One Month Later

One month anniversary of not posting. Hooray. It's so, so ridiculously typical of me that I'm just going to blow past that.

Since I keep getting cancelled off all my shifts, I am spending the afternoon baking and watching movies and deleted scenes from the The Office. I just bought Something's Gotta Give (one of my favorite movies of all time, seriously, LOVE Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson) and I have to say that the sequence where Erica (Diane Keaton) just can't stop crying is so deliciously wonderful I have watched it twice. I love it because she is just so over the top dramatic with the crying on the laptop and in bed and especially when he IMs her...if you haven't seen it, and you can handle copious sobbing and Diane Keaton (some people don't like either), you really should. Its fabulous. I'm currently starting the movie over with commentary because my Christmas shopping is done and I haven't summoned up the enthusiasm to start cleaning.

In other news, Jamie Lynn Spears (age 16) is now pregnant and proud, along with Jessica Alba and Lily Allen and a whole lot of other people, famous and not famous, who haven't yet celebrated their 25th birthdays. So the world has officially come to an end while I was busy not blogging this past month.

PS what am I baking?

raspberry shortbread bars from Epicurious via Deb
chai shortbread from the latest issue of Cooking Light
oatmeal chocolate chip cookies - Joshua's mom's recipe
crispy cookies - Joshua's mom's recipe
black and white icebox cookies from the latest issue of Cooking Light

... and that would account for the more than 2 pounds of butter I have used in the past few days and way I am currently muffin-topping (what a great expression) my skinny jeans. Loooove those holidays.

There are no words

My weekend started off wonderfully - Joshua and I celebrated his 25th birthday on Friday by going out to dinner and then falling asleep at a geriatric-approved early hour (I blame the wine).

Saturday took a turn for the worse, when Joshua skipped off to a men's breakfast at church, telling me he'd be back after it ended at 12:30. I bummed around the house, reading blogs (but not updating this one - sigh), and pretending to organize. At 12:45, I started to wonder why he hadn't called me yet. Joshua and I always call each other. To the point of being obnoxious. I don't think either of us has ever really wondered where the other is since we got married. We just know.

12:55 - Starting to freak out a little. Sent one text, called his phone once.

1:10 - Freaking out quite a bit more. Follow-up text, two (maybe five) calls to his phone.

1:20 - Wringing my hands, wondering exactly where he crashed our car (not an unlikely thought, and those of you who have driven with him will understand) and wondering when the police would be arriving at my apartment. Also at this time, I had to call work and get my assignment for the shift, all the while wondering if I would be calling back to cancel because Joshua was in some ER somewhere with 3 broken bones or worse.

1:30 - Frantic. In my scrubs, walking down the street towards church, in the rain, looking for the crash site. Church is a good 4 miles away, so I'm not sure exactly what I was hoping to accomplish here.

1:35 - Joshua finally calls me back. The breakfast ran LATE! His coat was on the other side of the ROOM! His cell phone was in his COAT! It was all so damn LOGICAL! And naturally, I could not translate my overwhelming fear that he had lost life or limb into anything appropriate other than yelling at him. And then I ran back home (still in my scrubs. still in the rain), feeling totally ridiculous, but definitely assured of the fact that I love my husband and don't ever want to be without him.

I realize this story makes me sound like a possessive freak, but really I am not. The take-home here is that when your husband routinely makes questionable decisions while driving, even a short amount of time when he cannot be located is petrifying (he is going to love me for posting this, I'm sure). And what did people do before cell phones!?!? The dark ages, I am sure.

However, Sunday went right ahead and topped Saturday in terms of distressing events. Yes, I can now say that I have been sexually harassed by an incontinent elderly man while in the middle of changing his diaper (don't worry, this happened in the context of my job. Which sounds awesome, right? Some nights as a nursing assistant make me wonder why I quit the Gap) Really, the story is much more dramatic than that but I do not feel comfortable writing about it as his comments were totally inappropriate and beyond that, I know I should be preserving my patients' dignity along with my own.

Ahem.

So now it is Monday and I have had too much coffee (NO I WILL NOT BE STOPPING. No one was really on board with that idea. Joshua was frightened.) I bought all the ingredients for my Thanksgiving pies this morning, along with actual real ingredients for meals - a novel idea - and now I have officially postponed my homework to the very last possible second.

Tonight we're decorating the place for Christmas! Three days early, but we won't be here for Thanksgiving, and I don't want to miss a moment of Christmas decor when we return.

Waaaayy too much coffee this morning.

My obsession with espresso is well documented. Especially in our checkbook. I think I've alluded to my truly awful Starbucks habit, which began when I lived in Seattle for 5 months, pulling off only one feat in my whole time there - gaining about 15 pounds. I was so naive when I hit the west coast. I honestly did not know you could ask for nonfat milk, and I didn't understand the sugar content of flavored syrups. I did not know that my daily vanilla AND hazelnut WHOLE MILK latte was just a 10% post-consumer recyclable ticking time bomb for my hips.

By the time I left Seattle for Chicago, I was a little wiser, a lot poorer, and absolutely not thinner. But don't worry, I am still not reformed. In the past three days, I have had two peppermint mochas with whip (and nonfat milk, the ultimate hypocrisy) and I have loved every glorious, minty-chocolately, lick-the-cup-clean sip. Worse, over this past weekend, I actually went to Intelligentsia twice in one day. To be fair, it is the best espresso I have ever had, but I don't think it excuses the fact that I showed up at two SEPARATE locations in 6 hours, looking for a fix. We had friends in town from California, and I'm pretty sure they are now more familiar with the decor at our local coffee haunts than they are with the tourist attractions we saw while trying to accomplish our real goal - getting more coffee.

Ok, what I am trying to say is, I have a problem.

The problem goes beyond the pounding headaches and 3pm listlessness I experience if I don't start out my day with caffeine. I have begun to feel naked without a beverage at hand, especially now that it's getting colder, so you can add psychological dependence to my list of coffee issues. But let's face it (I DON'T WANT TO BUT I MUST), it's a big waste of money to buy $4 espresso drinks on a regular basis. Twice in a day is roughly equivalent to tearing up dollar bills for fun.

We don't have an espresso machine, but we have a decent drip coffeemaker, as well as a Bialetti and a french press. We buy good beans and grind them ourselves and we have no shortage of travel mugs to haul to school and work. Our coffeemaker even has a timer, so we could theoretically wake up to the scent and sounds of brewing coffee on these dark, cold November mornings.

Or, we could forget about that the night before, oversleep, race out of the door because we're about to be late, and manage to grab Starbucks at some point that morning (and afternoon?) to pull us through the day. Everyone is busy, and a lot of people out there are probably busier than we are.

So how do I quit this thing?

NaBloPoMoNoMore

All I can say is...

I might not be a very consistent blogger, but I spent all my time this weekend with good friends and too much wine and I laughed a lot and barely studied and I absolutely do not regret a thing.

All that being said...

I will still be trying to blog as much as realistic for me and my life this month. If that's every day, that's great. If not, I'm generally having more fun doing whatever it is I'm doing (I have no problems blogging on a day full of homework and studying expectations, so count me in for posting excessively during finals week).

Both Joshua and I have midterms this week, the sink just got piled up last night with dinner dishes, the apartment kind of fell into disarray between 5pm and midnight,and we're out of clean clothes and coffee. So all is right in our world again.

I am beginning to think that posting on a blog everyday is ridiculous. Narcissistic. Annoying. And it's been less than a week!

I don't have a theme, you know? "Food Blogger", "Mommy Blogger", "Crafting Blogger" (um...there are a LOT of knitting and crocheting blogs. A LOT. People are out there knitting CORAL and all sorts of craziness.) I do not have the mad creative skillz to recreate sea barnacles in yarn. Also, I have no children and I cook sporadically. Thus, my little blog begins to bore me and my 4 readers.

Thanksgiving is less than 2 weeks away, and Joshua and I are bringing the salad/vegetable/dessert portion of the meal. We'll be celebrating at his brother and sister-in-law's new townhome in the 'burbs, after I work the night shift from 11pm on Wednesday until 7:30am on Thanksgiving morning. (Let me count the ways that I love the profession I have chosen!) I am not trying to make this into a cooking blog, but I need some ideas for said salad/vegetable/dessert.

Thoughts, 4 readers??

NoMoreTimeToday

Note to self! If you have clinical in the morning and need to be up at 5:30am, do not go out for coffee at 7pm the night before and order a grande caramel latte! You will dearly regret the caffeine and sugar when you wake up at 1:40, 2:15, 3:23, 4:18, 4:40 and 5:02! When you cannot get back to sleep after 5:02 and realize that you just had a dream about one of your professor failing you for skipping a clinical (which has never happened. not ever.), you will be bitter.

You will also be bitter when, despite wake-me-up chai tea at 7am, and a keep-me-up latte at 11am, you fall asleep waiting for your clinical instructor to sign off on your charting.

