I know it’s super childish to be 40 and assign names to everything; it’s as if I’m still 7 in my upstairs toy room with the rust-colored carpeting and the energy surge only farm kids get when mom says we get 20 minutes to “go play” between chores. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you believe in puppet shows, carry stuffed animals in your backpack, and even stoop to naming a “body part,” though it’s technically polished metal and plastic. (Sorry, Nelly, you’re part of the family, but not everyone understands that just yet, so I’m trying to be a grown up for 2.5 seconds to acknowledge what I know seems super bananas to everyone else.)
And yet, newsflash from this “people pleaser,” though I think it’s probably pretty clear after the vulnerability of Part I: I care less about perception with each passing day. I care about healing, increased mobility and healthy headspace, and all of those things require the whimsy of childish creativity to play in between the cry-worth PT sessions, the frustration fits over the regular runners who unknowingly taunt me from the sidewalk every morning at 7am, and all the other adulting moments that soften when everything within my reach has a proper name.
One of the tools, courtesy of my occupational therapist in the hospital is “Fishing pole Fred,” whose bright blue hue is easy to spot among the complete disarray that is our house right now. I have foundation, dry shampoo, lip-gloss and deodorant stashed in multiple places on each level of our townhouse, with sports bras, shorts and footies following suit. I never know where I’m going to wake up in the morning from my late night relos, so I like knowing that I’ve got everything from a toothbrush to the right shade of blush within reach at any moment. Fred quickly became a part of the clutter in the D’Amico house, and one day when Nicholas was watching me lasso my foot with the circular end to move my leg without bending, he referenced it as a fishing pole. So now one of the daily questions when he gets home: “What’d you catch today? Anything good?”
“Red Snapper, Unicorn Fish (I didn’t make that up–it was in the catalog when I sold for Gordon), Halibut. Fred knows I only eat the good stuff, so he’s a bit of a pretentious helper, but he’s all mine. And in the “end of the day fatigue” moments when I bust out my wheel chair, he’s a life saver to keep my leg up and my sneakers from catching on the floor. Practical, helpful, inexpensive, and doesn’t talk back.
I just got situated on the couch. 2 pillows behind my back, one under my foot, ice machine wrapped around my knee tightly, and it starts the frosty routine just in time for my internal temperature to freak out again. The shivers overtake, and I can feel my lips turning purple, like they would when I was a kid and insisted on swimming in any body of water, regardless of season. Peter-picker-upper to the rescue, as my new Sac United Hoodie is within Peter’s reach, without having to undo all the conscious comforts I just orchestrated. Whew. It’s the little things, like making a moment in time just a little bit easier.
Nelly and I are off to a stable beginning, and I think it’ll be a beautiful relationship, at least for the next 10-15 years.
Nelly is my new Triathlon knee, and while this particular new knee system wasn’t something I chose (literally or figuratively) I think she’s pretty trendy and rad, all things considered. Our lives intersected somewhere amidst the sedative brain fog in the Financial District of San Francisco on Monday (June 7, 2021) and while we got off to a rocky start with my laundry list of expectations and demands, we’re settling in nicely as week one starts closing in.
The first few days were so hard, I didn’t even have the energy or sense of humor to do my planned puppet show for the nurses, though I had Henrietta (my hedgehog) and Ulaina (my unicorn) tucked into the hospital sheets with me. If you know anything at all about me, the lack of desire to bust out a puppet show speaks enough right there, but I’m still glad I had them packed in for the journey to meet Nelly.
This was pre-surgery packing–I felt like I had my bases covered.
I guess I took the commentary about knee replacements being “the answer” and the detail that PT starts on day 1 as some kind of indication that this would be easier than the other surgeries, and with a little fairy dust and unicorn power, I’d skip right into the literal skipping part instead of the late night crying, moaning, and evil thoughts about the 3rd shift nurses.
But then there was Howard* who was so compassionate, hilarious, and took his job and sense of time VERY seriously. I was lucky enough to spend 2 1/2 days with him, and I literally mean we spent the days together, and as most good nurse-patient “relationships” go, we went straight from “nice to meet you” to the types of details that even make me blush. He’d drop to a whisper,
“Hey girl. I’m not saying we need to tell the whole hallway, but let’s me and you talk this through, okay? I mean, don’t you go calling me when you get home and figure out you should have let me help you…you know what I’m sayin’?”
Yes, we were talking about the disgusting side effects of pain meds on your “system.” You know what I mean.
And Jenny* whose task wasn’t to “fix” my emotions or pain, but made it her mission any way with energy work, patience, and gentle suggestions, even when I was being difficult and preferred to be left alone in a puddle of self-pity.
