A Tree Grows In... My Sinuses

It's very interesting to me that the great writers of the 19th and 20th century never complained about mundane personal problems in their works. We know that Lewis Carroll suffered from migraine headaches, but he never added so much as an adjective to share his pain through his writing. No "head-splitting", "blinding light" or "achingly" to betray his true feelings. Did the masters just want to distance themselves so much from their stories? Or did they genuinely have fewer problems and care about them less?

I realize I write mostly nonfiction, but I have a little trouble distancing my written words from what I'm thinking at the time. I have a headache today, in return I bring up Lewis Carroll as my example in the opening paragraph of this blog. Poetry is mostly nonfiction, novels are usually reflections of real life... no innuendo at all of the authors well-being, yet I can't help but gush about my headache?! Coincidence? Not hardly... the subconscious mind at work.

So is awareness making us sicker? And in return, making our writing sicker? Since I can google the pollen count every day and look for my pollen adversaries, I am more attuned to hay fever symptoms. As a society antibiotics and chemicals have sensitized us to the natural world, causing more asthma and allergies than our author-ancestors endured. And natural selection probably has something to do with it as well, a kid with asthma in the 1800's likely died before they were able to reproduce. Today, we give the kid nebulizer treatments and they someday return the favor by giving the treatments to their asthmatic kids. Even though we are getting more sensitive, awareness of those symptoms must be a factor in the way we communicate.

We know more about ourselves now than anyone has before us. The writer of today can harness literally all knowledge with the right username and password to create, diagnose and treat a plot disease. The genres of science fiction and fantasy are not only unlimited in the author's mind but in the amount of research available to describe the imagined.

Today's author has a larger audience as well. In the 1800's, vast portions of the population were illiterate, so target audiences for the written word were scholars - learned men. Now, anyone around the world with a computer and google translator can read this blog. And if I throw out a tricky word, like 'Abstruse', the reader can drop that word into their search engine and get my meaning (or lack, thereof). You don't even have to be able to spell it correctly in most cases. Likewise, if I'm bored with a word, I can google synonyms to my heart's content. I just wonder if 100 years from now our great-grandchildren will read 'Alices Adventures...' and then this blog and think we're a bunch of whiners, unable to divorce our sinus headaches long enough to develop a character.

In 1943, Betty Smith wrote 'A Tree Grows In Brooklyn', which is the first book I remember relating to the author. Francie, the main character, is an analogue of Smith. Smiths struggles are Francie's struggles. The author lives within this novel, just as the novel lives within her. She uses it as a megaphone for her personal struggles with poverty and the will to transcend those problems.

If only she knew then that reality TV and the Internet would eventually expose all of us as interesting, unique stories... waiting to be told. That someday I would write about spring allergies and someone would read it (willingly, as you just did) and identify with the shared experience. The only difference is that in 1943, the people who shared her struggles could barely read and now, authors have peers everywhere.

Disappointing

I'm pretty practiced when it comes to disappointment. It's easy for me to forgive others for disappointing me, infinitely more hard to forgive myself for disappointing others.

I wouldn't consider myself a planner, but I get around that by putting things on my calendar, which I'm enslaved to at work. A few weeks ago, I committed myself to something yesterday afternoon but forgot to put it on my calendar. Needless to say, I didn't keep my commitment.. others were disappointed, but not as much as I was. I know I'm being extra hard on myself, but follow-through is something I value.

I've talked before about Myers-Briggs type and how it determines your actions (or inactions) and sometimes the motives behind them... well my type is a recipe for disaster when it comes to commitment. As a 'Feeler', my values are top priority (as anyone who has tried to tempt me into eating meat can tell you) and as an introvert, they are very personal as well. Any upset to the values, like breaking a promise, takes intensive repair and consideration before I'm okay with it.

As it turns out, yesterday was a day for multiple disappointments... to myself and others. Bart had his vasectomy on Friday, a decision he and I have been open about with our families and friends, despite constant advice against our choice. The feeler part of me wants so badly to keep harmony that I probably wouldn't have told anyone, and maybe wouldn't have decided on sterilization if it weren't something really important to me, and us. I know I can't succeed without the input of others and I'll value my family's opinion, but in this case, I knew their opinion and what they have said before about our choice so I didn't send the issue up the flagpole for one last round of discussion. Disappointment #2.

I know our loved ones deserve a chance to be heard. I just felt like they had already had that chance, and they didn't agree and had more to say. Now it seems I've harmed some relationships by handling the situation the way we did, making a decision and carrying it out without calling extra attention to it. I'm sorry it happened this way, it's the peace-keeper's worst nightmare when you try to avoid conflict and get it instead. I'll have to keep that in mind in the future and try to avoid another land mine of disappointment.