You would think after two years of this, I'd have developed some better habits with the caffeine and the sleeping. You would be wrong.

I happen to know that at least one person out there is having a much more thrilling day than me - while I was packing sterile gauze into my patient's gaping surgical incision, (don't worry, I was quite alert at the time) my friend Tricia won $1000 from a local radio station! Lucky dutch.

Compost. Let's Get This Out of the Way, Shall We?

The first time I saw a compost bucket in someone's house, I will admit to being a little freaked out. This particular compost receptacle was an old ice cream container, a faded yellow tub full of banana peels, coffee grounds and egg shells that set next to the kitchen sink at one of my friend's houses. I was 16 at the time, and that bucket was like, so disgusting.

My friend caught me eyeing this festering heap of trash, so she explained very nonchalantly that her mother used the compost to enrich their garden soil. Clearly she did not think it was a big deal, and I felt she was slightly cooler than me, so I immediately placed compost in my Actually Kind of Cool mental category. It's still surprising that this made such a big impression on me, because I'm pretty sure we then we ran out the door to drink someone else's mother's vodka or smoke cigarettes or something horribly teenage-ish.

I only knew one thing about vegetable gardens at that time. We had one in my backyard when I was a child, and we were forced to sod over it when the snapping turtles from the pond down the block decided it was the perfect place to lay their eggs. Our cat, who had been abandoned at that very same pond as a newborn kitten, had a hero complex and thought he could battle snapping turtles. Before you know it, my father was in the front yard standing between a fifty pound pregnant killer turtle and a twenty pound hissing feline with a shovel raised above his head, yelling, "The garden has GOT TO GO!"

And it went. So did the cat.

Here we are, seven or so years later, and I have compost in my kitchen too. Not on the counter, since we don't have anywhere 'out back' to dump it every day. No, I have a shoebox in my freezer lined with a Target bag, and into that shoebox goes our eggshells, coffee grounds, potato peels and all other non-meat food waste. Joshua and I walk it down the alley to a compost container that sits in someone's backyard. The compost we contribute to then gets hauled over to a neighborhood garden, which is growing organic fruit and vegetables. We are doing our (very!) small part to contribute to decreasing post-consumer waste and support community, urban gardens.

Soapbox moment: Composting is extremely easy to do if you have either freezer space, or the desire to drop it off somewhere every other day or so. It's expensive to buy mulch, so you are not only reducing your local landfill, you are helping out local farmers and gardeners. Two bonus points: Less trash to take out. And the look on your friends faces when they open up your freezer!

Day 2. Or 7. Depending on How You Look At It.

The past two weeks have been defined for Joshua and I as The Time For Soup. As in, it has finally gotten consistently chilly here, and the market is overflowing with all sorts of root vegetables and meat and things that I want to throw into a soup pot and keep it on my stove all day making my apartment smell delicious.

We have made soup five (5! like the days I missed of NaBloPoMo! how ironic!) times recently, starting with winter squash soup which came from allrecipes, although now I can't find the exact one I used. It was a little blah, I can't lie. I know it involved butternut and acorn squash, along with sage, cumin, cayenne, and cinnamon. I really needed to ramp up the spiciness, but I was a little afraid of the flavor combination. One of my friends came over later that night and threw in a lot more of all the spices, then declared it amazing. So...I will need to rethink my hesitation there. Also, she is the last person I expected to dive into my fridge and eagerly pull out squash soup, so this has the potential to be a winner.

Soup #2 came Straight From The Farm, one of the many food blogs I read to a level of near-obsession. Roasted rosemary potato leek soup is as amazing as it sounds, although I am not a very careful measurer, and I overdid it on the rosemary a little. Next time I would add more leeks and tone down the rosemary to balance out the flavors. And if you are not really into soup, this can be just a great recipe for rosemary roasted potatoes.

Soup #3 was created out of a need to finish off a chicken that Joshua and I had picked up at the farmer's market and then roasted Ina Garten style (lemons stuffed in the cavity, over some yellow onions that just char as the chicken cooks...um, she is my hero. The recipe is from her book Barefoot in Paris, one of my favorites). I shredded the leftover lemon-y roasted chicken into our crockpot with chicken broth, chopped up onions, green beans, frozen corn, and peruvian blue potatoes. Comfort food. No recipe needed. (It was really good, but not that pretty. Especially don't make it with blue potatoes if you want to impress your friends)

Soup #4, a triumph, came from Deb at SmittenKitchen.If you are not reading her blog (daily) you should be. This sweet potato and sausage soup is one of the best things I have ever made, even though I substituted chicken chorizo for linguica (a Portuguese sausage I could not find, even at Whole Foods - although I'm sure they have it at Paulina Meat Market). If you are going to make this (and you should! immediately!), a spicier, fattier pork sausage will give your soup more flavor and heft than the chicken. I also substituted 5 color swiss chard for the spinach, and the pink veins against the bright greens and the orange of the sweet potatoes makes an absolutely gorgeous soup. I made this for Joshua and two of my friends and the overall consensus is that I will be making it again as soon as I can get my dry chapped hands on all the ingredients.

Soup #5 was really a white chicken chili that we threw together at home last night with our friend Jessica, who does not have a blog. (AND SHE NEEDS ONE. It can be about baking! getting married! so many things!) Jessica has been making white chicken chili for awhile now, and last year it even caused sort of a brawl when some of us (me!) did not really get as much as they wanted and others of us tried to take more than the allotted share. We made it last night on the stove, but I think it's even better in a crockpot when it can simmer all day. We loosely followed this recipe, and we added another can of beans and a can of diced tomatoes, along with leftover leeks I had sitting in the fridge. It was the perfect dinner to have on the first night that I really paid attention to the effects of daylight savings time, since it felt like we were eating at 9pm and really we had everything on the table at the ridiculously geriatric hour of 6pm. Sad!

I am looking for more good soup recipes so if you have any, please share! We will be returning to the previously mentioned topics of Christmas presents and compost shortly. (Like, after I have finished a very lengthy case study and care plan and learned how to administer blood products). Mmm...what a delightful way to end this post.

So I decided to sign up for NaBloPoMo today, of course, because today is 5 days after the starting date of November 1st. This is the story of my life as a blogger. Excellent intentions, poor follow through.

I really have nothing to post about right now because I am very busy measuring off 0.4mm squares on EKG strips to determine if hypothetical patients are having SA exit block or sinus arrest. In the meantime I am reviewing exciting topics like mitral stenosis and dilated cardiomyopathy and also I watched a full episode of Dancing With the Stars for the first time ever.

If you thought I would put in the effort to link either medical terms or shows on ABC with their appropriate websites, you can think again. I am the one starting 30 days of blogging 5 days late. I am also the one reviewing my notes for a quiz tomorrow who just discovered an entire power point handout that I forgot about and am now kicking myself because I have about 6 more topics to cover before my 7:30am quiz.

I am really excited about 25 days of blogging though! I have dedicated approximately 30 seconds of thought to what I will possibly be writing about this month (details of my daily life clearly are not that interesting. please see above) and I have come up with two potential topics - Christmas presents and compost.

It will clearly be a thrilling month.

Quote of the Day

Overheard as I walked down my block, passing two girls who could not have been more than 14 years old, as they discussed the possible age of some poor boy they have a crush on. In all seriousness, Girl # 1 says to the other:

"Omg, could you imagine if you were, like, in love with a twelve year old?"

Omg,I know, like, the HORROR of it all. What could be more soul-numbingly awful than to discover you are in LUV with an eighth grader when you've already advanced to the ripe maturity of the ninth grade? It just smacks of Romeo-and-Juliet-style forbidden passion.

Or maybe not, judging by the way Girl #2 responded:

"Ew."

I love the way middle school and high school emotions are so casually discarded.I really do. I mean,it's sort of tragic to live through, but when your hormones have flattened out and you have the benefit of hindsight, that time of life is pretty glorious. You can kill all your crushes, flick away all your emotions, change your entire opinion, with a simple, "Ew." There's a reason that period is short-lived (can you imagine, if i like, did that to Joshua? EW), but I think it's good while it lasts. Personally, I took my 13 year old relationships way too seriously and the only thing it got me was grounded for a whole summer (for sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!)

Today I started my last real clinical class. I'm not graduating until May, but that last semester is a whirlwind of an internship and community health nursing. But today we got right back into the gritty, heavy areas - heart disease and diabetes, otherwise knowns as What Kills You in America 101. This semester we're learning how to manage acute and critical care patients; how to perform blood transfusions, monitor chest tube drainage, care for people on ventilators. And then in 8 weeks, most of what I am expected to know as a new RN will supposedly be stuffed somewhere in my brain. I think this is terrifying.

