Shrink Unwrapped

Teaser!

2013-04-16T13:58:17Z

Readers, the flow from the Muse seems to be going into my dancing feet instead of my keyboarding fingers. Post pending.

Meanwhile— Woot! Woot!— guest posted on Later Bloomer, a lively and inspiring blog by Debra Eve aptly subtitled: Inspiration For Your Creative Second Act. Check it out!

April Fools!

2013-03-30T16:59:54Z

my back yard lilac and forsythia

Spring Forward? Give thanks for the time change? Not me. And that's not the only reason I don't like spring. Let me count the ways.

All that bright light gives me a migraine.

Between the sun beating on my eyelids, the birds hollering, and the young-married whippersnapper next door d-i-y-ing it with hammer and chopsaw, who can sleep in?

When the snow melts, the yard is— an eye sore. Gardening. Some people love it. Which reminds me.

Mud. Tracked in the house. Daily.

One day it’s cold. One day warm. I’m either under-dressed or over-dressed. Shivering or sweating.

Mid-March, the sky dumps a foot of snow the day I dance with the troupe for the first time at a fundraiser. Wearing heavy weather boots and down coat over ankle length costume, I trip on all that fabric climbing the steps into the building. Almost tossed my wig catching myself. I have a temper. Especially when I’m a red head.

Passover, and ten days of matzo. Which morphs to concrete in the colon. That’s why it’s called the Bread of Affliction. And/or a guilt-by-association Easter plunge back into chocolate/jelly bean addiction. Well, relapse is part of recovery.

The first of two (global) peak incidences of depression (the second in fall). Sicker patients at the office. More patients paging after hours. That’s why shrinks practice medicine. God forbid I get out of practice.

Spring cleaning. I found myself slogging through six years’ worth of paperwork mounded on my home “desk.” Why? Act of God? Brain blow-out? Who knows. I couldn't stop. Hours of decisions ended up shredded in five garbage bags. It was horrible. When the desk grows another paper pustule, I'm not touching it.

Taxes.

People EVERYWHERE, faces turned up to the sun, biking, jogging, walking around, cluttering up the landscape.

On the up side, spring too shall pass. Besides, it’s not all bad. There’s the student dance recital coming up. And Son’s May Day birthday, his twentieth. Talk about spring green.

The troupe’s next gig, we’re the half-time entertainment at the May “bout” (a.k.a. game) of the local, all-girl, roller derby club. That ought to be wild and clashy. Like spring.

Spring snow—

Kids in shorts and sneaks,

no socks

Tripping Over The Light Fantastic

2013-03-06T02:20:40Z

One belly dance performance and I was smitten. I fell like a load of dirt off the back of a dump truck. Forget being fifty and my little insecurities. I had to do it.

Seven years later of twice a week classes, I’ve improved. Given I'm a geezer with no dance experience, that’s not saying much.

Still. I can do hip drops, figure eights and hip circles, mostly on tempo. I can slide my ribcage side to side. I can pod my belly in and out, no problem. My arms are way better. But undulations, those snakey torso ripples that are so cool and so belly dancerish, no.

I'll figure it out over the next few years. After that, I’ll take on walking while undulating, in time to the music. The project is worthy of deep thought, as fascinating an intellectual challenge as any. It’ll keep me busy in my old age.

In January, my teacher up-ended this retirement plan. She invited me to join her troupe as a junior member. Effective immediately.

I didn’t see it coming. But being mature, I blurted: “But. But. Am I good enough?”

Simultaneously, inside, a dancing child sprang out from under five decades of sludge and shouted, SHUT UP! She’ll change her mind! She’ll take it back!

That dancing child didn’t care it didn’t make sense. Her heart’s desire was affirmed.

And here I thought my heart’s desire was to write. Turns out, that’s a fairly recent aspiration, say three, maybe four decades old. To dance, that’s the primal longing. And I didn't know it. Or more accurately, had forgotten. Till now.

My Self hissed, Way to go! Question the teacher!

A troupe member saved me, “Well, do you want to dance with us or not?”

Duh. “Yes!”

I can't believe my good fortune and my new role in life: the slow one. Smarts are useless and words fail me. I am so lost. And found.

