How to Love Pumpkins

I love pumpkins.  I assume the rest of the world does, too.  Here is a detailed set of instructions on how best to love pumpkins the Bacon way.

First, select the best specimen.

Second, get a love thing going.

Introduce the pumpkin to your family.

Good dog.  Good pumpkin.

Now, we get an idea.

And, find a knife.

Hack open pumpkin.  Carefully.  Very carefully.

See, pumpkin opens and we still have all our fingers.

Look!  Guts!

Separate guts from seeds like so.

Spreading on cookie sheet with a bit of salt.

Cook until seeds pop up.

Nice and toasty.  Good job, team.

Congratulations.  You have successfully loved pumpkins the Bacon way.  Enjoy fruits of your labor.

What to do with the now seedless halves of pumpkin?  Why, I'm glad you asked.

Scars and Swearing

WARNING: As the title suggests, within this blog, there are swear words and pictures of scars.  Close now if either offends or sickens you.  I should also note that it's not a short post.  It's not a short story.  Christ, is it a long story.


Six months ago, I had a total thyroidectomy for Follicular Thyroid Cancer.  I guess I am writing to celebrate that.  It sounds a little ridiculous to me as I write it, mostly because six months isn't even a medical milestone.  It's not one year, it's not five years, it's sure as hell not ten years.  It's nothing.  But it's all I have and dammit, I am going to celebrate until my thyroidless self passes out from exhaustion.


Lots of people know what happened.  Let's see if I can condense it for those who don't.  In April of 2010, I was a little more than anxious.  Scared of just about everything.  Things logical and not.  I bordered on crazy.


Long story short, I found a lump on the right side of my throat.  It moved when I swallowed.  It was like a squishy, hard ball.  And of course, I completely freaked.  


Doc said it was nothing.  Okay, cool.  Three months later, it was still there.  I went to another doc.  She said it was nothing.  O-kay... cool.  Three months later, in October, it was still there.  Third doctor said, "Hey, lets just do some tests and see what we can find."  How fucking hard was that?   


Later that month, I had an ultrasound.  I cried all the way through it.  I may not be a doctor, but I know that what I saw wasn't normal.  It found a two-inch tumor on the right side of my thyroid and a one-centimeter one on the left side.  I couldn't have been more pissed off, scared and, let's be honest, vindicated.  I wasn't crazy.  I was belligerently, apologetically, there-will-be-no-living-with-me-after-this right.


November began with a needle biopsy of both sides.  Yippee.  I'll tell you what, I pretty much passed out.  As good as the doc was, the numbing injection was not where the needle went in (over and over).  I could not only feel the needle scraping, I could freaking hear it.  I still shudder when I think about it.  I got sent home with ice packs and slurpies. 

As you can see, I have fixed an ice pack to my neck with my favorite scarf.  I'm a damn genius.

  

The results came back with no signs of cancer.  Swell! . . .  You waiting for that other shoe to drop?  So was I.  They removed only 200 cells from my tumors, which were made up of thousands of thousands.  Good game, tumors, good game.

I met with an Endocrinologist who suggested I have either the large tumor half or the whole thyroid removed.  There were many reasons.  The tumors could be cancer.  They could turn into cancer.  They could block my windpipe after years.  On and on the reasons went.  After so many opinions, prayers, discussions and pro/con lists, I decided to have a total thyroidectomy.  


My surgeon is a serious rockstar.  People come from all over the country to have him cut into them.  As such, he was so nonchalant about the procedure I could have strangled him.  "It's no big deal.  I do them all the time." That's all well and good.  But, for me, it's a big damn deal. 


The doctor told us all the side effects and potential risks.  Aside from, you know, dying, they were pretty understandable.  All except one.  It was possible that they could cut a vocal chord when removing the tumors. Now, I don't pretend to be an amazing singer but I was okay.  I did theatre in school and love to sing.  It broke my heart that my voice could potentially be gone or altered for a while or forever.  I decided to record some songs with what I had before it was jeopardized.  I had a blast.  I recorded the song below.  

Remember, I never said I was a rockstar.  No mocking.  

Here is the cat that lived at the studio.  Want.  One.

We showed up on February 23rd, 2011 to Overlake Hospital.  Pretty, pretty hospital.  I don't remember anything but the fish tanks.  But I was told it was nice.  

Here I am bright and early. Excited (see: so nervous I can't poop) and decked out in my pajamas.  No scar yet.  Don't worry.  It's coming. 


It was the the only day  we got snow and ice practically the whole year.  We were told, "You may have to reschedule if doctors/nurses can't make it in."  I got up at 3 AM.  I am terrified.  I am here.  We are having surgery.  

The hospital was amazing from start to finish.  The doctors, nurses, techs, pudding deliverers, everyone was totally great.  They let my husband and his bestie play Warcraft in the waiting room while they waited for me.  

I was laying in the bed while they pumped my arm full of delightful sleepy drugs.  They wheeled me into a room that I remember asking, "Why are we in the supply closet?" which got laughs.  Then I remember nothing.  I didn't even have to count backward from ten.  Surgery was about two hours.  Not very long at all.  

