Here's one of the greatest moments ever in television history.
I've decided to get a spinal cord stimulator implant. The stenosis is inoperable, I refuse to go on heavy duty opiates, and my TENS unit, as great as it is, has its problems.
I had to do a five day trial implant first. The electrodes are implanted under the skin, but the device is left outside, held in place with an attractive white velcro belt around my waist. (Just wait. Those things will be showing up on French runways during the next fashion week.) I had the world's largest bandage on my back, with a sterile dressing underneath. It itched like hell.
They gave me morphine before the surgery, which....awesome. They prescribed Dilaudid for post-operative pain. Also awesome. It actually takes the pain away and doesn't make you all loopy the way Demerol does. I'm not dissing Demerol. I'm a big fan. But I think it just knocks you out so you don't give a damn about how much pain you're in.
The trial went well. The electrodes were removed in the doctor's office on Friday. If I could have, I would have had the doctor put in the permanent implant the same day, but I have to wait until Dec. 17th. Now, after a couple days without it, and with my TENS unit on the fritz, I know for sure I want to have this done.
It's not a miracle worker. Like anything, it has its drawbacks. But I expect that it will reduce my pain enough that I can cut back on the Cymbalta I'm taking now, and will allow me to go back to work. It's my best option, and I'm very excited about it.
So I'll be bionic. I'm hoping I'll be able to run in slow motion. I'd also like the sound effects that go with it.
"Did you find my pasta.....? You know, that... thing I use to serve the pasta with. What's it called? Anyway, did you find it?"
"No, but I found this. It was behind the stove".
"Good lord, I've been looking for that knife for months."
My husband looked at me like I was crazy. "Looking for what?"
"The knife."
"The what?"
"The knife. Right there. Didn't you say you just found it behind the stove."
"Yes, but...."
"It's the steak knife I've been looking for." Again with the "crazy" look.
"Uh, honey"?
I looked in the sink. It was a steak fork. When I called it a knife, it didn't look like a knife to me. It looked like a fork. But "fork" had temporarily taken up residence somewhere else.
Cymbalta, the wonder drug that mostly keeps my back pain, and as a bonus my neck and shoulder pain, under control, the lovely drug that sometimes allows me to sleep more than five hours a night, has fried my brain. It's just like the egg in that commercial. It's not just that I can't find my keys anymore. No one can ever find their keys. If I take my rings off before I cook, within two minutes I have no idea where they are. I'll tell JP something, then ask him if I'd already told him. I can't remember nouns. I don't remember a lot of what he's told me. (I refuse to think he's just messing with me when he swears up and down that he told me something a few days before.) We actually got into a fight over whether he had set up my computer for tabs. I don't remember him doing it. All I know is I can do tabs now.
I've wonder sometimes if it's worth it. What's a little pain, after all? It can't be so bad that I'm willing to give up my memory. But your body has a way of making you forget how awful pain can be. If it didn't, no one would have more than one kid.
I tested that theory out last spring when I decided to stop taking the Cymbalta. I spent three weeks weening myself off of it. Ibuprofen would be fine, I thought. That stuff works on anything. Within a couple months I knew I'd made a mistake. My brain was unfried, but I was miserable. So I went back on it.
This was probably when I accepted that my life was never going to be what it used to be. My back is irreparably damaged, it's come close to ruining my life, and I have to live differently now. I still don't know precisely what that entails. But there's always a chance that if you tell me something, the next time you bring it up, I won't know what the hell you're talking about.
I was on the couch today trying to recover from Thanksgiving, and flipping through the channels looking for something, anything, to watch. I came across Mona Lisa Smile, which I've seen before and am not embarrassed to admit I love. Julia Stiles is dreadful in it, and Kirsten Dunst's character needs a good smack, but I can't help loving this movie. I don't care how inaccurate or schmaltzy it is. I will watch this movie as many times as I can.