~Not a shred of evidence exits in favor of the idea that life is serious. Brendan Gill

PHOTO CREDIT: SriHarshaPVSS

Wintertime And The Cooking Is Easy

2013-02-24T16:53:46Z

Photo from The Daily Soup Cookbook. My soup/stew mentor.When I throw a couple cups of beans in the slow cooker insert, along with a chunk of meat straight from the freezer (or not, if I’m in a vegetarian mood), salt, a bay leaf, and water; cover and set it to Low (8 – 10 hours), that’s Phase One.

Slow cooker cooking delivers food so tasty, it’s hard to believe it’s so easy.

Phase Two: Sauté diced onions, garlic, savories and spices. Add the sauté to the beans/stock. Do this sooner or, later. Doesn’t matter.

Phase Three: Go about your business for six, eight, ten hours. Return to mouth-watering aromas. Eat.

What’s not to love? No effort: quick prep, no babysitting, quick clean up. Perfect, whether you’re busy or lazy.

No recipe. Of course, you can use one. But use it as a guide and reference, rather than a mathematical formula. Less planning equals more playing with your food.

No worries. Whatever you do, it’s always right. How can that be? You’ll see.

On to Phase 2, the fun part, creating the flavor palette. What’s in my fridge? A few green peppers that aren’t getting any fresher. Onions and celery. In the pantry, dried thyme and white pepper. Cajun would work.

What else have I got? A jar of left-over canned chiptole peppers in adobo sauce. These lovelies are long-lived, but not immortal. With garlic, canned diced tomatoes, the green peppers, and herbs from the produce freezer, Mexican would work better. Mexican it is.

Produce freezer? Yes. Out in the garage. It’s packed with zip-lock baggies of green beans, chard, corn, herbs o’plenty and more. When you belong to a CSA, as I do, if you’re smart, you cache the fall gold in the freezer. I was so smart this past harvest, I’m overwhelmed.

Well, I don’t have to decide now. I take baggies of frozen cilantro and oregano back to the kitchen.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, I add to the insert a sauté of onions, garlic, oregano, cilantro, chipotle peppers in adobo, chili powder, hot sauce and canned tomatoes. Some more salt, a few grinds of pepper. I don’t worry about measuring. I’ll adjust the seasons later.

I go to work. I run errands. When I return, the house is redolent with the heady perfume of slow cooking.

Before I even take off my coat, I lift the lid off the slow cooker and inhale, deeply. Taste. Needs salt. Maybe a little vinegar. Some veggies. I drown frozen chard and corn in the gently bubbling braise, and cover. I go take off my coat, change out of my work clothes.

With a wooden spoon, I mix the now-thawed chard and corn into the simmering velvety liquid thick with dissolved and broken-up beans. The meat has disappeared off the bone. I taste, adjust seasonings, tell Hubby and Son to quit crowding me.

Son sets the table. Hubby fills water glasses and pulls hot sauce from the fridge. I serve up bowls of fragrant stew. I haven’t been home thirty minutes.

Mmmmm. Wintertime, and the eating is easy.

No-Effort No-Recipe Slow Cooker Stew

Phase 1: Stock Base

Chunk of meat (Optional.) Beef. Pork. Venison. Sausage. Whatever you have on hand. Frozen, or not.
Beans, brown rice, potatoes or squash
Water or stock, fill insert 2/3 full
Salt and pepper
Bay leaf
Set on Low for 8 – 10 hours of cooking, High for 6 – 8.

Phase 2: Flavor Base Sauté (List not exhaustive!):

Italian: onions, garlic, canned diced tomatoes, bay leaf, basil, oregano.
Indian: onions, garlic, ginger, hot peppers, curry spices, cilantro, canned diced tomatoes.
Chinese: garlic, ginger, sherry, soy sauce.
Mexican: onions, garlic, fresh or smoked chili peppers, canned diced tomatoes, chili powder, oregano, cilantro.
Continental: onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms, bay leaf, thyme, wine.
Cajun/Creole: onions, celery, green peppers, thyme, white pepper.
Barbeque: onion, garlic, ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, canned diced tomatoes, coriander, cumin.

Veggies (can be part of sauté or, add raw):
- Slow cooking (squash, carrots, cabbage, turnips, potato): add early.
- Fast cooking (greens, green beans, broccoli, pasta): add an hour (or less) before finish.

Phase 3: Walk away!