Her job was to help me walk shortly after surgery, re-learn the stairs, and complete extensive mobility exercises well enough to “graduate” and walk out of the hospital in a few days. She obviously made this her priority, but after PT in the morning and afternoon she spent an additional 30-ish minutes with me to do ” the real magic,” (as she referred to it). She’d put her hands on the pressure points around my injection site and for lack of better explanation, taught me how to relax and embrace the pain instead of fighting it; the idea was to visualize the pain as energy, concentrate on the intensity and allow it to wash through my knee, down my shins, and out the tips of my toes. I talked to her as if I’d trusted her for years, and didn’t feel the same “vulnerable-fear” I often have when trying to work through some of the emotional pain that has somehow become the largest side effect since the accident.
Jenny explained some of her studies about the ways pain and emotions get “stuck” and we have to be willing to embrace and then let it go. I know this sounds like the latest round of crunchy California shenanigans, but I also know that after 3 years of surgeries, consistent pain, and deteriorating quality of life, I will go to ANY length for some answers in the name of pain management and emotional health.
The second day of energy work with Jenny was pretty humbling. I felt exhausted, and had just closed my eyes when she came into my room for PT. With no shame, I did my very best fake sleeping act. “Should I come back?” she asked Nicholas, and I held very still, let him answer, “Yes, maybe in an hour?” and thought I was super clever as I heard the door close behind her. It was already after 3, so I assumed she’d just skip the second session, knowing I’d get up and do my own PT. I was really dodging her because of the emotional buttons she’d pushed in the morning, and avoidance seemed the path of least resistance in the moment.
To my dismay, Jenny was back at 4, with an agenda for stairs. This was day 2, so I thought she’d lost her mind, but vaguely remembered the physical therapist in the Trauma Unit 3 years ago waking me up right after the first surgery with crutches to do the stairs, so I figured they all have the same twisted agenda. After re-learning how to go up and down stairs (up: lead with your non-injured leg. down: lead with your injured leg) we did another 30 minutes of PT: “pain training” as I called it that day. I was being ugly, and I knew it, but I couldn’t shake the dark cloud of pain, pity, and pathetic-ism, the worst trifecta of “p” alliteration I’ve ever known. (And yes, I made up pathetic-ism. I’m aware it’s typically an adjective, but on Tuesday, I needed it to be a noun. So it was. That’s how self-centered I can be.)
Jenny wasn’t done just yet. She wanted to continue the energy work, but I was already in this downward spiral of pity and tears and literally couldn’t relax during a session that was nothing short of a generous gift, as actually paying for an energy session is super pricy, and here Jenny was offering her time and I couldn’t even accept the help. After 45 minutes of me being a stubborn ass, she calmly said (something like), “I can’t help you today. You’re fighting me too hard and I need you to be open to feeling and releasing the pain. You’re just holding on to it.”
I just cried harder, thanked her for her time, and told her I’d see her in the morning, but I was SO angry. I was angry because I knew she was right. I was making it harder on myself and couldn’t reconcile why I was actively choosing the path of extra resistance and didn’t want help. I just wanted to have an angry pity party, and I was annoyed that she called me out instead of being sympathetic to my plight.
What I know, is that her efforts were much more than sympathy; she was trying to help me survive the moment and prepare me with tools for the next chapter, but I was being too difficult to see the bigger picture. After visiting hours were over, and Nicholas went back to the hotel, I spent the night trying to make sense of my stubborn nature, and turned to Nelly and my puppets for some bonding time.
The following morning, Jenny worked with me with no agitation from the day prior; she gave me grace to start fresh and I knew the least I could do was make a greater effort. Not for her, but for myself, for Nelly, and for the better future I knew I deserved.
Meanwhile, Nicholas should get the patience award of the decade. When he slipped out of my room for a moment, Howard was back on duty to continue over-personal questions mixed with sarcasm and paternal commentary. He interrupted his own steady-stream of nurse chatter with,
“You found a good one. He really supports you. Nick, right?”
“I did. I know… It’s Nicholas, though. He hates Nick.”
I proceeded to tell Howard a 30-second version of our love story. I know I’m lucky to have someone who constantly says I’m his “ride or die,” cares more about my physical and emotional health than his own, and has been by my side through some really dark months this year. But hearing Howard’s perspective after being a nurse for 20 years and seeing different versions of patient support, I knew my gratitude was falling short of reality. I really appreciated another jolt to look outside my selfish cloud and spend some energy on the beautiful people surrounding me.