When that was over, I started flipping through the channels again and came across something called "A Carol Christmas". Oh, no. Another bad, updated version of "A Christmas Carol". Starring Tory Spelling! Even better - Shatner! I had to watch it. It was as bad as I expected. But it dawned on me, much to my distress and confusion, that I love these awful "Christmas Carol" updates, especially if they're about rich, beautiful, famous, successful, hateful women. This one could have been called "The Diana Ross Christmas Special". And don't think for a minute I won't watch it when it's one again.
We were at The Scrap Exchange a few weeks ago and I came across a video of The Towering Inferno. We bought it for $2, and last week had a friend over to watch it. He's going through a disaster movie stage. It has to be one of the worst movies I've ever seen. How did it get an Oscar nomination for best movie? How can a movie starring both Paul Newman and Steve McQueen be so awful? How did Newman keep ending up on different floors in the building when most of it was in flames? And why the hell was Robert Wagner there? We couldn't figure out what he was doing. I know it's bad when the highlight of the movie for me was a girl running around with no pants on. And OJ saves a kitten. Forget the building, the movie deserved to be burned. Which is exactly what we did.
Props to etselec, who managed to cut her water use in half. She's my hero.
I started a separate food blog. I'll still be posting here on everything else in the world. I'll have links and other stuff up there as soon as I can get to it. Meaning as soon as I can figure out how to do it.
It's Curly. Women with curly hair have a special set of problems. Straightening it with a blow dryer is a bitch. It frizzes at the very mention of humidity. It tangles easily. And not everyone knows how to cut it. (No razors! My God, don't make the problem any worse.)
Unless you have piles of money to spend on thermal hair reconditioning, just give it up and accept your hair for what it is. You're never going to have straight hair. Straight haired women spends lots of money to get their hair to look like yours, and it doesn't work. Anyway, every hair dresser I ever worked with hated perms.
Don't brush your hair. Use a wide tooth comb, start at the bottom and work up. When I wash it, always comb conditioner through my hair. Combing it through distributes the conditioner more evenly, and it's much easier to comb my hair after I've towel dried it.
Don't rub the towel on your hair. That just causes more frizz. Blot it, then comb.
Finding a good hairdresser can be as hard as finding a good doctor. After I moved here, I went through four stylists before I found one I love. But it's the best thing you can do for your hair.
A little color never hurt anyone. Good hair color gives your hair body and helps tame the frizz.
Even if it's long, your hair still needs to be cut on a regular basis. Some women need one every four weeks. Others can go for three months. And, yes, you do need layers.
Don't cut your own hair. (This is good advice for anyone.) More than likely, it will look like you did.
I came across a new idea on how to care for curly hair. I've tried this and it works. I haven't completely stopped using shampoo, but I'm down to once a week. If this doesn't appeal to you, it's still best not to wash your hair every day. Curly hair is dry. Washing it daily will dry it out more. I will often go a few days without even wetting it. Of course, sometimes I don't leave the house for several days. Nobody sees me looking like Janis Joplin
Conditioner is also a great styling product. It tames some of the wild out of your hair. You'll end up with soft waves.
Beautywatch has a great post on hair products for all types of hair. Girlfriend knows her stuff.
I've been cooking since I was 10. My best friend found this quite impressive, as she wasn't allowed in the kitchen when her mother made dinner. With 7 kids, her mother found it easier to banish them all than to try to teach them to cook. My mother, on the other hand, went back to work when I was 3, and she needed all the help she could get.
I knew how to light the old gas stove with a match when I was about 8. I was frying chicken when I was 11. As a young adult, I considered myself a great cook, as did my friends. When I think about my limited abilities then, I have to laugh at my reputation.
I'm still known as a great cook, probably better than I actually am. I'm a simple cook. I don't make gourmet food. I'll spend hours on some dishes, but I don't make anything that's too complicated, has a large amount of ingredients or calls for something that requires a special trip to the store. And I'm starting to feel like a fraud.
I read a few food blogs - The Accidental Hedonist, Eat at Joe's, and Michael Ruhlman's are my favorites. I read them every day.I check out others occasionally, and I often don't know what people are talking about. They use terms I've never heard, talk about ingredients I know nothing about, and do food combinations I've never considered using.