Sometimes at work, I am so thankful to be "only" a nursing assistant. I am thankful to take vitals, to let the nurse know the patient has a fever, to take out IVs and catheters and help patients walk the halls or go to the bathroom. I am thankful because I don't feel ready to be THE nurse yet - to look at my patient's labs and assess why and where that fever is coming from, to jump when the tele monitors are beeping ferociously and see my patient going into v-tach or a-fib (you know you've all seen this on ER). There are nurses at work who graduated from associates degree programs and are 3 years younger than me, and I still don't feel old enough to have this kind of responsibility. I am excited to be a nurse and I can't wait to have a job (a REAL job! a grown-up job! a please-pass-the-dental-insurance-i-have-four-cavities kind of job!). But, sometimes it's intimidating to know that I've chosen the kind of career where I could easily call Joshua and say, "I'm sorry honey but I am going to be late. Yes, it is a LIFE OR DEATH KINDA THING," and mean it.

The other night I worked a double shift and left the hospital at 7:30am. The day shift had come in at 7, looking clean and caffeinated, and I was greasy and tired after 16 straight hours of patient care. And I wasn't the one who had to pass medications, do assessments, and call docs that night.

For all I complain about school and homework and clinical and getting up horrifically early and constant stress, being a nursing student is a pretty good deal. Someone always has your back, and you can always say, "I don't know." You can't really say that when you are a RN and your manager asks why you missed something crucial about your patient. I am excited for the day when I can say I am an expert in a particular field. But I am scared for the time that comes between being a student and becoming that expert...

Suddenly I'm enjoying school again.

Evidence That I Really Love Fall: My Apartment Edition

please note: i am new to photography and do not actually know anything about my camera other than how to turn it on and push that one button. but i want to learn!

an assortment of gourds in a beautiful wooden platter that says give us this day our daily bread in german (but,um, bread does not really handle being a centerpiece very well).



seasonally colored candle and farmers market eucalyptus that is drying (dying? can't tell). please also note: no window treatments. have ever. been in our apartment. because i am a Big Failure at decorating.


tiny supersweet vidalias...living it up on top of some big old red onions that should probably be used, maybe, yesterday?


do not walk, RUN, to target to buy this poached (maybe spiced?) pear candle. and yes, that is my laptop perched precariously on the arm of the couch. don't tell my husband.


i don't actually store apples on the armchair in the living room, but maybe i should - they look pretty happy there.



and finally...all the fall treats one could ever want, hanging out on the butcher block.

It...is...finally...fall!

After weeks of above average temperatures and one tragic record-shattering weekend that hit 90 degrees (OCTOBER 8th people), it has finally cooled down. To be fair, it dropped 30 degrees in one night and went from the record high to a below-normal low. But that's the fun of living in the Midwest I guess. Our bedroom is totally destroyed, strewn with flip flops and capris that I just buried with sweaters and scarves because I have no idea what to wear - Monday I overheated in a tshirt and last night I was underdressed in three layers of clothing. This psychotic roller coaster weather is wreaking havoc on what little organization I have in my house.

But I LOVELOVELOVE fall, and pumpkin-carving, soup-eating, layer-wearing, apple-picking season doesn't feel right until there is a chill in the air. It's hard to get excited about drinking hot cider when it's just as hot outside as it is in your mug, and really all you want to do is find your bathing suit and hit the beach (I resisted this urge, but it was hard). I am a dedicated four season kind of girl, so I get almost pathetically excited each time the weather changes, and kind of bitter when it does not. For example, I do not believe in things like pumpkin spice frappucinos. Besides being a cleverly disguised term for global warming, pumpkin spice frappucinos are wrong because no, you do not get to have the best of both worlds. Fall and summer in one syrupy cup? Ew. What is next, eggnog frappucinos? I am just thrilled that is now seriously fall, and I can take my HOT COFFEE DRINKS outside, wearing my jacket and crunch some leaves under my actual shoes (goodbye, flipflops! I love you and miss you already!). It is truly glorious.

In other exciting and new season type of news, we have been going to a new church and it is really, truly wonderful. We've struggled to find a church in the almost four (FOUR! i can't believe it) years we've been here. We went to the traditional church down the street, a big suburban church, a yuppie urban church...I think we've been searching for the kind of community we both had at our childhood churches. We have learned to continually adjust our expectations, which is a good lesson, and we've also learned what is really important to us in a church, which is an even better lesson. We've been going to Our New Church for about two months now, and all I can say is, God used all those detours and dead ends to lead us right to this place. We are meeting people, getting involved, and mostly importantly being FED by the teaching and the worship. And there is something wonderful about making this kind of change in this season of the year. It's like fall for me - comfortable and surprising all at the same time.

I feel like I've been hibernating lately. I think it's partly by choice, but mostly it's like an avalanche of everything I do just fell on top of me. School has been a non-stop parade of tests, quizzes, projects, presentations, care plans. Every time I check something off my to-do list, I have about fifty other tasks waiting for me. This week was the first round of papers for my 18 freshman writing advisees. So I had to fit 18 (yes, eighteen) 45 minute slots of time into my schedule. I also have my part-time job at the hospital, which keeps me busy until midnight one to two days a week. And then...stop it now...then there is the babysitting. Joshua and I have done two overnights in the suburbs in the past month, and I've been babysitting an average of 2-3 times a week. Add that to my night class, my clinicals, my internship at a senior center, and the previously mentioned job, homework and writing advising situation....

It kind of gives me palpitations to sit back and read this all in one paragraph.

I haven't even had time to have senioritis. What I have had time to do, apparently, is completely blanket my apartment in powerpoint handouts, homework, freshman papers, receipts, clothes, dishes - you name it and it is currently a) dirty b) in the wrong spot or c) dirty and in the wrong spot and I need it THISMINUTE and I can't find it. I definitely gave a presentation today wearing my black pants Formerly Known As Clean. I've had clinicals and an internship that have used and abused those pants, and frighteningly I have only one clear memory of washing them in the past 6 weeks.

I should say that I do like to be busy. I like to feel like I have accomplished something at the end of the day, I like knowing that I've learned something. I know I am guilty of complaining about being bored as equally as I complain about being busy. But I feel like the last two weeks have pushed me past busy into some other realm where I am just mechanically achieving some sort of "done-ness" in all my activities. At 11pm last night I was at work running around checking my patients' vitals, getting a new admit settled in, and trying to finish all my charting... and I actually felt overwhelming relief to still be there. Because there was nothing else to do, no homework, no household tasks, that I was responsible for until I left that unit. I felt like I was hiding from my life by being at work.

I just have to remember that at this time next year, my life will be happening AT work. And hopefully I will have enough perspective to look back at this season of life and be grateful for it being over as opposed to just complaining about the present.

Also, I hope that this somehow, someday, can be turned into a situation we joke about. Like, "remember that month where we never saw each other and we let half the food in the fridge rot because we didn't even have time to make salads and we both wore dirty clothes in socially unacceptable situations and we went broke because we went to starbucks EVERY.MORNING?" yes...the potential for humor is there...

I have decided that life sometimes gets in the way of ideals.

Joshua and I probably fit pretty easily into the granola-crunching category of people who are a little preachy about things like recycling (our trunk is currently filled with EMPTY wine and beer bottles taken home from other peoples' houses which we, at some point, plan to recycle). We buy the majority of our groceries on Saturday mornings at the market. In fact at this very moment, I am currently baking a blue hubbard squash that was grown in Indiana on an organic sustainable farm. In approximately 45 minutes, that squash will become soup - a soup that also includes locally grown onions, garlic, fresh sage, and organic vegetable broth. I've been planning this soup all week, but I just had to wait for the temperature to get below 90 frickin degrees.

But my point is this - our fridge and cabinets and even the oven may be stuffed with fresh! local! organic! food, but where did we eat lunch today?

Target. Did you see a stressed-out couple chowing down on an all-beef hot dog and asian chicken pizza hut special? Because that's us.

And yesterday?

Charcoal Delights. Chicken gyros? Us again!

Besides the obvious fact that eating out blows through serious wads of cash, I hate that we do it because then we eat the crap we are trying to avoid in our Certified Organic lifestyle. It is a little incongruous to spend twenty minutes choosing the best beets and swiss chard when really I am consuming my weight in french fries every month.

But the reality is, I do not have the time to make every lunch and every dinner. Some days, I barely even have time to eat anything in between clinicals and internships and class and work. This week has been one of those incredibly overwhelming weeks where everything collided at once and the food we drooled over this weekend is currently sitting dejected in the fridge (not the squash! I cooked the one vegetable that could probably have hung out happy and healthy til Thanksgiving!) while we stuff ourselves with fast food.

I really hate it. And I want to change. But that would require planning ahead, probably one of my least favorite things to do and something I am certainly not good at in terms of food preparation.

And now I have to go, because my squash is almost done and if I even have a prayer of finishing this soup before Joshua gets home and needs to eat before his class starts at 6:30, I should be 10 steps ahead of where I am.

fall...