It’s not an easy or consistent emotional shift for me when I feel wrecked by pain, and have for so long that it’s tricky to see better days ahead. It’s an active choice to see and feel the goodness around me, and there’s SO much goodness:
I have my doctor’s cell phone number and actually texted him a picture of the tourniquet bruising this morning, just to make sure it was “normal” and not the start of a blood clot. He called me live on a Saturday morning to check in with me. My best friend from childhood wore her vet scrubs to get into my room and ward off the visiting-hour patrol one night. My partner at work sent the sweetest basket of pink flowers and a note that made me giggle at 2am when it was delivered. We came home Thursday to a home-cooked dinner from friends in Sacramento (who have done no less than 10 “after surgery dinners” in the last 18 months.) Our kitchen counter has 3 dozen of the most beautiful tulips grown this season, courtesy of some of our Atlanta peeps. And the guys I work for…I don’t even have words for the grace and love they’ve shown me since I starting working for them almost 2 years ago. I’ll try to figure out how to translate happy tears into words for Part II.
So Nelly and I will keep getting to know each other while I try really hard to stay grounded in all the goodness that has literally created a buffer from the outside world.
Happy Father’s Day to the first man that loved me.
My dad somehow managed to provide for a family of 7 and still be the calm, patient voice at dinner, though we called it “supper” back then. Insistent on a prayer first, a prayer after, and then a Bible Story, we never felt the stress of his day at Caterpillar, though hindsight, I’m sure the demands at work were massive and he was making a very conscious choice to create a separation. He valued dinner time in a way that almost seems foreign now, as if the phone rang, he’d literally answer it with something like, “It’s supper time at the Rocke house…what’s so important that you’re calling at 6 pm?”
He taught me how to drive a stick shift uphill on our gravel road, Rural Route 1. But I couldn’t even get out of our rock driveway without listening to the entire workings of an engine and practicing the clutch. Talk about patience with a 15 year old who just wanted to drive already.
My mom cooked during the week, but Sunday morning breakfast was all dad. He always made scrambled eggs in a large cast iron skillet. Any leftover proteins and veggies from the week got thrown in, and as he knew I hated green peppers, he’d puree them first and then mix them in. I used to think that was so mean, because if they were big pieces I could just pick them out. As an adult, I think it’s a proper love gesture. He’d top the eggs with 2 1/2″ squares of thinly sliced Velveeta cheese, which helped determine portion sizes. Though I know now that it’s “processed cheese food,” it’s still one of my favorite nostalgic, guilty food pleasures.
As the youngest, I sometimes think I got the best of my dad. He retired from Cat when I was in college, and actually came to campus at Millikin, slept on the floor and took me to my favorite spot back then–Texas Roadhouse. Having dinner alone with him (especially as a poor college kid) is a memory I’ll always treasure. I know this pic is breakfast and not Roadhouse but I couldn’t find that one… same year, though.
I spent my college summers back on the farm, working through laundry lists of to-dos that were never complete come August, but that wasn’t the point. I knew I would move away after college, and was glad to have the time with both my parents to work on the garden, repaint the fences, and have an early dinner together before I scooted off to my waitress job at “The Homestead” in town.
As fate would have it, I got to tag along with my parents to Atlanta on a business trip for dad, not realizing that the city would soon become my new home where I’d meet my husband and spend the majority of my adult years.
After I moved to Atlanta, my first visit home required me to bring Oscar, my kitty-cat companion, in tow. Dad pretty much hated cats in my childhood, as there were a million of them, and every winter they procreated and then cuddled up next to the porch door and were just a pain underfoot when he’d open the front door. But when I showed up with Oscar, he not only let me bring him in the house, but I have evidence of dad on the couch with my little furball. That was the first (and last?) time there was an animal in the house, (at least a live one).
He has always called me “Jewler,” loved me through some tough choices that were hard for him, and while I’m super close to my mom, I’ll always be a “Daddy’s Girl.” There’s a million more stories and things I love about my dad, but as the ugly tears are starting, I’ll wrap up with my favorite picture of us–this was in preparation to meet my sister’s fiance and we thought it’d be funny to wear our overalls with a gun/holster. Lol. I love his “chessy cat grin” (as he calls it) in this photo.
Love you, dad. Thanks for your wisdom, unconditional love, and really bad jokes.
I’ve been quiet for the last week because I didn’t know how to speak up. I felt guilty for my white privilege and had a million things to say but it all felt trite, unimportant, or inappropriate.
But here goes. I grew up in a middle class white community. Great people, farm people, salt of the earth. But no diversity. Two black kids moved into our town when I was in high school, and that was the first time I saw color before. They were fast football stars, and I think they were treated okay, but with admitted ignorance, I can’t be sure.