If you’re around, occasionally give a stir and a taste, adjust salt and seasonings. If not, no worries.
Before serving, adjust seasonings, add acids (vinegar, lemon juice), fresh herbs (basil, cilantro, dill), and/or sauces (hot, soy) to taste.

Bon appétit!

Sick? Make this No-Effort No-Recipe Sick Soup

Phase 1: Add brown rice and salt to slow cooker insert. Fill 2/3 full with water (or stock). Set to High (6 – 8 hours).

Phase 2: If you’re really sick, don’t bother sauté-ing the flavor base. Just coarsely dice your veggies and toss them in raw.
- Sauté diced onion, garlic, ginger, carrots, cabbage, and whatever greens or other veggies you have on hand. (Meat option: brown a little burger in the sauté.)
- Add to insert.

Phase 3: Walk away. Get in bed. Drink lots of ginger lemon tea.
- After you stagger out of bed to visit the bathroom, go give a stir. Add water if the soup gets too thick.
- At end, season to taste with whatever condiments appeal. (Meat option: add left-over meat, chicken or fish.)

Eat and get well.

Wedding Ring Scare Or, Happy Valentine’s Day From The Universe

2013-02-11T15:43:48Z

I walked over to Hubby reading at the dining room table, lunch plate shoved to one side, book resting on crumbs and a crumpled napkin. He looked up at me. “You OK?”

I leaned against his side, laid my arm across his back and my cheek on his head. He pressed closer. A low moan escaped me.

We had just spent an hour looking for my very beautiful wedding ring, a handcrafted original, like us. Together, we had bought this ring and Hubby’s, also an original, twelve years ago on our eighteenth. In celebration and affirmation of our doom: only death would part us now.

I found it at the bottom of my bag. It must have slid off my finger last night when I shoved my wallet in after paying the waiter.

That had never happened before, it slipping off my finger. What if, when we arrived at the restaurant, it had pulled off with my glove? And fallen to the floor? Without my noticing? I’d never have seen it again. How lucky it had fallen in my purse.

It was lucky too, that I found it there. It could have been marooned for years because I rarely change purses. That’s the down side of being orderly.

If something isn’t where it’s supposed to be, it’s lost, and so am I. Never more so than with this ring. I keep track of it with a vigilance that is a daily reminder that attachments are a joy, a risk and a nuisance.

After I wash and dry my hands, the ring still holds a little water, which chafes lightly, multiple times a day, every day. Lotion gunks up its sparkly beauty. I forgo applying some when I’m in a hurry. If I forget to replace the ring on my finger, I might also forget where I took it off.

Before sleep, I remove all my jewelry, always placing the ring on its little plate in its designated place. Not finding it there came as a body blow. How is it I didn’t notice it was missing when I stripped off my earrings and necklace?

It wasn’t in any of the logical, alternate places. I systematically tossed wastebaskets and the kitchen garbage. Searching, searching, I felt increasingly hopeless. “It’s somewhere in the house, don’t worry,” Hubby reassured me.

It’s only a ring, I reminded myself. It’s irreplaceable, my heart squeezed.

I turned on the hall light, and again pulled my wallet from my purse. Again unzipped the change pocket (where I stash the ring on the rare occasions I take it off outside the house), shook the change around in the light— No, not there— opened my bag to replace the wallet and the light hit the bottom just so. I looked down and there it was. Sitting on black leather, a sparkly golden O.

My chest released and opened and only then did I know how deeply grieved I’d been.

“I don’t like what I went through, thinking it was gone,” I breathed on Hubby’s hairline.

He slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Sweetie, it’s only a ring.”

I held on to his solid warmth that much tighter, “I know.”

behind bare branches,

the night sky black velvet

pricked with white…

Holiday Travails. An Interview With I. M. Trapt, M.D.

2013-01-28T15:39:56Z

January 2013, Docs Amongst Us, human interest subsidiary of DweebMD. Dee Essemfour interviews I. M. Trapt, M.D., shrink, researcher and regular contributor to the esteemed science journal, Family Hell.

DE: So, Dr. Trapt, did you follow your own advice, and stay away from family over the holidays?

IMT: Of course not. Usually we spend only a week with my side in Atlanta. But this year, we added a second to take a cruise with Hubby’s. Fourteen consecutive days. I barely survived.

