actual blog to see it. I’ll be putting bits of tiny randomness (rumblings, if you will) there from time to time.

Also, if you leave your feed readers and come on over, you’ll see I updated the photos in my header to brighten up the place a bit.

********

You have just over a week to get your answers to me on the logo alphabet quiz. We have someone seriously in the running for First Prize, so get those mental juices flowing! If you’ve already emailed in your guesses, you can send more in as you think of them. I’ll combine all your answers on April 1.

********

I don’t usually blog about my dreams, but this one was pretty interesting (and I actually remembered it when I woke up.)

I was dating Jack Nicholson. I was spending a lot of time with him and almost missed dinner with my friend Paula because of it. (I am, in fact, having dinner with Paula tonight, so it was eerily real when I was dreaming this.) As I was driving to meet her, I called to say I’d be late and “Oh My Gawd! I have to tell you about who I’m dating! You’ll never believe it!” As news got out, I found that my friends were not too happy about this new man in my life. Several tried to sabotage my new romance. One of my guy friends did some major research and snooping and found a photo of Kevin Spacey at Jack’s house. Kevin was wearing boxer briefs and a bow tie and he was holding a cocktail of some sort. He appeared to be dancing. Kev’s photo was inserted in a card sent to a guest at the drinking night at Jack’s. The note inside the card went on and on about how much fun they had “that weekend” and “isn’t Jack the greatest? I love him.” My guy friend heard from this carouser that Kevin and Jack were secretly a couple. I didn’t believe my friend at all. I said “but he was with Lara Flynn Boyle!” And my friend said “Yeah. So? Do you really think he was hittin’ that?” I had to admit he had a point. Also, after a few of months of dating, Mr. Nicholson had still not tried to “hit” me. I thought he was being respectful and gentlemanly. He did want me around all the time, and he bought me lovely things (a new camera!) but, as it turned out I was not his type exactly. And yes, he was wearing those sunglasses through the entire dream.

********

If anyone can tell me when F/X is putting new eppies of Rescue Me and Damages on the air, I will be ever so grateful.

********

And lastly, did you hear about Charlie Rose’s shiner? This man has priorities, is all I’m sayin’. Read about it here.

I came across this today while signing up for…erm…Weight Watchers. I’m going to be old this year and hell if I’m starting my oldest year yet being a unable to fit into the majority of the clothes in my closet.

But really, is this necessary? Really?

I could use y’all’s support on my journey, so pardon me if this blog becomes a semi-journal of eating habits. Don’t worry, I’ll try to throw in a few cat stories here and there to make it extra entertaining!

Also, Team In Training has suggested that I mentor some runners next season, and how can I do that when I have to lug around all this junk in my trunk? I’m supposed to motivate people! But I guess it would be motivating to be able to run faster than one’s mentor. So maybe I should keep this extra cushion around me.

Nah. I’d rather be hawt, and kick my mentees’ butts all over the place.

I am not patient. I am an emotional fidget and feel a general unease when I am expecting something. I don’t wait well. If I am told I’ll have an answer/thing/test result by a specific date, and that date passes, I get very…very…well…impatient. I become agitated even before the specific date comes. It’s the waiting. It drives me crazy.

The mail at our house usually arrives by noon. If I’m home on a weekend, and I hear the mailman I will wait until I hear him slam the mailbox doors, and immediately go see what has arrived for me. Even if I am not expecting something specific. There might be a random check in there from someone or something, you know? My husband doesn’t usually bring in the mail. I remember walking with him to the mailbox before we lived together and he had days’ worth in the box. But for me, it’s the First Thing I Do when I get home. I gotta see it! Now!

I regularly order my lunch online from this place, so that when I arrive, it is ready and waiting for me on the pick-up shelf, with my name on the bag. Why order ahead when you have to wait in line once you get there to pick it up? And God forbid having to talk to a person to make the order. I don’t have time for idle chit chat. More waiting for my food! Gah!

I am a busy person. OK. Sometimes not really terribly busy, but I still hate waiting.

Here are four things I am currently waiting for (erm…I mean four things for which I am currently waiting”):

1. My car. I want my baby back, and now would be a good time to return it to me. Cuz remember when you said I’d have it by the 26th? That was last week, Mister. And you had an extra day last month to finish the work, and I still don’t have it. Please hurry. Kthanksbye.
2. An email from JPG Magazine either congratulating me for my outstanding photo or rejecting my sucky-ass photo I submitted for the upcoming issue. In one case, I shall jump around the house and clap and laugh and dance in circles and think I am the Most Awesomest Person Ever in the Whole Wide World. Should the email begin with “We at JPG Magazine regret to inform you…” I will pout and stomp my feet, think my every photo I ever took was a steaming pile of crap, and vow never to take another photo again. Until…ooh, look! Kitties!
3. Confirmation that I am one of the 20,000 registered runners to Run Like a Girl. This even has become so popular, they had to set up registration as a lottery system this year and the chosen few thousand runners will be notified on April 1. It’s completely moronic that I am waiting for this right now because I cannot even register for the lottery drawing until tomorrow. But come ON! Can’t we move this process along? (tapping toes madly)
4. About 35 pounds to disappear from my body. This is taking forever. Possibly because I have not made any changes to my eating habits to facilitate such. (I have no trouble waiting when it comes to starting a diet. Isn’t that funny?) But really, is it that bad that I can’t order my daily sandwich without throwing in the fresh-from-the-oven, big-as-my-face chocolate chip cookie for dessert? I mean, in the grand scheme of things? I only eat ONE per day. It’s not like I scarf 20 of them or anything. Gawd. What do you want from me???

So, where do you put yourself on the patience/impatience spectrum? Are you sitting by me bouncing your knee and biting your nails in nerve-wracking angst? Or are you way over there at the other end (Hello over there!) with the Zen folks, doing meditative breathing and reciting passages from the Book of Buddha?

Because if I have to have a white, dimpled ball in my throat, it had better be a high-end one. Since Monday afternoon, I have been feeling like I am trying to swallow a golf ball every time I…well, swallow. Monday night and Tuesday, I had a fever and was so achy I could barely get up off the couch. Today the fever and aches are gone, but there still seems to be a golf ball trying to make its way down my esophagus. This is not fun because I like to eat and it’s hard to eat when each bite has to battle for space in my throat. The damn golf ball will NOT go down already.

It’s not the kind of sore throat that makes my voice sound hotter, like Demi Moore in her Jackie Templeton days, either. There’s a bit of a dry cough with it, and other than the golf ball sitting back there annoying me, I feel ok. My glands aren’t even swollen.

Because it hurts to eat, I must choose my food wisely. It needs to be worth the pain to eat it. I find that chocolate chip cookies work well. Ok, they hurt a little when I swallow, but they’re so good I don’t care. But even better are Firecrackers. I also think a milkshake would be nice. But Daniel Day Lewis took it.

Now that I think about it, mashed potatoes. Those would be ok, I think. Tiramisu would work. Oh, and crème brûlée. (Are those the correct accents? I pasted it in from Google.)

Definitely out are Brussels sprouts (much too golf ball-like, besides tasting like ass) and anything like vegetables, which offer nutritional value.

I think I need some macaroni and cheese.

And maybe some Maker’s Mark. That’ll erode that @#$%ing golf ball, if I drink enough of it.