God Gave Me Mono (Because I Broke the Law)

Today I am sick.

Usually I only say that to get out of social situations, but I'm trying to cut down on that, because I fear judgment from on high.

I'll explain. In the Catholic church, each newborn baby is baptized in holy water, which I believe is actually comprised of the tears of all the martyrs and saints and Jesus, all crying together over our sins (That's canon, son - look it up). As little Catholics grow older, the guilt of every minor wrongdoing and the fear of being judged weigh heavily on them. Just like the cross did. On Jesus. 

Now, I was a good kid and had a pretty okay childhood, so my obligatory guilt had very few outlets. The worst thing that ever happened to me was the occasional illness or hurt, but as the years passed I began to notice that they were not ordinary maladies. Instead of spraining an ankle or having my tonsils out like the other kids, I would fall ill with something like pleurisy, or jungle fever (That's a real thing - look it up). The only explanation had to be that God was just waiting to smite until I had amassed a lot of little sins. Whenever I reached my quota of white lies and skipping school, he jolted me with some bizarre sickness. Boom, restless leg syndrome, sinna!

You'd probably like some real examples, I suppose.

When I was very small and still keeping my parents up all night like some thankless hussy, I had surgery on my tear duct. I couldn't shed tears, you see. Even as an infant, I was just very stoic and hard. Now I only cry tears of saltwater taffy. It's delicious, but very sticky. It also means I can't watch 101 Dalmatians anymore - that's just a mess.

I underwent my second surgery when I was eleven, this time on my foot. While running around the house, I stepped on a toothpick that  just happened to be sticking straight up out of the braided living room rug. It sank half an inch into my heel, and it was then that I realized I would never survive war. Also that I probably shouldn't have drawn makeup on my sister's Barbie in pen.

Not too long after that, I had thirteen teeth removed because my mouth was too small to fit them all. After my wisdom teeth were taken out, I had few enough teeth to legally qualify as a creepy hobo. Serves me right for passing notes in class, right?

Freshman year of high school, a friend and I were waiting in the movie theater bathroom to sneak into Batman. During a rousing game of hide-and-seek in the stalls (which was more fun than it sounds), I started feeling sharp pains in my chest. I dismissed them as heart burn, which I had never had before. Watching the Scarecrow for two hours didn't make things any better; neither did a night's sleep. The next day I was carted off to the doctor, where I was diagnosed with pleurisy, an infection of the lungs. I spent a few weeks flat on my back, unable to speak or breathe without feeling like my ribs were being ripped away from my lungs. After that, I never went movie-hopping again. The cost was too high.

When I was sixteen, I went on my first real date ever. On the way home, a truck ran a red light into my car and I broke my neck. Which was probably a bad omen for that relationship.

In college, I took a Tylenol one night, but somehow it got stuck in my throat. I was convinced that it was burning a hole in my esophagus, so after hacking and trying unsuccessfully to force myself to vomit the pill up, I spent the night in the Wellness Center, swallowing lumps of bread and Ginger Ale in an attempt to dislodge the phantom pill. The nurse and I watched MASH until the wee hours, when we were certain that the Tylenol had at least dissolved. It was a magical night, and I never took the Lord's name in vain again.

I also tend to get a lot of eye infections. But that's not really that weird. It's probably just a catch-all punishment, right? Like, every time I cut in line, I get pink eye? I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

After I started teaching kindergarten, I spent ten months sick with a continuous cold. But really, that was on me. I should have known better. Ever since I moved and escaped the general aura of germs that hung over the kids, I've only been sick once. COINCIDENCE?

Of course it's not a coincidence. That was a really dumb, overly dramatic thing to say, and I'm sorry.

Today I only have sniffles and aches. Ran a red light a few weeks ago and didn't get a ticket, nothing too serious. After work, The Boy brought me a whole roasted chicken and whipped up a hot, salty, herby, chicken-and-ricy bowl of Magic Soup from scratch. I slurped up two huge bowls, stuffing myself.

Just like that roast chicken.

I hope that when I die, someone makes me into people-noodle soup and feeds me to a sick chicken.

I don't know how to transition from that, so I just won't.

TELL US ALL ABOUT YOUR WEIRD ILLNESSES, FRIEND! And mono doesn't count. Everyone's had that. Except me, naturally. That's why I never shoplift. God will give me mono. Then I'll have to write a country song about it. I'll have to buy a dog who also has mono, because the lyrics demand it and I can't lie in a country song or I'll get rickets.

And that's how Catholicism works.



Image by Bogrim, via deviantart.

An Open Letter to Autumn

Written last year, when I was still living in California:

Dear Fall,

So, this is how you want to play it. Stop by the beach for a weekend, bringing a few crunchy leaves and hauling two solid days of rain in from the ocean, only to skip town in the night. Oh, sure, you left us some dry winds and trees that look as if they've been sprinkled with cinnamon. But where is our romantic change of seasons, our inspiring yet sobering sense that the world is turning right under our feet? Why don't we get the chance to reflect thoughtfully on our lives as a crisp, changeful wind bites at our cheeks and noses? That's some picturesque shit, Fall, and I don't think I'm being unreasonable when I say that we'd like our share of it.