DE: How come? Don’t get along?

IMT: (laughs) More like, too much of a good thing. I’m used to lots of solitude. I didn’t get any. The withdrawal— I don’t want to talk about it. But, speaking of horror: I’m done flying.

DE: Oh? Problem with your flights?

IMT: When isn’t there a problem? You know shell shock? With this last trip, I got flight shock.

DE: What happened?

IMT: Went to check-in on-line the day before departure to find— Excuse me, to NOT find our flight. Vanished. Gone. Poof.

DE: No!

IMT: Eliminated. Without notice. We’re talking two days before Christmas. I couldn’t breathe. My heart raced. I actually left my body, to hover up by the ceiling. I watched myself stare at the laptop screen.

DE: Were you able to rebook?

IMT: Oh sure. If we flew on the 27^th. Given we were departing Atlanta for Ft. Lauderdale on the 28^th, I seriously considered it.

DE: Ha! What’d you do?

IMT: I flashbacked. I raged. I rented a car one-way.

DE: You drove the eleven hundred miles to Atlanta?!

IMT: Not me. Hubby.

DE: Gotcha. Mine’s like that too.

IMT: It was awesome! Hubby kept his pocketknife, Son kept his electronic devices turned on and I kept my seat in the unlocked and reclined position. And, no smarmy pilot announcements thanking us for the honor of screwing us!

DE: That’s a long drive.

IMT: But it passed so… naturally.

DE: What do you mean?

IMT: There’s something surreal, don’t you think, about departing in subzero snow and a few hours later deplaning in subtropical sun?

DE: (dropping her voice into Rod Serling register) “…Your next stop... the Twilight Zone.” DOO doo DOO doo, DOO doo DOO doo….

IMT: (laughs) Right! As we drove south through four temperature zones, the snow became sleet became rain. When we arrived two days later in Atlanta, it was clear in the low fifties. The sun set at five forty five! Instead of four thirty. My body said, Flying is for the birds!

DE: Ha!

IMT: My twelve-year old nephew kept texting for updates. Location, weather, jokes, photos, puns, mileage countdown, you name it, we texted it!

DE: So what about that cruise?

IMT: My in-laws took our family and Hubby’s sister’s family on a cruise in honor of their 60^th. They still get along! Can you imagine? What an achievement!

DE: Congrats to your in-laws!

IMT: It was a three-generation extravaganza.

DE: Where did you go?

IMT: The Caribbean: Puerto Rico, St. Martin and St. Thomas. Seven days of heat, sun, humidity, and glittering teal water. Around the islands anyway.

DE: Nice!

IMT: Basking like a lizard on the balcony taking in the horizon-less blue of the Atlantic, great food whenever we wanted to eat, room tidied twice a day, staff on tap for every demand, what’s not to love, right?

DE: Don’t tell me you didn’t.

IMT: Oh, I did! For two days.

DE: Then what?

IMT: I felt… like Woody Allen getting his shoes shined against his will.

DE: Explain.

IMT: Say I wanted ice in the room. It wasn’t an option to get it myself. I had to call room service. While waiting for delivery, I’d read a Matt Helm by Donald Hamilton.

DE: I don’t know that author.

IMT: Too bad! Excellent 60’s noir. Gritty, with lashings of tongue-in-cheek. So, Matt finds himself looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, held by his partner— Tap tap. It’s the room attendant, empty-handed. He smiles, I smile, he requests the ice bucket, I hand it over, Thank you Madame, Oh, thank you. Matt drags the body out of the line of sight from the window, stashes his partner’s gun in his waistband and— Tap tap. We exchange polite smiles, I accept the ice, Thank you so much, My pleasure Madame.

DE: I don’t see the problem.

IMT: There was no escape from the “luxury” of waiting, being interrupted, making nice and having no purpose! The rub became agonizing, like not being able to change out of wet jeans.

DE: What’d you do?

IMT: You mean, besides surrender? Well, when I wasn’t visiting, eating or snoozing, I people watched. Paying customers. Staff: room attendants, entertainers, wait staff, the peons and bosses. The interactions. Everybody with an agenda. Nothing like being trapped on the open ocean in a huge floating hotel holding 4500 people— most of them morons— to generate that fine hint of menace. We’re talking the perfect setting for a locked room mystery. If only I were a novelist!