I left for college when I was 17 and that was the first real integration I ever experienced. I didn’t know I was supposed to sign up for a “freshman seminar” and ended up getting placed.
I was the only female, and the only white kid in my freshman seminar, entitled “Reflections of Thug Life in America.” I was terrified in my first class. I was still channeling farm life, and showed up in bib overalls with a pink tank underneath (I can still picture this like it was yesterday). I walked in with my backpack filled with notebooks and felt tip pens to find a group of football sized black guys sitting in a circle to welcome me. Our first book was “The Clockwork Orange” and we discussed black beatings and rape for a good 8 weeks. I quickly adapted and tried hard not to be visually afraid of the conversation, but I was an easy target, and they made me dress up as Eazy-E for one of our “performances” on campus. It turned out to be one of the hardest and most rewarding classes of my college career. It opened my eyes to the privilege I wasn’t even aware of, and the hard lives of others at the young age of 18. I swore I wouldn’t take my situation for granted again.
A few years later, I fell in love with a very tall, handsome black Jazz singer on campus, who I was sure I’d marry. I loved him with reckless abandon, and wasn’t aware of the impact my actions had on anyone else. After a few months, black girls on campus confronted me to say that I took “one of the few good ones” and hated me for thinking I could just have anyone I wanted. I didn’t get it. I thought I understood the plight of black folks (from one college class) and genuinely didn’t understand why they hated me. I wanted him to meet my family, and I’ll spare the details for my family’s sake, but a visit to the farm didn’t go well, and after his family said they didn’t want him to marry a white girl, I knew we weren’t going to make it. As fate would have it, he broke my heart, left one summer, and came back to campus engaged to a proper black girl who his family approved of.
Fast forward…I spent most of my teaching career in integrated schools, and thought, again, that I understood some of the hardship and how much I should be grateful for my white privilege. I’ve always been grateful for the way I was raised, the gifts and blessings I’ve been afforded, and always thought I was a pretty balanced and aware person.
Turns out, I’m pretty wrong.
The reality is that I’ve never understood how hard it is to be a target. I’ve never been a target. I’ve never known what it feels like to be treated less than human, be questioned in moments that are entirely inappropriate and have a harder path to education.
I’m another white person who tries to treat people equally and generally be a good person, but I don’t really get it. I want to though.
I’m horrified by the news. When I see the message about “not being able to breathe” I can’t even imagine, because I find it hard to breathe right now, too, and I’m white.
I don’t have an answer. But I’ll speak up now. I’ll stand with you, however that looks, and whatever that means in the future.
(I mean, I just had knee surgery, so give me a minute, but I’ll be out on the streets as soon as I can!)
So this is all to say, I’m sorry for not speaking up sooner, and I’m sorry for the ways our communities haven’t been fair, equal, or even attempted to do either.
Here’s hoping this current turmoil will change the future climate, as we have to rise up from here. Regardless, I’m here to #standwithyou in any way I can.
I went to the door for a delivery tonight, and saw 2 homeless folks waiting on the sidewalk to talk to me or come to the door, etc…I’m walking this weird line between being super suspicious and getting ready to be “man of the house” or run upstairs to get left overs to feed hungry bellies.
I can’t figure out the balance and I’m terrible at both extremes. I’d already battled a parade of homeless folks today and decided to just shut the door and lock it instead of engaging.
Hours later, I check the front, watch the cameras, and safely decide to walk down the sidewalk to get today’s mail. I step outside the door to a handwritten note from “J” (see below) but he essentially thanks me for allowing him to use our patio outlet to charge his phone and left me $5 to cover his part.
And of course, because I can never manage the balance of being a bad ass equipt for the city or the soft-hearted country girl, I started crying ugly crocodile tears… (Because even though I joke about having “badass Betty” as my alter ego, I still have a really soft heart).
I thought about how it might have been to actually talk to him, and offer more help than an outdoor outlet, and felt terrible for closing the door in a moment that could have mattered to him (and me).
But it’s an impossible mission. I know this. I’m aware that engaging is dangerous, but every now and then I encounter a soul that’s not too different from me. They’ve just had a little bad luck and a few curve balls to put them in a different scenario than mine.
So “J” –I’m sure you’re not surfing FaceBook right now, but if we ever meet again, I’d really love to chat with you and apologize for shutting the door in your face when you were trying to be nice, and thank me for something I’d never have even noticed or been charged extra for. (I know that’s not proper grammar)
Sometimes the balance between safety and humanity is super gray. I don’t think I’ll ever master it. But I’m thankful to have a sense of goodness in the form of a handwritten note on my front door, from a random stranger who thought he should compensate us for charging his phone on our patio.