Somehow, months have slipped by since my last post, and the summer I mentioned last time? Totally gone, out of the picture. The temperatures are inching downward, I have officially worn a sweater twice, and I had my first pumpkin spice latte last week. Even if it hits 80 degrees again (I'm talking to you, Forecast for 9/18/07) it just doesn't feel like summer anymore. Next week will be the 4th week of school - which means that unbelievably, I'm (slacking off on) studying for midterm exams in my quad classes.

Life has not been all that lovely lately. I am balancing school and work and a sudden onslaught of babysitting jobs with full-time wifelihood (wifeness?) along with the upcoming stresses of writing advising and studying for NCLEX. Joshua started a full-time MBA program - he only has class twice a week, but he has hours upon hours of homework. Our weekends are full of studying and for me, shifts at the hospital. I knew it would happen, I was prepared for the structure and routine of fall. I was even excited about new binders and new pens (purple! to scribble all over my endless powerpoint handouts). But the actual day to day living of it is harder than I expected - I realized this when we sat down with the calendar and we had no unplanned days until the end of October. Sometimes I forget that the time between August and Christmas happens at twice the speed of the rest of the year.

I think that would be enough to fulfill my need for a crazy overwhelming lifestyle, but instead our activities are probably the least intense thing we are involved in right now. We both have friendships that are changing, and people who are coming in and out of our lives for purposes we don't really understand. I am feeling the effects of being "off-time", a little concept I picked up in Psychology 101 that has really become a light bulb experience for me . I've always done things at a different age than my peers - I didn't go to college right away, but I got engaged when I was 19. I worked full-time, then went to college, then got married at 21, and now I'm still in school while my friends graduated a year and a half ago. I don't know many other married people my age, and the ones I do know haven't celebrated their 1 year anniversaries yet. We will be married 3 years this spring. The idea behind being "off-time" is that no matter how positive your life events are, they are inherently stressful if you are not experiencing them at the same time as the people around you.

So I would just like to throw this out there - I Am Stressed.

Stressed emotionally, physically, spiritually. I have been feeling that intense, constant prodding in my spirit that always accompanies major changes in my life. I have been spending more time praying and reading scripture and suddenly I realize how much of a hassle and inconvenience it is to serve a living, breathing God. Just when we are feeling comfortable in our little lives, He shakes us out of that cocoon and asks us to do things that are difficult and painful. Just when life gets crazy, He asks us to deal with hard truths in our relationships and face things we don't like about ourselves. I have been avoiding this kind of growth for these exact reasons, but somehow the time has come and all my silly excuses have been swept away. God's timing is perfect, and I'm trusting that if He is saying NOW, then I do the hard slogging work NOW.

Hopefully I will post again before Christmas!

I'm blogging twice in a week. A new record! Also known as, my days off from work bore me to tears and I'm driven to write after spending hours stalking the blogs of people I barely know, or who are in fact complete strangers.

Today has been glorious in that I slept in past nine (a new record!) and then woke up to my friend Amy texting to say that she needs to iron a shirt for her first day at work, and could she use mine, and she would be bringing coffee! Luckily she has her own keys to our apartment so I did not even have to peel myself out of the sheets (these fabulous sheets) and I was able to start the day with a latte without ever leaving bed. I don't think life gets much more spoiled than that, and that is why I firmly believe in a) working the PM shift, b) giving friends your keys, and c) owning things that other people need and are willing to bargain Starbucks for. I am hoping she never purchases her own iron.

Tonight is round two of Adult Jazz, which I am very excited about now that the cramping and pain from last week has just barely passed. We went running last night (TWO miles! If you had asked me six months ago if I could run two miles straight without begging for death, I would have laughed uproariously and then asked YOU to please bring me Starbucks in bed, that is more my style thankyouverymuch) and I think the run finally worked out my Hamstring Issue. I gave myself a Quad Issue yesterday running on concrete, so I am thrilled to see what new muscle spasms and injuries I can acquire this week. Joshua is working on a heel problem, which he likes to call a stress fracture. Our newfound athleticism is both wonderful and frightening apparently.

However, our healthy lifestyle is not getting out of hand. We are going camping next weekend in Wisconsin with our friends - not so much the commune with nature type of camping, but the float-down-a-river-on-a-tube-with-beer-in-both-hands-sort of camping . I'm pretty sure the only thing that those two types of camping share is the fact that you sleep in a tent. We were planning the grocery list at lunch today (eating Chinese takeout at the picnic table behind Joshua's office) and it involved copious amounts of condiments and processed meat and cheese and like I mentioned, beer. So chances are good that we will return from the (not so) wilds of Wisconsin unable to ever run again. Which will give me more time to spend reveling in the glory of my bamboo sheets!

I think to sum up, this is my last summer as a bona fide college student (part-time job? check. staying up late? check. wasting away again in margaritaville? check check.) It is fabulous and I love it but I'm trying to find that balance between enjoying it immensely and wishing it was over so that school could start again and I could just hurry up and GRADUATE already. I can't believe that July is here and will be gone before I know it in a whirlwind of camping, working, going to Cali for a wedding, hopefully having my brothers and Amanda visit, and then going home at some undetermined point to see my parents.

Well, when I just typed that all out, I can see that the summer is practically over now, and I just better enjoy the weather and the grilling and the gorgeousness while it lasts! And also the free time - I'm taking a nap to save up my energy for Adult Jazz!

Oh Right...I Have A Blog?!

Well I think the past few months just go to show how consistency is obviously what I strive for, and so often achieve in my writing career...

um, no.

I have not actually forgotten about this blog, contrary to everything that is obvious and straightforward in this life. In fact, I have felt very guilty about the lack of posting, but then things became kind of a downer for awhile (more family cancer, although we're jazzing it up with the thyroid instead of the breast, my dad is still unemployed, joshua was working 14 hour days and weekends for a while there). Sometimes writing things down is therapeutic and cathartic and then sometimes merely experiencing a difficult situation is enough and to commit it to words just makes it even more raw and jarring.

Still, the 10 week hiatus was a bit much. After all, it is the SUMMER, I'm employed and working a crazy flexible, glorious schedule that allows me time to sun myself, keep up a demanding running schedule, and waste the days away slowly killing brain cells on the InterNet (please see Yahoo! Music Videos and the hilarity that isWill Ferrell).

However, during my blogging break, I have achieved one of my major goals - which is to get my ever-widening tush back in a dance studio before the cellulite starts creeping up my back and into my hair or something equally repulsive. This Thursday, I found myself surrounded by all sorts of dancing goodies, looking for a pair of jazz shoes to purchase for my new Adult Jazz class (please note - i used to make fun of Adult Jazz back when I was underage and flexible and could throw my leg behind my head for fun and then do double pirouettes en pointe) I might be a measly 23 years old, but that is past the typical prime of a professional dancer's life, and I've spent the last 5 years drinking my weight in lattes and cooking pasta. Right now Adult Jazz seems pretty intimidating and I would like to smack my 18-year-old condescending size 6 self in the face.

So, Thursday morning I bought these (in basic black):


and Thursday night I found myself wearing lycra and leather (please also note - not as sexy as it sounds) and attempting to perform all the steps that I once knew in my sleep...tendu, rond de jambe, battement, chassee, chassee, pas de bouree...I did not do anythng embarrassing like fall down or start crying after discovering my complete inability to even jazz walk, but I think the experience can be summed up by saying that it is now Saturday and I am still sore enough to dread things like, I don't know, changing clothes? However, I am also thrilled to pieces that I successfully did most of the combinations, and I have been torturing both Joshua and all my neighbors by practicing my pirouettes in our dining room. I have also convinced roughly half my friends to sign up for dance classes by promising them flat abs and killer calves.

I did not mention that they would also need to stock up on Icy Hot and any product ever marketed to the arthritic geriatric population, because while it is 100% true, I think it's probably a turn-off.

I'm back and stiffer than ever.

I ate ice cream for breakfast.

After all, I am on summer vacation and we've been eating relatively healthy lately (grilled portabellas last night? grilled salmon two nights ago? did I mention we got a grill?)Also, the ice cream I ate for breakfast was the ice cream that we (ok, Joshua) made last night in our ice cream maker. Unlike my yellow soppy mess that never thickened and was ultimately tossed down the drain, HIS mint chocolate chip ice cream was smooth and creamy and flecked with pieces of chocolate and specks of mint leaves. (As far as edible plants go, we have basil and mint growing and thriving on our windowsills. Also we have a fish visiting us who is currently living next to the basil, but we are not planning on turning him into ice cream). I was so full from dinner that I only had a few bites of ice cream, but this morning it was even richer and yummier than I remembered. Soothing an empty stomach with chocolate and full-fat dairy...we will see if that's really a good idea.

All of these ridiculous summer pleasures - ice cream, grilling out, shucking corn, being outside in the sun and turning all shades of pink and brown - remind me of my childhood. We had a big backyard that was perfect for running and tag as kids, and then for laying out on beach towels when I got older. I remember sitting on the concrete steps that led to our back door and shucking corn into big paper shopping bags, hoping that no one would forget I was there and body slam the door open carrying a big plate of chicken or hamburgers to the grill (this was not an unwarranted fear. It happened all the time).