DE: Did you ever get off the boat?

IMT: Oh sure. For about five hours each port. I thought cruises were transportation, a way of getting to a destination. But, no. Cruises are all about... cruising.

DE: So I take it you enjoyed yourself so much you were sorry to return to work?

IMT: Ha ha. Actually, it was a big relief to get back in harness and re-assume the mantle of responsibility and purpose! I must have been a sled dog in a previous life.

DE: That’s good, because didn’t your town get hit with a blizzard while you were sunning and funning?

IMT: It was eighty-six and muggy in Ft. Lauderdale the morning we flew out. We arrived home to single digits and everything blanketed in white. One of the gas stations on Rt. 9 was missing its fuel island canopy. The storm had wrenched it off and tossed it into the neighboring business’s parking lot!

DE: What a re-entry!

DE: Yeah, you’re not kidding. Back to work the next day, the pace ferocious from the two-week backlog. The transition was so abrupt— DOO doo DOO doo, DOO doo DOO doo! (dropping her voice)— Your next stop… the Twilight Zone! In deep winter, I’ll remember summer: the heat, the sun, the long days…. But the memory is so far in the past, I wonder, Did it really happen? The vacation was only a month ago, but Was it a dream?

DE: You’ll have proof it wasn’t when the refund for that disappeared flight shows up on your next credit card statement!

IMT: ACK! Don’t remind me! (Snorts) I’ll believe that refund when I see it.

DE: (laughs) Welcome back Dr. Trapt and thanks for speaking with us.

IMT: Thank you.

Peace On Earth

2012-12-21T14:58:10Z

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry, "The Peace of Wild Things" from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry.

‘Tis Overwhelm. Or, Tweetings Of The Season!

2012-12-19T03:45:01Z

(Warning: The following post is written in Twitter-eez. Each tweet, the Twitter unit of communication, is limited to 140 characters, including spaces. Shaving is the name of the game. Should you encounter a series of letters that make no sense to you, scroll to the bottom of the post for translation assistance.)

11.19 Work: Mountains of ph calls, pt charts, insur busywork. Overbooked & everybody sick. Need a mad scientist to clone me. #2much

11.21 Slow cooked a monster brisket for thxgiv @ friends tomorrow. Ate half at dinner today. #woops

11.23 Son worked Black Friday @ GameStop, midnight to 8 a.m. “U wouldn't believe the mall parking lot! Completely full!”

11.24 OMG! Forgot to pay the bills! #woops

11.25 Started to-do list. Checking it twice. Thrice. Ad nauseam.

12.3 At check out, lady buying baubles flicks fingers: “I’ll have glitter everywhere!” D: “Yes, but glitter is AWESOME.”

12.5 Hubby: “I want a mig welder. Put out the word for holiday $$.” Thing weighs 40 lbs, costs $300-600, eats fingers for breakfast.

12.6 Re annual trek to D’s side, D to H: I’m shipping holiday presents instead of shlepping them.

12.6 H to D: You can ship the mig welder. That way you don’t have to schlep it.

12.7 Have 2 hours to wrap presents but surf brainpickings.org instead. #tomorrowtomorrow

12.8 Happy Hanukkah!

12.11 Son shoots “selfie” or, is it a cell-fy? with D’s cell phone camera. Shades of Magritte’s “Son of Man?” tinyurl.com/5jlh4u

12.10 New insur billing codes finally out. 25+ instead of 4. BIG improvement. Right. Reimbursement rates? MIA. Starts Jan 1 #totalscam

12.10 D published in clevermag.com! Lol! Obviously the editor’s standards are low.

12.14 Sandy Hook Elementary, Newtown, CT. There are no words. Hugged Son. Fiercely.

12.15 Sorrow for heroes/victims Sandy Hook. Re perp: What could cause such violence? Left temporal lobe lesion? The brain: We know so little.

12.17 Lmao surfing @ dogshaming.com. “We supply your furry friend with a healthy dose of shaming.” I am not ashamed.

12.17 I am ashamed. Sandy Hook is weeping. Is it unseemly to carry on enjoying my life?

12.17 Meanwhile, Town X celebrates a windfall. If I were Sandy Hook victim, would it shame me to be grief stricken while X revels? Of course not

12.17 When tragedy strikes, sorrow. When funny strikes, laugh. “Flowing water never grows stagnant.” Carrying on is necessary. For balance.