When the discussion on Ruhlman's blog get really animated, I have to back out. I feel like I don't belong there. Some of the commenters on his blog are the worst example of foodies - condescending know-it-alls who will condemn you for using Land O' Lakes butter and call you a hypocrite for not wanting to see a pig being slaughtered. And when they start throwing around the names of high-end restaurants they're so entranced with and chefs they worship, and talking about the food they make, I don't know if I'm out of my league, or if they're just self-important blowhards trying to impress Ruhlman and Anthony Bourdain, who occasionally blogs there.
Maybe they're on to something and I'm being left in the dust. I'm a firm believer in Ina Garten's advice to have about ten recipes that you've mastered, and using them as a jumping off point. That's pretty much how I cook. I do try new things, and I've learned as much from my mistakes as I have from my successes. Even so, I could well be stuck in a rut, and I'm staying too far in my comfort zone. A step out would never hurt me. But do I also have to cook my way through The French Laundry Cookbook to prove to myself I still have it? I gotta say, Thomas Keller scares me.
It's not that I think I'm not good enough; it's more about not feeling adventurous enough, I suppose. I am thinking about cooking my way through a cookbook, but which one? I hate The Joy of Cooking. I'm not doing The French Laundry. I can at least come up with a different book to use. I've considered starting with a section from Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World, broken down by country of origin instead of type of food. I'm so comfortable in my American/faux Italian niche, even that scares me. Which might be the best reason to do it.
I ganked this from Sassy Radish, who occasionally posts on The Accidental Hedonist. Since at least some of my readers are avid cooks, I'd like to know what your cooking essentials are - those items you're lost without. Here's my list:
1. Pasta
2. Canned tomatoes
3. Canned beans
4. Eggs
5. Olive oil
6. Lemons
7. onions
8. Celery
9. Pine nuts
10. Vermouth
11. Wine vinegar
12. Beer
13. Carrots
14. Honey
15. Garlic
16. Rice
17. Thyme
18. Rosemary
19. Bay leaves
20. Chicken stock
Read the responses to Sassy's post. I was happy to see someone else cooks with vermouth as a replacement for white wine. No one else mentioned beer, which I use in my red sauce and my pasta e fagioli.
What's your list? I listed 20 items, but yours can be as long or as short as you want.
It's been so long since posted I can't even decide what to talk about today. So I'll just ramble about random shit, some of it actually important.
The drought. What the fuck? We have..what?.. 70 days worth of water left, and municipal leaders are just now getting around to telling people to stop watering their damned lawns? Governor Easley strongly encourages municipalities to enforce tougher restrictions? Water use restrictions should be in place all year round. If you can't boss people around sometimes what's the point of being in charge? Why is this so hard to figure out?
Public radio. They're begging for money again. If they weren't such dorks, maybe I wouldn't mind so much. Please stop with the bad accents. It showcases your lack of talent.
What I'm reading:
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It lives up to the hype. Eggers is self-indulgent, sometimes for pages on end. His devices are glaringly obvious - he uses an interview with The Real World as a springboard to tell stories he can't fit anywhere else, and pulls his young brother out of character to chastise and argue with himself. Still, it's beautifully written and worth your time.
What I'm watching:
Too much. MTV has stopped airing America's Next Top Model marathons, much to my chagrin and my relief. How many times can I watch a beautiful young woman cry about how much she wants to become a second rate model with no chance of ever doing runway in Paris? Countless times.
Mad Men has one episode left this season. I wish it would never end. This show is the best thing since Deadwood. Rent it when it comes out on DVD.
I've picked up four new shows this year - Journeyman (Kevin McKidd. How could I not?), Reaper, Pushing Daisies, and Dirty, Sexy Money. Reaper is the best of the lot - on his 21st birthday, Sam (Bret Harrison ) discovers that, before his birth, his parents sold his soul to the devil. Ray Wise is the Devil. Oh yeah. Hijinks ensue.
Food:
On Joe's blog, molecular gastronomy rears its precious little head again. Every time it pops up, I swear I'm keeping my mouth shut. And every time, I get myself in the middle of it. It's enough to make me throw a perfectly done pork loin at someone.
To my (less than) tons of fans - I'll be back.