On Tuesday, my mom called me and asked where I was. This is her fun, stomach-sinking way of alerting me to the fact that she's calling with bad news - given the past few months, my mind was racing ahead to figure out who possibly could have cancer now. But instead she told me that my father had lost his job.

When your father is 50 years old and has struggled for all of his adult life to get ahead of the curves life has thrown at him (and there have been so, so many), I think that the news that he is unemployed is devastating. My dad takes his role as provider incredibly seriously, and on Monday he was called into his boss's office and told that he had two weeks - TWO WEEKS! it's insulting - until he was done there. They are closing his branch of the office, where he is the only salesman. My parents still have a 16 year old at home but as of June 1, neither of them has a job. And it's just so overwhelming and huge and the prospect of job hunting involuntarily at age 50 is demoralizing and frustrating. And here I am in Chicago, with my new grill and my ice cream maker, surrounded by material comfort and all the benefits that a two-income lifestyle afford. Sick to my stomach, because isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

On Monday night, while we were eating our grilled salmon and talking about our memories of childhood summers, I didn't know that my parents were sitting on their couch mourning the loss of what they do. I assumed they'd be flipping chicken on the grill and possibly knocking my brother off the steps because he's the only one left to get stuck shucking corn, and there's still no place to sit.

I know this post is so discombobulated. I wasn't sure if I wanted to write about my parents at all, even though they don't know I have this blog. But I think that it's the only thing on my mind, even though I've tried to block it out with ice cream breakfasts today, and books and movies yesterday. I'm avoiding it, but it won't let me go.

Today, in honor of our second wedding anniversary, I decided to make a special dessert - sweet basil scrambled eggs.

Let's be honest, I was aiming for basil ice cream, but somewhere in the process of heating 8 egg yolks and 4 cups of milk (in my defense - to a precise 175 degrees! and never did it boil!)I made scrambled eggs instead. In one of the greatest displays of optimism I have ever attempted, I then threw it in the ice cream maker anyways. So far, it's still chugging away and the whole thing is disconcertingly yellow (it should be green) and liquid (it should be solidifying). It just goes to prove my suspicions that I am not ready for epicurious. However, I can taste the potential lurking beyond the egg-ness of it all - when my poor hardworking window-ledge basil plant regroups from this tragedy and springs forth new leaves, I'll try basil ice cream again. I will not double the recipe. Or scramble the yolks. Or skip an important "cool-down" step in the recipe that Joshua helpfully pointed out to me after it was all in the ice-cream maker.

The Great Basil Egg Ice Cream Debacle is something that I kind of regret happening on our anniversary. Besides one absolutely horrendous Moroccan eggplant dish I cooked for Joshua the summer we got married, I have surprised myself with a love of cooking and a knack for it. For someone who never wanted to domesticate, finding myself at 23 with a husband and a Kitchen-Aid mixer is sometimes overwhelming, usually surprising, and in all ways a blessing. Until I met Joshua, I had literally never thought about getting married. I was planning on moving to New York City to live in a studio apartment and write the Great American Novel, and maybe get a cat and possibly adopt a baby later in life. By myself. And for those of you who know me now, this sounds absolutely ridiculous - I am clearly fulfilled by my roles as wife, soon-to-be nurse, and future baby mama. I also hate cats and studio apartments, so it wouldn't have worked out anyways. Sorry, NYC.

Joshua and I celebrated four years of togetherness in March, and now we have been married almost as long as we've been a couple. We have had mostly bliss and hilarity - but also sheer exhaustion at the effort it takes to make a marriage and a family and a life together work. We are both fiercely independent people, and compromise does not come easily to us. God has broken our pride through the challenges of marriage, and has softened us both into more compassionate and gracious people. We still manage to do our fair share of whining (me) and complaining (me) and taking our relationship for granted (me again!) but we have also grown so much that sometimes I cannot believe I am still the same girl who walked down the aisle to Etta James singing "At Last". That girl had no idea what a privilege it would be to fall asleep every night next to a loving husband, and also no idea how annoying it would be when that man rolled over and pulled off all her covers. EVERY NIGHT!

To Joshua, the man who pulls off my covers, laughs at my jokes, eats the food that I make (and some that I ruin), supports me, doesn't pull the plug on my Starbucks addiction, gives me space and pulls me close, prays for me and loves me and tries every day to be just a little bit better...

you are my everything and i love you more today than I ever thought possible two years ago...


Sorry about the basil eggs...maybe next year.

Things I Have Learned: Finals Week Edition

- Finals week is incredibly, mind-numbingly, fingernailsonachalkboard agonizingly slow. I am usually in a daze over how quickly Monday through Friday passes. Instead I am in a tizzy over the fact that it is STILL.THURSDAY.

- During the week one needs to study most, one will suddenly lose all motivation, persistence,and drive to succeed.

- However, one will discover a newfound joy in reading celebrity gossip, going to Starbucks to "stay awake", inviting people over for dinner (wha?!) and going to bed early in order to "get up early and study", which really means "get up early and go to Starbucks in order to 'stay awake'". It's a vicious cycle.

- The situation is dire when one decides that instead of grocery shopping and planning for said dinner, one will go to Bath and Body Works to take advantage of the 4 for $10 sale involving antibacterial soap and an overwhelming choice of scents. (in "one's" defense, dinner was excellent and everyone's hands smelled fantastic).

- If the flip top to one's keychain hand sanitizer has become stuck, DO NOT attempt to use your teeth to unstick it. It WILL end up in your mouth, it WILL burn ferociously, and you WILL feel like a complete idiot as you sticks your tongue under the faucet to rinse it off. I think this will remain true even after finals week.

- It is still possible to purchase appropriate cards and presents for two mothers and one grandmother, wrap and mail them on time, and do this on the same day as the Bath and Body Works sale, the grocery shopping, the dinner, and a previously unmentioned employee physical at one's brand spanking new summer job. It is NOT, however, possible to study on this particular day.

- If one has forgotten to wear their Target brand premium plus white strips during the day (due to excessive activities involving other people), an excellent way to multitask is to wear them to bed, set an alarm for 30 minutes later, and then get up, remove the strips, and brush one's teeth. This is really wonderful because one will probably not remember this activity very well the next morning. (Disclaimer!*one's spouse might not find this time saver all that amusing*)

- The craziness and the lack of sleep and the excess caffeine and the scrambling from one activity to the next and the studying and the maladjusted coping are really all worth it when you consider...

I will be done with my junior year in two hours...
I'm 75% done with college as a whole...
by this time next year I'll have a job and a degree...

and there is a bottle of red wine, a long-suffering husband, and Grey's Anatomy waiting to celebrate with me tonight!

Just now, I jumped into bed, grabbed my laptop and textbook and was about to start writing a paper that was due last week and needs to be handed in at 6:45am, after I wake up at 5:45am (yes, it's 10:13 and I'm just starting)...and I'm feeling like something is kind of wrong with the situation...

And it is, because I still have my toothbrush in my mouth. Where I put in 15 minutes before and then proceeded to not brush my teeth but rather just clench it in my jaws of death (and forgetfulness).

This sort of sums up why I have not been blogging lately.

But school is out next week...and I have a job lined up for summer...and a lot more free time...and I will be trying to claw my way back into being a personal favorite of Tricia's.

I am in a spectacularly horrific mood today. I don't know if has to do with the commute from the suburbs we've been experiencing this past week (dogsitting. yeah, we do that), or if it's related to the overwhelming workload of my new class, or if it's all hormonal, or if it's just sleep deprivation (please also see dogsitting). I actually can't remember the last time I've been in one of these please-God-take-me-now moods, where the only thing that sounds good is sitting on the couch in a blanket watching cable and eating cookies and thinking horrible nasty thoughts towards life in general.

There are only six weeks left in the semester, and then I can officially have senioritis. It's so close I can almost feel the heat and the freedom of summer, and the amazing realization that I will NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN. My last time registering for classes, last winter break, last finals week, last time getting up for clinicals at 5 am. I have no delusions of nostalgia right now. This summer, and next year, and especially next summer, cannot come fast enough. Really. I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about our pinning ceremony and graduation and the day I pass NCLEX and the first day I get a paycheck.I know I am getting a little ahead of myself - I still have a whole year of school left to plow through before those days - but I feel like focusing on the light at the end of the tunnel is the only thing keeping me sane. Otherwise I just feel crushed by all the things that are left to do before I can scribble RN, BSN behind my name (and you better believe I will be writing that on every scrap of paper I can get my name on. People are going to have to beg me to stop).