I stopped counting the days, or weeks during this wild time.
Instead, I started really plugging into the stuff that makes me feel whole; and for the most part, that comes from my childhood. So forgive me for the constant farm stories, or shenanigans about the past, but (I think) there’s some funny stuff in there that resurfaces in my memory in the most random of moments.
It’s been just over a year since we moved to Sacramento, and we live in a 3-story town house with a 4th floor rooftop. I got a wild hair one night that we should start a roof top compost, and it seemed really easy. When I was a kid we had a plastic milk jug cut off at the top and we filled it with “sheep slop” that we’d toss into the pasture and anything else that was compostable, but the stuff sheep wouldn’t eat, we’d toss into this fenced off area at the edge of the pasture. Everything always broke down nicely and we had divine dirt to use on the garden each Spring. I have no idea why I thought I could re-create this in a 2-foot plastic bin in the middle of the city, but, as with most things, I’m full of hope and expectation.
So I took an old plastic bin from moving, poked holes in the lid, lined the bottom with newspaper and proper dirt, and then started filling it with eggshells, clementine peels, lettuce leaves, etc. I named her Wilma. And I took great care to make sure I fed her every night, added a little water, and told her a story or two about my day.
Months passed….nothing. The egg shells were still in full halves, the clementines were withered, but not breaking down, and it smelled to high heaven and was full of disgusting moving things that I’m quite sure weren’t actually good for the dirt or the flowers I wanted to fertilize.
Meanwhile, my husband Nicholas is kind of a city slicker, and thought this whole idea was ridiculous, but after a few months, I heard him reference my compost by her proper name, and my zest was renewed.
My compost’s namesake is not out of disrespect, but an ode to one of the sassiest women I’ll likely ever know. My great Aunt Wilma was the most independent woman I ever knew in the AC church (Apostolic Christian) and if you knew or met her, you were lucky. In a time when independence for women wasn’t the norm, she marched to her own drum, was full of saucy opinions, and while I’m quite sure she she was raised to be silent and bite her tongue, she certainly did not. She was always dressed to the nines with a beautiful suit and matching brooch, and while single, hometown gossip said she had multiple proposals that she’d turned down. I don’t think I knew anyone else who never married and was a career woman in the world I grew up in, but she worked for Caterpillar for 70-ish years, and had her own apartment in Peoria before moving to the duplexes in Eureka, which is the only place I ever knew and visited.
She lived to be 104 (I think? I’ll have my mom edit if that’s wrong) but I remember she was 100 and still passed her driving test and was rolling around town like she was a teen. No one could tell her what to do, even when it came to re-using a napkin with someone’s gum in it. She had this wooden napkin holder on the table with used napkins from folks all over the country; while she was all fancy with her rolled hair and matching suit, she was busting out recycled items every chance she got. You never knew if you were going to get a napkin with gum, snot, crumbs, or just mild wrinkles that she had freshly flattened. She saved everything. And recycled everything. Most folks in my world saved things in a similar way, but also had standards about used napkins. Not so much Aunt Wilma.
So you get the name—what better praise for a strong, wild woman in my life than to name the compost after her? In this way, she’ll always be alive to me.
And ALIVE she is! During Covid-19, I’ve spent a good amount of time on the roof, and one night I realized that Wilma’s pink lid had popped open, which is odd, because the lid has those snap down handles that are super tight. But this strong-willed woman busted those handles wide open and there was a full-on head of lettuce growing in the middle of the compost. I was in awe and picked a leaf, smelled it, took a bite, and then looked down to see the bugs and eggshells still in the dirt and decided that wasn’t a great idea for my gut health, but how rad is that to have a head of lettuce from Wilma??
While my sweet husband cringes at the stuff I save, I get it honest. And I’ve reused almost all of my sour cream containers, pickle jars, and cereal boxes for packages during this unconventional time to send out sanitizers and home goods into the world.
So here’s just saying, when I kick the bucket, I’d be honored if someone names their compost after me. And as for Wilma, I’m glad to still have a piece of her in my life–all strength and sass, busting a plastic lid open like that to see the world and get some fresh air.
Since moving to Sacramento just over a year ago, we’ve seen some pretty wild shenanigans outside our town house on 20th street. Homeless folks eating ice cream on our front porch like they own the place, double car break ins (and there was nothing to steal but vitamins), a New Year’s Eve brawl behind our garage that ended in pepper spray and police, freshly planted flowers clipped off at the base…the incidents are endless.