Here come the scars.

I don't remember having my picture taken.  I got drugs and asked Ben if the room was being squished.  I felt pushed down.  He just laughed and handed me ice chips.  The orange on my skin is iodine.  I didn't get a bad spray tan.  

Here is me on drugs.  They attached the vital monitor to my finger and it glowed.  

I do remember thinking I was ET.

A smile.  I get pudding.

The next morning I tried to eat eggs.  With my right hand.  While seriously drugged.  Enjoy.  

You can see at the end, I get super pissed.

When they took my thyroid out, local pathologists looked at it.  They couldn't tell if there was cancer.  Thyroid Cancer isn't as "easy" to diagnose as say, lung cancer.  All the damn cells look the same.  So my thyroid got to take a trip to Johns Hopkins.  There, three weeks later, they found Follicular Thyroid Cancer in the small tumor.  That sneaky, tiny bitch that I couldn't even feel.  

It's taken me six months to be able to say through teeth clenched so hard they squeak, "Thank God for the two-inch tumor.  Thank God for my dark, anxious times.  Thank God for the universe refusing to do anything other than teach me lessons I truly need to learn."  

Because they wouldn't have found the cancer without it.  Because I wouldn't be the less anxious version of me without it.  

Even though I may never be able to be grateful for my cancer, or this experience, I can be thankful for the outrageous serendipity of how it all came to be and of the lessons I continually take from it.  

Because, as we all know, you hardly ever learn a lesson just once.  You can't be a superhero every single day.  You are never out of the woods.  Life is a journey and all that shit.  More scars incoming.     

.

two month scar

four month scar

six month scar

I've heard that, for cancer patients, there are triggers for bad days, outbursts, depression, visceral reactions, etc.  For instance, driving past the hospital where they received treatment, taking medicine daily, seeing the scars. . . Any of those can cause a hitch in an otherwise smooth get-a-long. 

Well, my scar is getting lighter.  Taking a pill every day is getting easier.  I can maintain normal breathing when I drive past the hospital.  

For me, it's the fleeting moments when I can't help but think, "I can't fucking believe I had cancer." that get me.  So, I guess that makes me lucky.  Nothing constantly triggers it.  It's weird and haphazard, just like this whole surreal experience.  

Some days I can't believe it's been six months.  And, some days I can't believe it's been six months.  Two seemingly identical sentences, but vastly different emotions attached.  There are days I wake up and think, "Wait, when did I have surgery?  That was a lifetime ago." and some moments I rage at the fact it's only been 180 some odd days.


I guess all I can do is celebrate the little victories every chance I get.  Try my damnedest to get through the moments that randomly blindside me.  Since I know tomorrow could be filled with those jarring moments, I will focus on today.  And, just for today, I will deny worry, refuse anger and maintain gratitude.

My Best Mary

One lovely day in July, friends got together to have a baby shower for their best Mary. 

As you can see, she is adorable.  There is a baby in her tummy.  It's probably going to be a soccer player.  I've felt the kicks.

There were presents.  

There was a cat.  And a grinning Beth.

Little favors of nursery-colored jelly beans.

There were boys at the beginning, but we kicked them out.

There were lots of games.  This is Maggie eating the chocolate doodie from the diaper game.  

 And Sam guessing how big around Mary's tummy is.  

Nicole schooled us in all the games.


The food makes me hungry as I write this at 1:38 PM.  All gluten free for our gust of honor.  

Sam made the most amazing fruit arrangement.  It was beautiful and delicious. 

Mary loves sushi so we got the idea to make candy sushi while she isn't able to have real sushi.  Mmmm, sushi.  Still hungry.  

How freakin' cute are these?!  It's rice krispies wrapped around gummy worms and starbursts.  Wrapped in green fruit roll up.  They were a blast to make.  The swedish fish made awesome sashimi.

We tie-dyed onesies for little baby. 

We got messy.  Sam's knee got tie-dyed a little bit, too.  Then grass got stuck.

 Everyone had a blast drawing pictures to transfer to onesies, too.  Though I think Maggie drew like four drafts before being satisfied with her airplane.  It was impressive.  

I'm really proud of my Ben.  I worked on a blanket for my gift to Mary and her baby button.  Ben learned to crochet and did a whole section himself.  

This one, right below his eyeballs.

He crocheted so fast I couldn't catch him.  He was a crocheting blur.

It was a blurry, sugar-filled, crepe paper wrapped, tie-dyed, sunny, lovely day with my best Mary.

Have some manners, for the love of God.

Today we will be taking a page from the book of Ben and his blog.  I am going to rant a little.

Now, I am the first to admit that I can be easily annoyed (not to be confused with easily annoying, though that is a little true, too).  I have more than several pet peeves.  Loud breathers, people who refuse to pick up their feet when they walk, skipping CD's, the overuse of the word "besties", the list goes on and on.  

One of my pet peeves that has reached dangerous levels in my old age is the lack of manners people have.  More specifically, the lack of manners people have to those serving them.  Cashiers, taxi drivers, mail carriers, receptionists, waiters.  Focusing on waiters for this post.