I spent the day at Ikea - which was a horrible idea. I didn't go for myself,I was lured with the promise of free Starbucks to help a friend pick stuff out for her new apartment. Still, when you would like to be curled up in the fetal position and hanging out with the Food Network, Ikea is a nightmare. I am sad to say that I was absolutely no help at all. I kept wandering into different aisles and displays like a four year old looking at all the pretty colors, and all the cheap crap, and all the overwhelming possibilities of self-assembly. I tried at one point to pick out a large flower pot for our apartment (one of our more ambitious plants just outgrew its current home) and then my head fell off and I collapsed in a heap on the floor sobbing with the difficulty of it all.

Ok, no, I didn't. But that was what it FELT like - and so I bought myself coffee and
oatmeal chocolate crisp cookies and tried to sedate myself with sugar and saturated fat (25% of my daily value! In ONE cookie! HOW DO THEY PACK IT ALL IN?!?!). Add in the Chinese takeout we grabbed for lunch, and fast forward to me sitting in my lonely, dog-free apartment with some serious bloating and a headache. I am scrupulously avoiding Other People until I am forced to go to class at 6:30. I am also praying for some perspective and a slightly brighter outlook, because I recently walked passed a mirror and noticed that I looked like death dropping by for a visit. It's not fair for unsuspecting and possibly good-natured people to have to encounter THAT.

In other news, one of the dogs we are feeding and walking and generally keeping alive thought it would be fun to chew up the slippers my mom got me for Christmas. This is a dog that has not chewed anything for the entire week, even alone and uncrated for eight hours a day. Then Joshua stayed there sick today, and instead of being GRATEFUL that someone was there to play with her and let her out five times an hour, what does the dog do? CHEWS MY POOR, HELPLESS SLIPPER.

It just isn't right, people.

Today I woke up and saw that the grass was greener on the other side of the street.

Luckily, it was green on my side as well, and really the whole point was that it was green. Not brown,not cracked and gray and looking sad and defeated, but a real, springtime, St-Paddys-beer color of green. There might not be any leaves yet, I haven't seen a flower yet, but I can see life in the green grass and in the fact that I wore flip flops to school yesterday (and then yes, soaked my bare feet in a March thunderstorm - but it's ok, i painted my toenails hot pink and so it's hard to get me down). All the plants in our house, which are kept alive and thriving by Joshua only, are having growth spurts. The calla lilies that I had no idea were annuals are suddenly 6 inch shoots. I really thought we were keeping that planter of dirt on our windowsill because we were being too lazy to throw it away.

In much more important life-affirming news, my foxy mama is just fine and CANCER FREE. It was a bit of a scary appointment because her first mammogram showed a very large area of density that apparently sent the radiologist into a panic attack. However, on the second, more precise mammogram (which sounded pretty painful and involved some nasty breast-smushing techniques), that dark area turned out to be just dense breast tissue that hadn't been flattened out enough to get an accurate picture. The only bad news is that my mom will probably have these terrifying, "get back in our office before it spreads to your bones" kind of call-backs after her mammograms every year now. The areas of density may change in size and shape and location and she will probably have to always have the Mammogram of Torture to get good pictures. But she is WELL, and healthy.

And then this morning I was reading the news and discovered that Elizabeth Edwards' breast cancer has come back, and is now in her bones. She has two young children and a husband running for president...and just yesterday the doctors told her that at this point, her cancer is no longer curable. Just treatable. Just treatable is an incredibly devastating and inevitable thing to hear. I immediately had the selfish thought that I was so glad my mother was not the one who had THAT appointment yesterday. Then I had the much more appropriate thought that no one's mother should ever have to have that appointment.

Even before my mom's scare, and before Elizabeth Edwards' terrible news, my best friend Amy and I had decided to walk these 60 miles in August. In order to participate in the 3 Day, you have to raise a minimum of $2,200. That's a lot. But I think it will be worth all the letters and phone calls and training and sweat and of course,the absolute psychosis of attempting to walk SIXTY MILES over three days. In AUGUST.

Also, I have these new shoes? These ones?



They are absolutely amazing. I have been working out like crazy, because running in these babies is similar to springing on air (or, what I imagine that to be like) and I think these shoes can take me sixty miles. In fact, I wear these shoes everywhere now and if you know me, I am not exactly a sneakers and jeans kind of girl. Or a tennis shoes and jeans kind of girl either - and they are NOT for tennis and I resent that entire Midwestern term!

In non-cancer and running shoe related news, we've been trying out this radical new lifestyle. It's called...Save Money. I know, it's shocking. We have actually eaten every lunch and dinner at home since Sunday, which has quite possibly never happened before in our lives. Have we eaten a little too much pasta? Yes. But have we also eaten more fruits and vegetables and whole grains than ever before? YES! Unfortunately, the downside of this great marital experiment is that the house looks like a tornado blew through, so I should probably attempt to fix the chaos before my wonderful husband comes home and really starts asking questions about what I do all day.

Which is, of course, work out in my new SNEAKERS and then browse the internet, interspersing homework here and there. SHHHHH....

My aunt died of breast cancer when she was only 28. My mom was 18 at the time, and in the thirty years of life she's lived since then, she's told me that only one situation has compared to the pain of her sister's death. And indirectly, that other situation was caused by her sister's death. So my mom's life has been marked by this incredibly sad and twisted mess that is breast cancer and it's lingering after-effects on the lives of everyone it touches.

About five years ago, another aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was in her early forties, did well with treatment and did not have to have chemotherapy. She's a very private person and did most of her suffering in silence. She didn't want her family to go through it with her. I have to admit that I felt relieved we aren't biologically related, and then felt awful for even thinking of my connection to her personal hell.

This year, on the day my mother-in-law broke her ribs and settled in for an extended stay on my couch, my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. In her case, it was small and slow-growing. She's already had surgery, which was so successful that she may not even need the radiation treatments she was originally dreading. She is in her eighties, very cheerful, and she and my grandfather are determined to get through this together.

Today, my mom emailed to tell me that her mammogram was inconclusive and she needs to go back for a consult and another mammogram. I know this is not as serious as a panicked phone call telling her she needs a biopsy, and I know that she is religious about her mammograms - so whatever is there, if anything, must be small and new. However, that does not change the fact that I stopped breathing when I read those words. My mother already has lupus and sjogrens. In other words, all the autoimmune diseases a woman needs. The logical, nursing school part of my brain is telling me to slow down and put things in perspective - many, many mammograms have to be redone and there are a hundred reasons they might need a better picture. Operator error? But another part of me is already galloping down this road called Cancer, wondering if her immune system could handle chemo? Could my parents - who have one kid in college and another about to graduate, with my dad in a new job and my mom not always healthy enough to work - even afford it?

It is at times like this that I think my faith should sustain me, but instead it fails me. Even if my mom doesn't have breast cancer, which I am praying for desperately, this is a reminder that at some point I will lose her. Hopefully, to the quiet of old age and a full life. But even the idea that there is uncertainty - that something more vicious might rear up and take her instead - drives me wild. It seems so unfair. Cancer has already snatched my aunt, Joshua's uncle and several of his grandparents and other relatives. It's this fear looming over my head. 28 is not too far away for me...I can't imagine dying of cancer before I reach 30.

I can barely fathom my mom having cancer before 50.



see? she's way too foxy for cancer.

Last night, I was supposed to be studying for my 8am, 20% of my grade, use-it-or-lose-it 100 question OB final. I am a horrible study-er (is it studier? that sounds like I am more of a "stud" than others, which is obviously also true). Anyways, because I am so bad at studying, I did several other activities like: search Craigslist, stalk bloggers, hang out in the library hoping to catch a glimpse of motivation, and then go out to Chilis in the suburbs to have dinner with Joshua's dad, who flew into town for a whirlwind meeting with the Higher-Ups at his company. I also managed to read a wonderfully humorous book that Mel lent to me, entitled Marley and Me. I highly recommend it - it's hilarious, easy to read, and if you love dogs like I do (especially labs!), you will love it.

Now I am going to go ahead and ruin the entire ending of the book, so if you are desperate to read about Marley with any hint of a surprise ending, STOP HERE.

Ok,you were warned. Here's the thing - MARLEY DIES. Since this is a memoir, you might think I saw this major plot twist coming, but I was just plowing through the book happily, chuckling at the many misadventures of this out of control animal. There were signs that death was impending; his stomach flipped, the vet mentioned putting him down (yeah, I know, that one should have been a BIG CLUE), and the author noticed Marley aging for pretty much the last 4 chapters. By this point, I should have been emotionally ready to say good-bye to this dog that I had never met.

Or not. If you are going to read this book, please come more prepared than I was - a box of tissues should do it. We were supposed to be getting ready to go out to dinner while I was finishing the book (who am I kidding, I was supposed to be STUDYING), but instead I was sitting at the dining room table CRYING.MY.EYES.OUT. Not a sniffle, sniffle sort of "oh, that's too bad" cry. This was the heaving, gasping, sort of crying that I usually associate with the end of Forrest Gump - you know, when he's standing at Jenny's grave and telling her how smart little Forrest is?