One night last fall we were waiting for Uber when two folks walked up to our patio, plugged in some kind of torch, and started trying to warm up a plastic to-go of mac and cheese. We didn’t even engage and left them work their magic. We have to keep the water spicket under lock and key, and after 3 hoses disappeared in one week, I had to start taking the hose inside after each time I water what’s left of my ravaged flower beds.
But then there’s “Pooch” the mayor of our neighborhood who calls every time we leave the garage door open or have a package in the front. Gina down the street brought me eggs a few weeks ago when I was sure every chicken within 50 miles of Sacramento was on strike. Zoe knows I can barely walk a few blocks until I get my knee fixed again, but still checks in on me and asks me to go on a walk with her and her sweet pooch– and doesn’t mind when I throw in the towel after a few blocks to turn around. Mike next door “installed” a soaker hose in my flower beds last week, and Marco, a few blocks down let us “borrow” the crane he rented to get our grill onto the roof. There’s a lot of goodness in between the madness.
This is all to say, it all balances out.
But this week? Sigh. I find not one, but two toasters, plugged into my patio outlet one morning. Now what homeless person is walking around with toasters and a loaf of bread? They broke the lock and case on my outlet, but left me the toasters to sell on E-bay. I guess that’s still generous. And I guess I’m glad that there are some inventive folks out there who still have proper standards for toast.
And then yesterday, our next-door neighbor caught the same woman on camera (2 nights in a row) digging up his freshly planted Impatiens. Seriously? So, because I’m just crazy enough, I busted out my 1920s floor length fur coat and oversized sunglasses at 10pm last night to watch over their flower bed.
I’m happy to report that there was no theft last night…and just enough folks walked past the patio where I was staked out to know that a crazy person lives at 1700 and shouldn’t be messed with.
If anyone needs a toaster, let me know. I’ve got two extras. And if you live in Sacramento and need a late night watch-woman, I’ve got you covered.
And don’t judge my really bad dye job in this video; those Goldilocks roots are for another post.
Let me tell you who’s not minding the “shelter at home” order. These guys. In spite of the fact that I live 7 feet from my parked car, and have a visitor’s pass (the story of why I don’t have a permanent sticker is for another day,) these little pesky parking dudes are still leaving the comfort of their homes to disrupt the pollen on my car long enough to add a fresh ticket to the old one I still have under my wiper. For awhile, my “trick” of leaving the last ticket in place worked, but now that it’s spring in “the city of trees” and construction is still stirring up layers of dust, the grime on top of my last ticket isn’t fooling anyone. And, I’m back to using my Georgia driver’s license because I lost my California one on my last business trip, so that complicates things…I mean, I’d go take care of these things, but we’re supposed to be sheltering, right? As I’ve mentioned before, I follow the rules.
I’m just hoping there’s going to be some “parking forgiveness” at some point, though my Google searches thus far don’t turn up any forgivable loans for the good citizens at 1700 20th street. Sigh.
Meanwhile, the 8 food magazine subscriptions around the house are finally getting some page-turning. Every time I get hit up for another school fundraiser, I opt for the magazine subscription, so while I certainly don’t have the ingredients I need for most of the recipes, I’m working through all kinds of interesting substitutions. (Don’t worry, no mystery meat has been thawed yet this weekend.)
My typical MO with a new recipe is to substitute half the ingredients for whatever I have on hand anyway, but with the current situation (and unlike the Sacramento street patrol) I AM minding the rules to stay home and feel like that gives me a pass on following a recipe properly. That said, I made this awesome goat-cheese cream sauce with truffle spaghetti this week. I swapped the pappardelle pasta for truffle spaghetti, the peas for roasted broccoli, skipped the chives and lemon in trade for extra leeks and diced chicken from take out leftovers. Delish.
Fun fact–did you know you can regrow leeks in water with no dirt? They’re already re-sprouting in the living room window, right next to the garlic I’m attempting to grow..stay tuned.
In other breaking news, I brought back a little plant based eating yesterday, to undo other damage from the week. Nothing finer than butternut squash, halved, sprinkled with kosher salt and pepper, a little olive oil and a slow bake…heart happy. Meanwhile, Nicholas was making barf noises in the background, but as my dear friend Brandon would say, “Don’t Yuck My Yum!” I’ll eat both halves, thank you very much.
Today I woke up feeling a little Gatsby in my soul, so since it was shower day anyway, I put on what I’m positive would have been Daisy Buchanan’s Sunday best: a sleeveless black flapper dress, pearls, and glitter eye shadow. I’m sure she wouldn’t have sported a knee wrap and orthopedic sneakers, but my fashion has its limits. I poured some Spumante in one of my favorite Atlanta-Map glasses, added some frozen blueberries, and felt really fancy for a Sunday in quarantine.