12.17 Finally mailed presents. Paid triple for 2-3 day delivery. #ohwell

12.18 Crazy busy buttoning up practice prior to vacating. #2much

12.22 1st, Poodle Oodle shook all the way there. Next, she ran to boarder without looking back. Always in the moment, our little Zen sage.

12.23 Vacation! Back to blogging next year!

12.25 Merry Christmas!

12.31 Happy New Year! Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy and prosperous 2013! #thanks4readingshrinku!

*Incomplete Twitter/English Bilingual Dictionary*

(If printed out, suitable for wrapping fish.)

Aka = also known as

Lol = laugh out loud

Btw = by the way

OMG = oh my god

Lmao = laugh my ass off

MIA = missing in action

Belly Dance For Reading Fitness

2012-11-23T14:44:00Z

I’m a self conscious, round-shouldered bookworm. These qualities have made me the best at my sport of choice: extreme reading, in bed. Holding up a book while lounging for hours daily may result in permanent injuries such as dowager’s hump, reader’s elbow, and paper cuts. To cross train, I belly dance.

As a child, I read all I wanted without hurting myself. As an adult, I’ve relied on decades of jogging, swimming and tai chi to prevent the bed sores that plague extreme readers.

Seven years ago, at fifty, I attended a middle-eastern dance recital with a friend. If I’d been standing, my knees would have given way. Must! Do! That! Now, twice a year, I “dance” in these recitals myself.

Being very middle aged, very married, and very professional, I’m free to make a fool of myself. Nothing is more fun than prancing around on stage to music in a girlie, glittery costume in the company of (mostly) younger women who dance way, way better than I do. The audience is looking at them. How great is that? All the fun, none of the pressure. Hubby, my biggest fan, cheers me on from the audience, bored out of his gourd.

Belly dancing draws all types of women— fat, thin, young, old, tall, short, athletic, not. Wiggling comes naturally to female bodies. It feels good. And looks good too.

Provided you can pat your head, rub your belly, shimmy the hips, undulate your spine, travel to the beat, and smile, all at the same time. Easy. Especially when compared to the focus and concentration required for hours of non-stop reading while reclining on a soft surface.

It’s bad for the scholarly stoop, but what the heck, I try to keep my shoulders level and rib cage still when shifting and lifting my hips. Since learning to sway my arms like seaweed in a current, I’ve had problems tossing a bad novel with the old flap. Add fancy footwork and I worry my eye muscles are getting flabby.

The fall recital is right around the corner, and I am not ready. But then, am I ever? I’m in two dances, one with a veil. My veil is a nine by four feet sheet of hand dyed silk, emerald green bleeding into brilliant blue.

To hold it, I toss it behind me, then center my hands along the long edge, slipping the fabric between straightened index and third fingers, palm straight too. Readers, this is the antidote for those pesky book-holding cramps.

Veil work, like reading, develops the imagination. When I read It was a dark and stormy night, those words call up heavy cloud cover, no moon, wind tossed tree branches stripped of leaves, gusts of rain rattling the window.

When I lift the veil from behind, bring my arms forward and cross them over my face, the veil covers me from head to toe. When I sweep my arms open, I’m a butterfly bursting from her cocoon.

When I lift the veil up and sashay forward, it lofts and billows like a sail in the wind. When I swish it in a figure eight in front of me, it flares in bursts of blue green fire. When I lower it to the ground, I step on it and trip.

There are six of us in the veil dance, each swooping a different bright hue. When we practice, I drift out of my row, stumble into a classmate, get tangled up in my veil. At home though, I’m better about bumping into Hubby, tripping over the dog and banging my shins on end tables en route to my book.

The daily practices weeks before the performance keep me vertically challenged and cut heavily into my reading time. The paper cuts will finally heal.

Hamming it up for the audience, especially when they send the love back with clapping and ululating, provides healthful contrast and balance for the solitary pleasures of reading. The best performance perk though, is the improvement in my horizontal fitness after: I fall into bed like an axed tree.

When I come to, I have the arm flexibility to pop eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and the core strength to lean over the bedside table to click on the lamp next to my tasty book stack. My eyes stroll leisurely down the spines. A trash thriller? Why not? A roll back onto the pillows in the classic round shouldered posture, a heft to prop the book on my belly and— Ah! Let the extreme read begin.