I never had a dog growing up (my brother's allergic, my dad's ambivalent, and we lived in a shoebox), but my grandfather always had Labs like Marley - Hunting dogs with lots of energy who are absolutely devoted to their owners and become as much a part of the family as any parent or child. My mom still tears up talking about the many dogs who were part of her childhood. Last year, my brother finally broke my father down and convinced him that despite the threat of asthmatic asphyxiation, his life would not be complete without a dog. Unfortunately, the dog Aaron brought home was a lab/pit bull mix who looked a little too pit bull and had way too much energy for the shoebox and the neighborhood. Yes, the pit bull breed suffers discrimination, and I don't want to talk about that here. Basically, my parents' homeowners insurance said, "Ditch the dog, or we ditch you."

Sunny the Discriminated Pit Bull slept on Aaron's bed. He went to bed when Aaron went to bed, and woke up with him. He followed him through the house and stuck his nose to the window when he was gone to look for him. He would run off for different reasons, but check back at the window every few minutes. When a car pulled in the driveway, he was so deliriously happy that someone was back to play with him, he would run circles around the kitchen until he slid into the stove. He would catch a glimpse of his tail behind him and instead of just chasing it in a circle, he would leap backwards into the air to "catch it". He was a wonderful, friendly dog whose only mistake was being born a stereotype. The day Aaron had to give Sunny away was the worst day of his life - if anything will make a 19 year old boy cry like that, it's a dog. He didn't speak to my parents for weeks. We still do not mention that dog's name around him.

So if you can handle the fact that Marley is going to kick it (luckily after a very long, very adventurous life), I think everyone who has ever loved a dog should read this book. We already know that the first thing we're doing after I graduate - and I mean that very afternoon - is getting a puppy. Getting your first dog as a couple seems like the ultimate grown-up activity to me. (Kids are the ultimate terrifying grown-up activity that we are currently postponing, much to the dismay of the in-laws).

I am so tempted to name our future dog Marley.

Why does Monday always come so quickly?

We had a wonderful weekend that started with two amazing culinary experiences. First, we braved the wind advisory to find parking in Lincoln Square on a Friday night to pick up the Indian food I've been craving since my horrible illness (Dear vegetable korma and aloo paratha bread, I love you forever). Then, while I waited for our food, Joshua ran up to CVS to grab a bottle of wine to bring to our friends'apartment,and he found Our Favorite Wine. Not only was this the first time in almost a year that we have been able to find this amazing, velvety, perfect Pinot Noir (CVS! Of all places!), the bottle wasn't labeled and the cashier gave it to him for $12.99. Approximately 50% off - so who cares that pinot isn't exactly the drink of choice with spicy curry?

Because we are such hip young twentysomethings who live in a exciting city and just love to partyparty, we stayed in and played Disney Scene It. And because my girly friends love wine that I love to hate (please see: anything in the zinfindel or blush families), that pinot was all me and Joshua. Which worked out fine until we decided to ratchet Disney up a notch and turn it into a drinking game ("What? You mean you didn't know that Pocahontas takes place in Jamestown, VA? Take a shot!") Miraculously, I won - must be all the babysitting - but as it turns out, the excitement of even a fabulous pinot and a fabulous dinner can be offset by shooters of Malibu and Coke. I went to bed at 2am and slept til noon and I can honestly say it was the laziest and most satisfying sleep I've had since Christmas break.

Saturday was a blur of laundry and an impromptu dinner at home with Joshua's sister and my friend Emily. I made angel hair pasta with the same chunky vegetable sauce I've been making for weeks and yet I still want it EVERY NIGHT. The only absolute mandatory ingredients are corn (fresh? frozen? who cares?) and feta cheese (thrown in AT THE LAST MINUTE) everything else is whatever you've got laying around. On Saturday, it was canned organic whole tomatoes, and green, red, and yellow peppers. Saute or roast all the veggies (roasting is so much better, but we didn't have the time after the laundry took forever!) and then simmer them down into a "sauce". The corn stays crunchy and the tomatoes stay sweet and the feta is salty and crumbly and oh my gosh I want to go make another pot of this right this very second.

Unfortunately, what I am really doing this very second is packing up my stuff in the computer lab at school and preparing for my very informative presentation in gym class on HPV. So far, people have presented on rather safe topics like hypertension and chiropractors. I'm hoping to go out with a bang - and nothing's more banging than a STD that up to 65% of the American population has and doesn't know it!

All that's keeping me going today is Muscle Pump at 4:30 and Paula Deen's Taco Soup!

I haven't written a post in a few days because I've been, um, kinda coughing up blood and stuff?

I'm going to skip the gory details, but the short version is I developed a bad upper respiratory infection that left me hacking and spitting for days (days in which I DID NOT SKIP CLINICAL) Then I hacked up some "blood-tinged sputum", a fun and slightly alarming term I have so far only used in the context of patients. (Since this is really the biggest thing I've got going on in my life right now, you can see why I've been staying away from blogging, right?)

Today, I went over to my local Really Crappy Neighborhood Hospital, where I had unfortunate encounters with both reception staff, med students, and a snappy arrogant resident who's "really interested in dermatology and could you just indulge me a minute? I could prescribe you erythromyocin/benzoyl peroxide cream that would really clear up your face."

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was at the dermatologist. I thought I was at a FAMILY PRACTICE because I've been COUGHING UP BLOOD.

This was after the very pretty and slightly greasy med student told me that my throat was red and I might have, and I quote, "something called strep throat". SOMETHING CALLED STREP THROAT. Because I am a third year nursing student who might have missed Strep Throat Day in class? Because I took microbiology and in fact spent a good deal of time staring at streptococcus itself? Because I have never been an American kid who got this mysterious strep throat every single winter?

Then Dr. Dermatologist also made some snitty, asinine remarks which I don't want to go into in great detail, but involved my birth control, my safe sex practices, and my history of pap smears. Again, clearly related to my sore throat, fever, and bloody cough. Apparently, he's horrified that I'm married in my early twenties. I know, it's so rude of me to have found someone to be happy with when I could have been learning how to pop zits and humiliate patients?

Fun times. Anywhoo, the blood didn't seem too concerning to him, although he did say it could possibly be tuberculosis and wow, that would suck. He said the possibility was remote, which was the only nice thing he said to me, and offered to prescribe me robitussin with codeine, which I politely declined. I'm sick, but I don't need codeine.So I went home, feeling pissed but also relieved that I am not actually dying.

And then.

And then tonight I coughed up a lot of blood.

But I'm currently watching Grey's Anatomy and just decided that I need to put this out of my mind for a few minutes and see which Grey makes into the Great Beyond.

Yesterday, I realized there are some very important issues that need to be addressed here on my blog. The State of the Blog, if you will. Yes, I only have 12 posts and no, I don't think any of them are earth-shattering revelations. Mostly whining, but isn't narcissism really the reason most of us blog in the first place?

But here's the thing - this blog is actually a secret. Not from my husband, or even from a lot of my friends (hello, Tricia, Erin, and Timmy). But it's a secret from my family, my in-laws,my classmates, my school...some of my good friends know I have a blog, but they don't know what it's called, and they are not the kind of people to read or write one themselves and therefore don't look at mine.

My mother-in-law found my old blog. She found it through my sister-in-law, and pretty soon they were printing out entries, and she was checking through my archives, and I got scared and stopped writing there. I read back through every post,and for some miraculous reason I had never written anything horribly snarky about my in-laws, about sex, about alcohol, or my high school escapades that could have easily filled out an episode or nine of Girls Gone Wild. My mother-in-law actually thinks I am very funny,and I think she enjoyed my adventures in nursing school and newlywedded-ness. That's nice. But in this blog I use words like "bitches". In my real life, I occasionally drink to excess (um, please see last night) and I am a bleeding-heart liberal and you better believe I will be writing about the election (a woman and a black man fighting it out for the Democratic nomination, politics does not GET any better than this). Call me chicken, but I am not at the point in my life where I want to defend myself on these things - not to my in-laws and also not to my own family.

Ever since I was little, writing has been "my thing". One of my short stories is still used in the elementary school I attended, as an example of what 4th grade writing could be. A poem about Jesus that I wrote in 3rd grade won a blue ribbon in a creative writing contest, and everyone in my family still knows all the words. I am reminded of that poem - creatively entitled A Candle in the Darkness - every time I go home. I think I am supposed to have written a best-seller by now.Probably about Jesus.

My parents are 110% supportive of me being in nursing school and becoming a nurse practitioner. They supported me when I didn't go to college right away, and they supported me when I moved 3,000 miles away at age 19 and got engaged a week later to someone they had only met once. But I think they still wonder why I'm not writing, and I don't know if they even know what a blog is. It's certainly words on a page, and I definitely wrote them, so I think that counts. It's pressure on me that I know they don't intend, but it's also a lifetime of people telling me what I'm good at and I don't like being told anything, really. It's so strange - why do we feel so comfortable throwing it all out there for strangers, when we are really hiding from our own families?