I got up to refill my champagne and literally thought I was about to be taken hostage by a Ninja type character in my living room; turns out it’s just Nicholas, living his best life in some sort of iridescent head wear that allows him to teleport or something. I don’t know what it’s supposed to do, but I hope it can at least kidnap an egg laying chicken.
Keep some levity, friends; have some really cold, sweet champagne. Make cupcakes and inject frosting into the center with an icing tip. Call someone you haven’t talked to in awhile. Write a thank you note for your mailman. Buy a couple fresh daisies the next time you brave the grocery store. Plan your Easter menu. And send as much love into the universe as you can. And pray for me and the alien in my living room.
I put on jeans yesterday, just to make sure they still fit, and got really fancy today with blue sneakers (not orthopedics!) a dress, and…..even earrings. It’s funny the things I used to do every day that make me feel like it’s a special occasion now. But that’s the thing for good headspace–I think we have to start back into our normal routines with some adaptations–you can’t go to the gym? Do a video at home. You can’t get your hair done? Wash it and style it yourself. Your house keeper isn’t coming to scrub? Break out some gloves and DIY cleaner and get your house smelling fresh…light a candle, take a bath, put on earrings, and as Rachel Hollis would say, “Girl! Wash your face!”
I know there’s enough doomsday out there already, and I can’t change that, so let’s continue some levity conversation instead. Like Sister Wives (SW). For real: what an awesome time to be a polygamist. I’d have women to hang out with, help with house chores, and just keep up good energy. (Because of course I would screen them first for high vibes and a proper work ethic.) One of my favorite people, who shall remain nameless, I’ve been referring to as my SW for a minute now jumped on a FaceTime call with me the other day….I HATE FaceTime….I’m all awkward and double chins and can’t get the angle right, and am too consumed with vanity to actually have a conversation. But this time, I didn’t care–we had our “quarantinis” and covered the spectrum of petty to heavy life stuff. This is the connectivity the world needs, and we’re always “too busy” to stop and really take the time to connect on a level that matters. At least that’s how I often operate…not putting this on anyone else, so I’ll be honest to say that even in a life without kids, I often prioritize incorrectly and claim I’m too busy (or the time change is too hard) to connect with some of the people that I love most in life, and are most to be credited for who I’ve become.
PSA– no disrespect or offense intended with my SW commentary–another reason that I regularly sport my “I’m Not For Everyone” sweatshirt as a fair warning to the public.
In spite of my great dislike for FaceTime, I got on a Zoom call with my family last night for my niece’s baby-gender reveal (not sure how to word that one?) and it was big fun to see my siblings and parents on camera, and find out that, “It’s a boy!” in live time. If we weren’t under this pandemic, I imagine there would have been a local gender reveal with close relatives, but in this case, we all got to be a part of it. How cool is that? And afterwards, I got to FaceTime my youngest brother to see the disgusting amount of game he’s shot and mounted in his office, the 50+ pounds of catfish in his freezer, and well, you get the idea….we got to catch up on life stuff, though that life is pretty different from what I deem normal. (Not even a “new normal”…just normal). He marches to his own fantastic drum, full of guns, bows, dead animals, and plenty of protein in the freezer. If I could still fly right now, I’d probably hunker down at his house and give up on being “mostly plant based.”
I’ve been texting with my aunts, cousins, and friends more often than I normally do, and while I feel so far away from my family, it’s the part of technology that is SO awesome to help me feel connected, relevant, loved, and needed. I think if we really take a moment to either be thankful for the connections we have, and/or try harder to connect with folks we have on our mind, we could heal our souls in this process of “quarantine” and “new normal.”
So let’s get back to the “you can’t get your hair done?” situation. I know that most women are about 2 weeks from the whole world knowing their real hair color and/or the amount of gray…so I did a little coupon clipping on home hair dye and highlight pens, and then got to thinking…when my face was skinnier, it wasn’t terrible, and make up can transform some stuff. I still have plenty of makeup… and the time to try new tricks. So if I just drop some weight, I should totally shave my head. Hence, I’ve only eaten edamame today and think I’m on my way to a buzz cut.
With a bald head, I’d have more time to focus on make up solutions and could totally contour and work some magic there. I think it’s a really viable option for consideration. Plus, my cleaning would reduce because I wouldn’t be shedding all over the house and vacuuming up my own mess. That feels like really winning to me.