PHOTO CREDIT: Alaskan Dude

Holiday Family Gatherings A Contributing Factor To Yearly Winter Flu Epidemic, Study Reports

2012-11-14T15:26:20Z

By D. Essemfour

November 2012, DweebMD, Internet Medical News. A landmark study published last week in the esteemed science journal Family Hell asserts that holiday revelry with relatives “is so stressful to the immune system, it collapses like a building seeded with dynamite,” says I. M. Trapt, M.D., primary researcher and family member.

“Extensive research has already concluded that sugar, recreational drugs and holiday shopping are deleterious to the immune system,” Trapt reports.

But what happens when family members gather to “enjoy” the holidays? “Nothing good,” says Trapt. “Irresolvable grudges, sniper pot shots under the influence, Auntie Petunia’s jaw-breaker chuck roast, the soup slurper— Slimed! Again.”

Why do we forget? Wishful thinking. What’s the cost of hoping for the best? Breached immune defenses and invasion by viral hordes. Expect at least a week of shattering chills, burning-house fever and bodily fluids exiting from multiple portals.

“It’s a wonder we don’t kill each other. Or keel over,” observes Trapt. “That’s what gave me the idea for the study.”

According to Dr. Trapt, this is the first population-based analysis to examine whether avoidance of locked-room family events during the holidays decreases the incidence of flu.

Study Highlights:

The study asked: Does running for the hills prior to holiday get-togethers boost immune response, thus protecting against microbial infection?

The researcher’s husband and their eldest child spent the holidays with both families of origin.

She and the middle child stayed home alone, serving as the control group.

She excluded their youngest from the study because his nose drips snot year round like a leaky faucet. She foisted the kid on friends for the holidays.

The research period began the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and ended January first, no time off for good behavior.

Unlimited e-mailing, texting and phone contact was allowed between the research participants (and youngest kid), for three reasons: 1. to maintain nuclear family bonding 2. to maintain verisimilitude of real life and 3. to prevent nuclear meltdown.

Mr. Dr. Trapt and oldest child returned home January 2 via emergency medical transport.

Dr. Trapt and middle kid remained healthy during the research period, as well as two weeks after, at which point, the doc went under.

The youngest’s nose continued to need a new washer, but he remained flu-less.

Dr. Trapt’s family of origin is no longer speaking to her.

Clinical Implications:

Dr. Trapt was unimpressed the study validated the holiday-hermit hypothesis. “Less stress, more white blood cells, better immune defense against germ incursion. Duh.”

As to why the flu struck her down mid-January, she speculates the culprit to be survivor guilt. “I maxed out keeping Hubby’s and Son’s pillows fluffed.”

“My daughter the doctor, she never texts, she never calls,” Lila Sitzendedark, the researcher’s mother said. “Her brother the Nobel Laureate, he finds time.”

“I feel bad about Mom,” Trapt affirmed. “But I’ll get over it.”

More research is needed to confirm these findings, she says. Limitations of the study included small sample size, lack of objective measures and an utter lack of professionalism. Still, the results are encouraging. “Avoid family gatherings over the holidays, by all means,” she says.

“If you can’t, and get sick, there are worse things,” she says. Like, relatives clustering round. “Say you’re contagious,” she suggests.

If you time it right, she speculates, it may be possible to delegate all holiday responsibilities, avoid everybody and end up looking good. “That’s next year’s study,” Trapt says.

In the meantime, if you don’t want to be sick forever, pull out the big guns. “Nothing,” the doctor says, “kicks viral butt like ginger lemon tea with honey.” (Recipe below.)

“Chicken soup, a.k.a. Jewish penicillin, is also efficacious, and delicious. Kill two bugs with one stone: Beg Mom pretty please to make you hers.”

Ginger Lemon Tea

Bring a spaghetti pot of filtered water to a boil.
Peel and chunk a palm-sized piece of ginger. Add to boiling water.
Reduce heat, and simmer for an hour, with lid askew (to vent steam). Turn off the heat.
Wash and slice several lemons into thick coins. Add to the ginger infusion.
Add honey to taste. Dilute to taste.
To kick viral butt, drink hot till your back teeth float.
Stores for at least a week in fridge.