Finally, the worst possible disappointment, one that results from pure selfishness that I wouldn't have normally acted upon... the boobs. I've wanted to get breast augmentation my whole adult life. I've talked before about my inner conflict about them and recently I decided I would pull the trigger and buy a pair. It's entirely for me. It's expensive. It's controversial. I didn't want to share the entire process with everyone because it is so deeply personal an issue. Some details made it back to my family, who didn't know I was considering them, much less that I have a surgeon and have booked a surgery date. They seemed hurt that I would go that far without discussing the choice, which wasn't my intent at all. I just wanted to keep some of it to myself. I feel horrible, and worse, now I feel bad about choosing to do it in the first place and doing it so selfishly.

The moral of this story? If you value harmony, and treasure values, disappointment hurts. If you're a 'perceiver' according to Myers Briggs, you wait until you've gathered what you think is enough information and then make a decision, but gathering info will always be easier than making the decision.

And I'm sorry, all of these disappointments could have been avoided.

That's Mitosis, Homes!

Looks like all that RnR (rinse and repeat) worry is doing something besides prematurely aging my face...

Behold, tiny grape life... Full of my future grapefriend's DNA and ready to brave the journey from twine to trellis:

And again, peeking out of the crazy witchcraft blue shelter that I put up against my better scientific judgment in the hopes that they get a better shot:

The party is on, but I still have plenty of RnR worrying to do, these two are relying on the still-dormant plants to pollinate. And if I can't summon some action from the nearby vines, these girls will grow old together, curly haired spinsters who lean on the fence all day and gossip.

Let's just hope the gentlemen-lover plants get the nerve to sprout and ask these ladies to tangle on the vine, so to speak...

Love,
Your Fairy Grapemother

It's a Process, Right?

I'm not quite at the point where I do the same thing over and expect different results... quite.

But lately I've been investing a lot of soul in cooking, looking for the taste that I know I'm capable of creating. I just know I am. First, the risotto, I just didn't have the endurance to see the dish through AND eat it. Now, I'm conquered by a butter masala, well... to be honest, a butter masala and chapati.

I love Indian food. I love all kinds of Indian, but my favorite is Indian junk food, like you'd find in a curry shop in the UK. Today, I tried to make a tikka masala - which is the least Indian dish on those menus. But my craving stems from a different kind of kitchen failure. I had the rare chance to take some friends out for Indian food and it was by far the worst curry I've ever had. They were ill, I was embarrassed, and now I'm vowing to make something entry level so I can redeem myself and prove that Indian is yummy and safe to eat.

So I tried...

With no tofu or panir (and obviously no meat) I settled on potatoes for the star of my curry. I simmered my spices and tomatoes with the potatoes and set to work on chapati bread to go along with the gravy I was anticipating. With no yeast, I chose an unleavened bread to try out my skills. I rolled up a plain dough and let it rest while I did something I DO know a little about - rice. Lately I've been testing techniques with my rice cooker and basmati rice and have found the perfect recipe for the rice I have and the cooker we own. First, rinse the rice several times in clean water. Then, turn on the rice cooker and heat a little oil in the cooker pan. Finally, toast the rice for a few minutes to burn off the water from rinsing and make sure that all the grains get a coat of oil for their bath. Then add the water, lid it up, and walk away. The result? Perfectly separated fluffy grains of rice that look more like vermicelli than plain ol' rice...

But I digress, we're talking about failure here, not perfection. So with the rice cooking I set to rolling out the chapatis for the griddle. After making a righteous mess, and sticking dough all over my rolling pin, I finally figured out that like pizza dough - I needed to work the gluten and not protect it like my southern biscuit instincts tell me.

I rolled them up and Bart started grilling.

Just like pancakes, it took until the last couple to get the technique right. They still taste a little doughy and dried out really fast. Next time I'll man up and use some yeast and make naan instead.

All in all, the meal wasn't a total failure, but the masala left me wanting less yogurt and more tomato. I'm sure I was missing the familiar taste of preservatives too. The potatoes cooked perfectly and the sauce consistency was right. The color wasn't too far off, either. But the end result was too tangy or sour and Bart didn't eat much. I'll be back, masala... you can't scare me off that easily. I cook to win.

Now I have to go, Bart wants me to pay attention to him instead of my food for a little while.

Secretly

I'd make a terrible special agent. I have scars, tattoos, secrets, and plenty of "tells" when I lie. But there are some reasons why I would fit in. I change my haircolor drastically at least every 6 weeks. My ocd allows me to pick out extraordinary or abnormal things. I firmly deny occam's razor, because more often than not, the difficult complicated solution is right too. I like to travel. I value adventure. I party.

But alas, I'll never be a secret agent, or secret anything.

Me, my body, and my intellect will have to find more domestic affairs toward which I'll focus my attention and superpowers.

Hospital-Able

I am comforted by disinfectant.

I have always been more at home in a clinical environment than in the real world. In the hospital, everything makes sense. People either get better or worse. They either heal or they don't. There is no middle... no grey.