Let's forget for a moment that the waiter or waitress is a freaking person and should be treated with respect until they, I dunno, run your grandmother over with a car or some other respect-stripping act.  Instead, we'll pay attention to the fact that, at the very least, this person is handling your food.  

They have the ability (and determination due to your LACK OF MANNERS) to add any sort of foul substance to your plate without your knowing.  Watch the movie Waiting... if you don't believe me.  Talk to anyone who has worked in the food service industry.  They'll tell you, the nice patrons get extra bread rubbed with garlic and butter.  The rude ones get day-old breadsticks that rolled under the speed rack in the walk-in rubbed with murky dishwater and hatred. 

Ben and I were at a small noodle house for dinner yesterday at the Great Wall Mall.  The staff was attentive, smiling and accommodating, even to the white girl.  I couldn't have been more pleased.  

We were having a lovely dinner.  And then, this family comes in.  A mother, father and two young children.  


Immediately, the father starts ordering around whatever waitress he could find.  They're all there to serve him, right?  Put this chair here.  Get me some water.  I want lids and straws for my children.  Not a please or thank you or smile anywhere.  I gripped my chopsticks a little tighter.

I couldn't decide what pissed me off the most.  They interrupted my dinner?  The idea that his children will grow up to demand things just because daddy did?  Or the fact that this man felt he was right to treat people this way?  Who the hell was his mother?  I'd like to lodge a complaint.

Sometimes I think that people assume because they ask for something that it negates the need to add a please.  That it puts them in a place of requesting and humility in a way.  May I have the House Chow Mein?  Yeah, I don't care how you ask it.  That sentence needs a please, dammit.  Also, when you get brought anything, water, extra napkins, your bill, you say thank you.

Anytime I see or hear someone being rude it makes me overcompensate.  Well, comment loudly to Ben that people suck and then overcompensate.  The words my parents (and Joe Scruggs) taught me to use come out in full force, as if apologizing for my fellow man and his moron family.  

It makes me happy to think that one day they'll get theirs.  Probably in the form of dandruff atop their spaghetti or crumpled napkins from a back pocket.  Or a paisley boot to the back of the head.  (See how I got the boots in there at the very end?  You're welcome.)    

Have some manners, for the love of God.

Field Trip

Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived in the country.  She grew up among fields and farms, dairies and cows.  After many years of growing, the girl moved away.


Then, one June day, her Monte (see: dad) sent her all the pictures he had taken of cows up the hill from her childhood home.  The now grown-up girl begged her Monte to take her to see the sweet cows (which she had ignored her whole young life).  He, being the kind (if not somewhat cantankerous) father he was, obliged.  Saying only one point of caution.

"You'd better bring your boots."

Now, this post may be dull to those of you who blog (or like to read the blogs) about storm chasers, haute cuisine, or extreme sports.  But yesterday I had the BEST time at the organic dairy up the street from my parent's house visiting the most adorable cows on the planet.

These Jersey Cows (just like the one in Anne of Avonlea that ruins Rachel Lynde's prize winning cabbages) are not for eating (no matter what my husband tells you).  These are special milk cows, used for their higher fat content to make ice cream and butter.
   

They are also the most curious creatures.  

I walked to the gate and they all just kind of raised their heads and sauntered over closer.  

Who are you?  Can we lick you?

  These cows are raised on an organic dairy.  Which basically means none of the cows are treated with antibiotics.  This is quite a feat when you have hundreds of cows.  Hundreds of freakin' adorable cows.  Who were, in case anyone is wondering, just as soft as I expected them to be.

They were interested in my coat and boots. 

It took a while of standing still and cooing at the cows to get them to come close enough for me to touch.  They weren't scared at all, just wary.  But any quick movement by me was rippled in their many feet.  


This is Dora.  Ok, so I made up her name, whatever.  But "Here, 570, here girl." wasn't cutting it when I was coaxing her over.

This sweet girl was my most favorite.

 What the pictures don't show is just how big these cows were.  Driving past them on the road doesn't show it either.  They were huge.  The ones giving birth were even bigger and angrier, but you'd be huffy too if just after you birthed a calf you were ushered (see: chased) down the street to the main dairy.  Gentle and gigantic.

Want out please.

Ok, now to the super-de-duper cute part of the post.  Oh man, you will throw up cuteness for a week after seeing these little guys.  If it's too cute for you, here are some manly trucks. 

These cows are just born.  

They live in these cow condos to keep them extra warm until they are about two months old.  Then they move into the barn.   

Monte in the background, laughing at his daughter.

 As babies, they were much more jumpy than the old girls.  You so much as turn your head quick and they are back in their houses.  The one below never came out.  He was surly.  I would be too if all the other cows were fawn colored and I was polka-dotted.

This was the odd duck.

One day old.

 This one is my baby favorite.  Newdora.  She wasn't scared of me at all.  Licked my hand, let me pet her.  I would have made it off the farm with her if not for my dad giving me the dad look.

 I was a farmer in another life.  The houses, the boots, the people, the cows. . . I love them so.  For now I will have to settle with making best friends with the farmers up the hill and visiting their livestock whenever I go home.

Time to go now.