In other news, Nicholas woke up on Monday craving his aunt’s 2 best recipes–teriyaki kabobs and cinnamon breakfast cake. While the kabobs where pretty easy and we rocked a little rooftop party with the grill Tuesday night, the breakfast cake was another situation. Who knew I needed to have some egg-laying chickens on my rooftop right now? Coming from a kid that grew up next to my cousin’s egg farm and smelled like chicken poop most days, I can’t even believe I can’t get eggs. I’ve called every grocery store on the grid for the last 8 days asking about eggs and delivery times….nothing. I finally sent a desperate text to my neighbors to barter TP, sanitizer, homemade lotions, and paper towels. I got a dozen (no contact!) delivery to my door with no request in return. That’s pretty rad. And even radder (is that a word?) that our day started with the aroma of cinnamon breakfast cake; anything hard after that is softened by a warm, gooey, piece of goodness. Thank you, Aunt Loni.
Stay home if you can. Hug the peeps you’re already exposed to, friends. FaceTime your family from a distance, make a new recipe, and play a no-screen game with your kids. We’re going to be okay. And maybe on the other end of this we will have better perspective about our priorities, and be better than okay. I know I will.
And if you have a Sister Wife??? Be SO grateful. And if you want to join my bald-head campaign, let me know, and I’ll start sewing T-shirts.
Because I know that I won’t see most of you for a little while and you’ll forget what I wrote, I have absolutely no filter. You’ve been warned.
I really hate taking showers.
Maybe it’s because I had to share bath water on the farm with 4 other hoodlums, so that’s not exactly a clean or fond memory. I just hate the disruption of going from the coziness of my sheets to water, to being freezing cold drying off, and then having to do something with my hair. I’m already a little cranky in the morning, and the daily shower schedule really cramps my style.
So imagine my elation when I realize that I can still fix my face (because make up makes my heart happy) but I don’t actually have to abide by societal rules and take a shower every day?! #winning.
Before you judge too much and think I must be smelly, I’ve been spending the wee hours of the night in my HGJ (homegrownjules) garage workshop, which is full of all things squeaky clean: literally 40+ bottles of isopropyl alcohol, witch hazel, liquid aloe vera, mineral oil, every essential oil available…you get the idea. I’ve been cranking out hand sanitizers, kitchen cleaning products, coffee body scrubs, and as of yesterday, a homemade jojoba hand cream, so I smell as divine as a freshly showered babe.
In other news, I work in the food industry, and while sales are tanking, I feel the need to do my part to get DoorDash as often as possible—Café Bernardo’s Thai Noodle Salad, Pizza Rock’s Cal Italia, Thai Palace’s Phad Kee Mao? Yes, please. And I’ll eat those in my soft clothes and on red china, because I still have some standards.
But in between supporting local business, I have to support our shrinking bank account, too, and since I’m a rule-follower and am trying not to leave the house for groceries, it’s time to clean out the freezer for some frugal meals in between….be afraid for my husband.
“Breakfast tacos?” I ask. “How’s that sound?”
“Delish,” he says. “Potatoes, eggs, bacon, and chorizo? Sounds perfect.”
Hmm. No bacon. No chorizo, but I had a little baggy of “mystery meat” that turned out to be grilled hot dogs—from the one time we used our rooftop grill last summer. Lord only knows what possessed me to baggy those up, but sometimes I resort back to this super frugal farm living and freeze everything I can… “just in case.”
Let me tell you—just dice those little suckers into tiny squares (think Tostino’s pizza pepperoni bits), toss into a buttery skillet and they’re transformed. Cut the sprouts off the last couple of purple potatoes and whisk in some eggs, and I’ve got a filling for breakfast tacos that I could start delivering during this crisis. I’m pretty sure Nicholas actually thought it was chorizo, and while he was dying for seconds, I only had 2 hot dogs to start with and had to ration them for another idea come tomorrow.
I think Nicholas finds Covid-19 less scary than what I might thaw from the freezer next.
It goes without saying that this is a terrifying time and I’m beyond grateful for the jobs we still have, the food in our fridge, the family that calls and checks in, the thousands of folks putting their life at risk every day, and the hope of a better tomorrow.
I assume you know all of that already, so instead of stating the obvious in excess, I thought I’d provide a little levity instead.
That said, love each other. Work a puzzle. Teach your kids how to cook. Play spoons at the kitchen table. And say your prayers. It’s going to be okay.
While my sweet husband cringes at the stuff I save, I get it honest. And I’ve reused almost all of my sour cream containers, pickle jars, and cereal boxes for packages during this unconventional time to send out sanitizers and home goods into the world.
The good stuff 