(I just re-read that last line and realized it was so Carrie Bradshaw that I am a little sick inside. I was going to delete it, but I could just hear Sarah Jessica Parker's voice as she typed away on her little old-school Mac and I'm going to keep it in here, just as an homage to the fact that I've watched every single episode of Sex and the City approximately 27 times.)

I think I've exhausted the State of the Blog. After all, I slapped a picture of my smiling face on here, so if anyone happens to stumble across this page - well, I would be the worst-kept secret since Hilary Clinton's presidential ambitions. Also, I mentioned that last night I drank to excess. We had some friends over for dinner, which involved two roasted chickens, practically every dish we own, six bottles of wine, a hookah, the first season of Boston Legal, and a glorious ending where I fell asleep on the couch and missed the part where our friends left. This morning, Joshua made me french toast (yeah, he's amazing) and then ran off to band practice leaving me with the mess that accumulates when you make two roasted chickens, drink your own personal bottle of wine, and have to get carried to bed by your (slightly) more responsible spouse.

So...I don't have time to write anymore. I'll be doing the dishes for months.

I hate being let down by food.

There are a few foods that never let me down - chocolate, just by virtue of its chocolate-ness, oatmeal crisp cookies from Ikea,Alaska maki from just about anywhere,lobster from Maine, homemade pesto, big slabs of mozzarella with tomatoes in the summer and my grandmother's cinnamon buns. Other, less gourmet items that never let me down include Coke (not diet, that is for whiners and people who don't know that aspartame is spelled c-a-n-c-e-r), any kind of fried potato item available, and whipped cream straight from the can.

Unfortunately, I did not eat even one of those things for lunch today.I did eat the glorious, chocolate-y, crispy, Ikea cookies yesterday when we went there to buy six of these:



- the cheapest and loveliest dining room chairs you ever did see. But now I'm getting off the subject.

What I did eat today (and I'm taking my sweet time getting to it, apparently) was this:


The whole-wheat version. Why does whole wheat pasta have to be SO BAD? We eat 100% whole wheat bread, muffins, I even bake with 100% whole wheat flour! I believe in whole grains very strongly, but why does the pasta have to suck? It's just so...whole. And so...wheaty. And so brown, which is not at all attractive with the white and creamy cheddar sauce. I love Annie's, so much in fact that I just close my eyes and avoid the fat content as I dump milk and butter and dehydrated cheese into my "petite shells". How can you not love 100% organic comfort food with real cheddar cheese and a name like petite shells?

Well, you can hate it if it's whole-wheat, that's for sure. Joshua and I eat very healthy (ok, we eat fast food when I haven't been grocery shopping, and that's unfortunately often). I even buy organic ketchup and peanut butter because I do firmly believe it's better for us and the environment. I check for trans fat and partially hydrogenated oils and I make our own salad dressing. Our spinach is organic, we hardly ever eat red meat (hello, cheddarburgers). I guess I cannot emphasize enough that we like healthy, whole foods, and it makes me very angry that I cannot jump on the whole wheat pasta bandwagon because it LOOKS like a fun time, and yet it is actually blech.

I am comforting myself with the fact that I only bought one box, it was on sale,and I brought home enough reliable food from the grocery store that I think I can whip up a slightly more satisfying dinner. Also, I have chocolate.

It's snowing here in Chicagoland. As a matter of fact, we are actually having a real, bundle up and break out your lawn chairs to save your parking spot kind of Chicago snowstorm. For some people, particularly those under the age of 18, this is a day of great joy because almost all the schools around here are cancelled (although not the world-renowned Chicago Public School system because they seem to have some official policy that resembles that of the US Postal Service - come wind or snow or sleet, whatever, you truants get to class!). However, if you happen to be a college student who PAYS for the education, particularly a nursing student who pays EXTRA, get over it because even if there is heavy snow with 40 mph gusts of winds? That's right, you are going to clinical.

In my defense, I tried to go to clinical. I dragged myself out of bed early to maniacally check the weather and school cancellations. I prayed for my clinical instructor to call and just tell me to go back to my warm and heavenly bed; the roads were bad and it would be dangerous to drive 20 miles to the suburbs. In the dark. Of course, that call never came, but one of the girls in my clinical group did call to say her car wouldn't start.

In the irony that is my life, I assured her I could pick her up, then went out to the car to discover mine wouldn't start either. Seriously. It always starts. Eventually that old beast roared to life, only to sputter out. Then start again, hesitantly. Eventually Joshua and I decided to give it a whirl around the block just to make sure I could make it.

This is the part of the story where I should mention that both Joshua and I have a torrid love affair with bad weather. He missed his calling as a meterologist, but makes up for it with breathless updates on any and all storms in all areas of the country.
("Babe! It's hailing in Tennessee. It's the size of golf balls!"
"Joshua, do we know anyone in Tennessee?"
"No, but the HAIL! Is the size of GOLF BALLS!")
Anyways, I grew up in on the East Coast, which I like to mention excessively, but in this case it's appropriate because we know snow back east. I absolutely love a good dumping of snow, but I narrowly escaped death on small New England highways in whiteouts several times, so I have a complex about driving in it. And Joshua likes the weather to be as badass and dangerous as possible in order to AVOID having to go out in it.

So there we were, in the Little Car That Wouldn't, slipping down the side roads of our neighborhood while I talked to all the poor people I am responsible for bringing to clinicals. Then we thought - let's see how the main roads are! I pulled a left turn onto the main road...and kept turning left...and the back of the car kept sliding to the right...and voila!

Perpendicular to the road. I called my clinical instructor and told her that I had made one left turn that morning, which had turned into one spectacular spin-out, and sorry, but we're not coming.

This is of course, a drama, because I have not yet figured out how to escape drama. How will we make up clinicals? Do we have to pay our instructor? - yes, they told us this would be a possibility if we couldn't make it. What if we have no money to pay our instructor? How can our instructor force us to pay when we almost took a spin into The Great Beyond at 6am? (what if that last question was also a little bit dramatic and slightly blown out of proportion?)

And why the hell haven't they cancelled our night classes?

I am not a "product" girl. I have makeup, but most of it's from Target, and I have moisturizer, also from Target, and I have facewash, and it might be from Walgreens, but most likely Target. Last year, my mother-in-law gave me a giftcard to Sephora and while I absolutely adore the idea of being a product girl, clearly I am not cut out for it because Sephora gives me serious anxiety. You just walk in, and everything is So!Cute! and the packaging is adorable, and the choices are endless, and it all costs over twenty dollars, which means it must be really, totally worth it. Yet somehow, all this adds to up to just make things confusing for me.

So, I have not really bought much makeup or other girl products since that overwhelming trip. I did, however, score some good stuff back then- Benefit Bad Gal Lash mascara and Nars blush in Orgasm. I mean, who could say no to a mascara called Bad Gal? And a blush called ORGASM?!? Talk about spicing up your life. Unfortunately, I also bought this really disappointing all-in-one concealer and foundation that didn't really conceal, but it did a super job of turning my face orange. This is when things get depressing. I moved on to Neutrogena pressed powder that again, had an orange-y tint and was only slightly better at concealing my blemishes (i may be getting older, but my skin is still hanging out in adolescence) Then I upgraded to Clinique. Um, orange again? Check. When I was home at Christmas, I stole one of my mom's Cover Girl powders - she keeps about 4 colors on hand for I have no idea why _ and although it was a nasty consistency and had basically no concealing power, it did not turn me orange.

But just today, I discovered that there is still hope for me to become a product girl, and this hope was discovered at the Prescriptives counter in Macys, where a lovely girl named Maggie introduced me to CUSTOM-BLENDED POWDER. Yes, your wildest dreams can come true, and if your wildest dreams are anything like mine and include getting rid of an orange chin line forever, you are in luck. Well, let's talk about how this stuff is amazing. First they find your underlying skin tone using these little concealer sticks - it turns out that mine is blue/red. But almost all makeup is made with a yellow/orange base. Hence, the sweet potato color I've been sporting for years is actually not my fault. No one ever told me this! Then, they dump out a powder base onto this slick white slab, chop up carefully selected color pigments and mix it all in (which IS strangely reminiscent of Coldstone) and,voila! The perfect color. They can even add oil-control or moisturizer or whatever you need to your powder. You get to take home a big tub of the loose powder, and then they press part of it into a compact. And it lasts for A YEAR.

Even Joshua was very impressed. I was practically falling out of my little stool, and I may have told Maggie that I loved her and quite possibly I made a big fool of myself over pressed (and loose!) powder. Pressed AND loose! And in the perfect color! Does life GET ANY BETTER?!?!

Yes it does, because they give this gloriousness to you in a special bag that says Custom-Blended Powder on the outside, so everyone knows how fabulous and smart you were to buy this product. So, if you live in the Chicagoland area, and can find your way to Old Orchard Mall, ask for Maggie at the Prescriptives counter in Macys and she will chop up a powder just for you.

Oh, and Oprah uses it too.