As a child, my father worked at the hospital. On rare occasions I would visit him. He showed me exciting ways that he helped people feel better, and mysterious places that I didn't know even existed... like the NICU, and underground tunnels.

It's true that as a child, dad gave me medical terminology books to read. At the age of 10 or 11 I was making words out of latin roots. I loved the terminology because the system was just that - orderly and predictable. An infection meant -itis, a growth meant - oma, a study - an 'ology. I valued this order when nothing else made sense. I was a smart kid who never fit in, my family was different, and all I knew was I wasn't like anyone else.

Along with medical terminology, I studied other systems. The phone book and dictionary were frequent members of my personal library. I would read anything really, if it gave me a chance to look for another pattern.

A waif, I never got into sports. I couldn't even run a mile without thinking I would surely die or vomit in public (equal embarrassment). I learned to enjoy activities that kept me isolated, like music and writing. Somewhere around the age of 14, when I got mononucleosis, I realized maybe I wasn't just weak and got sick more than other kids.

Of course I wanted to know why. It's hard to believe, even for me, but back then I had no internet to search for the cause of my illness. A nice doctor, who I really liked, called it Epstein-Barr Virus then, a consequence of the mono. In any case, it started a sequence of events that would bring me closer to medicine. Healthcare, like the hospital, seemed orderly. There was a science to every action. A drug prescribed for a condition, a cause and effect.

As I grew older, I felt more and more at home in this clinical setting. The order calmed me. Problems were always solved. Effects always caused, reason always consulted. I remember the first time I saw a dead body, my aunt, and touched her face... she was cold, waxy, but I wasn't afraid, I was comforted by the familiar clinical setting. Someone tried to solve this problem, but couldn't.

Maybe it's fitting that I am more at home in this clinical setting. Always uncomfortable with human interaction, I value the situation when gloves are required, and contact is avoided. I'm never scared by threatening situations in a hospital because a system is responsible instead of a few feeble humans. There are codes, procedures, ordinances that keep problems at bay.

So what kind of 'ology describes the study of the system that exists in institutions like hospitals? How can I dissect and analyze my comfort in this uncomfortable place? Why am I the family member anyone can count on to wait out a hospital stay with them... read them stories, do their laundry, sneak them food? Why am I unafraid to face mortality in this place? I'm not above the rules, and will someday likely die in a hospital, but I find that strangely comforting. The system, the institution, is built to shepherd us on in a strange, clinical, orderly manner.

And maybe that's it, the word clinical... I don't remember it from my med-term texts, but I'm sure it means to detach and objectively treat problems... and that's something I'm only able to do with a pair of gloves and a gown.

In any case, I prefer bleach to fresh-baked cookies. I remember everything I've ever heard in a hospital(and often nothing I hear on the phone). I put 'hospital corners' on the bed when I change the sheets, and I can inject my cat with anything without fear. I trust in the system. Healthcare, medicine, infection control, disease management, diagnostic screening, all of it makes sense.

If only I could have thanksgiving and christmas in a hospital operating room. No awkward hugging or uncomfortable small talk, we'd cut up the food and stay on schedule, and no one would get drunk and ruin the holiday.

And everything would be sterile.

RnR Worry About Grapes

OCD types know a thing or two about repetition... we belong to a league of hand-washers, door-lockers, and light-switch-on/off'ers. Rinse and repeat (R&R) is something that happens pretty often throughout the day.

Today's R&R - Worry about the grapes we planted last weekend. During the week I've done a few more prep steps, mulching, training, watering to make sure they get a good start. Just outside the window where I work most days, I can see one of the plants, and I swear it's telling me it's unhappy!

I put the blue grow tubes over the vines like the nursery said, and added soil acidifier and fertilizer.. I've been giving them plenty of water, but not too much. The sun finally came out today and gave them a wake-up, but I'm worried that all 6 of them won't put on growth. Two are already showing signs of life, with little buds of side growth popping out of the vine, but the other 4 are still dormant.

If I don't get the self-fertile varieties to grow at least, I won't have any grapes at all..

So I'm sending out mental energy and hoping to fertilize them with worry power. I thought about playing them music or getting them a friend - a dog might be too destructive but I could keep some pigeons? They would keep the vines company, and poop all over my yard too.

What if the spots I chose to plant them were not sunny enough, we'll have sad shady growth. Or maybe the holes don't drain because of the clay surrounding the amended dirt, their little grape feet will be wet and they'll suffocate. Of course I could have put the shelters on wrong and they aren't getting the right light or ventilation.

I read all the instructions and tried to do everything correctly... Now I just have to trust that nature, in combination with my nurturing will be enough for them to grow up. Until they get old enough to survive on their own, I'll just keep worrying.

This sounds like a sick allegory to child-rearing. I think if I were to have 6 children instead of 6 grapevines my head would implode with anxiety.

Are you all right in there? Are you sitting comfortably? This is your grape-godmother speaking, hello?