Look, I understand that you're all about the East Coast. They're metropolitan and hip there; they understand you, or something. All we have to offer here are tacos. Really good tacos. Sometimes with fish in them. But you don't care. Summer ends, and you're gone. And that's fine - you can do what you want. I'm just starting to suspect that we keep doing something to chase you away every year. Is it our flippant disregard for your arrival, our inappropriate wardrobe choices, our untimely beach excursions? Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Please come back.

Maybe I could come visit you over there sometime. After all, I spent three years in Ohio during school, and we had a pretty fun time. Crunching leaves, dressing in layers. Remember the time we made caramel apples with some friends and my face felt sticky for weeks? And then the times I would walk down to the golf course and sit there in the evening dusk until the dampness from the putting green had soaked through my wool coat and jeans, chilling my unmentionables... Those were some good times, right?

But really, Fall, if I'm completely honest, that's just not me, brah. I was born a Californian and I'll always be a Californian, no matter where I go. The dry heat and the winter winds are in my bones. Even if I moved back East, I wouldn't know what to do with all that autumn. I'd suffer a sensory overload from all the colors and the heady scent of spices and bonfires constantly in the air. I just have to accept that I am woefully unfit for Real Weather. And I think you knew that. Somehow, you could just tell that two days of autumn are all I can handle.

An umbrella - how quaint! I've only seen them in pictures. And look, it keeps the sky-water off their heads much better than this silly hood! P'raps I should buy one for my poodle.

I made some hot apple cider the other day. It was out of a package, so it tasted a little watery and the flavor granules never did dissolve completely. I miss you.

Please come back,
Carrie

*          *          *

Dear Past Carrie,

Now we have REAL FALL again! I bought a gourd at the grocery store the other day, and I've started storing all of my apples in a tub so I have to bob for them every time I want a snack. IT'S THE BEST. YOU REALLY FIT IN HERE.

Fond regards,
Present Carrie



Image via Isn't It Lovely?

First Day of Fall

It's that time again. Decorative Gourd Season.

Hope you're ready.

Image via kaboodle.

Have You Seen this Spider?

I have adopted a pet.

Or did he adopt me? You know what I mean!

He's a spider named Peter, but I don't actually own him, of course. Nobody could own such a majestic creature. He was squatting outside the kitchen window for months in his little shanty-web, but lately he's been making himself scarce. I woke up this morning with a song on my lips and a smile in my heart, ready to greet the shiny, new world after the thunderous maelstrom we had yesterday.

But no Peter did I find. Just an empty web.

I put up signs in all the bushes and trees, underneath park benches, in between the monkey bars on jungle gyms - anywhere a lost spider might have wandered. I printed one set in large font for people to read, and another in the smallest font I could find, for the spider-folk:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SPIDER? HIS NAME IS PETER BUT HE DOES NOT RESPOND TO THAT BECAUSE HE'S A SPIDER SO HE'S VERY QUIET AND MAYBE A LITTLE SNOBBY. 

Then I had to draw a picture of him because I didn't have a photo, but I'm not a very good artist so I just sort of drew a fuzzy-looking circle.

I don't actually know very much about spiders - like how many legs they have, for instance - and I got a little carried away. Anyway, it was almost effective: dozens of spiders showed up all day long claiming to be Peter, but I had to turn each of the lonely, homeless things away with a sad shake of my head.

It's been hours now. I just keep sighing wistfully out the kitchen window where his abandoned web bobs about in the breeze. No friendly stretch of a leg. No helpless bug struggling for life as Peter flits about in his dance of death. No sign of him at all.

I just hope he's alright out there. The weather's growing colder, and he's always been sort of small and spindly compared to the other spiders.

But you know, despite all that, he's pretty resourceful. Maybe he'll find another window where he can build an even better web. One with lasers, maybe, and a hot tub where he can bring all the lady spiders.

Yeah, he'll be okay. He's a pretty amazing spider, man.



(Yep, that whole post for just one line. But seriously, if you see a spider who fits that description, tell him Carrie misses him.)

Image via Pynk Celebrity.

Prep Time

The most important part of an interview is preparation. Practice a firm handshake. Practice smiling-without-looking-like-a-serial-killer. Practice willing your sweat glands to shut off. All of these are vital skills in the interview process.

Since I have an interview tomorrow morning, I took some time off from today's original schedule, which consisted of watching 30 Rock and eating chips, to prepare so that all I have to worry about during the actual interview is the volume of my voice and whether that musty smell is me. I've also been practicing not laughing so much during everyday conversations. Apparently it comes off a little insane when people ask your name and you let out a long, piercing giggle before saying, "But seriously, Angie, I'm Carrie?"

So in an effort to make myself a little more presentable, I went to the mall this afternoon to buy a reasonably-priced blazer and some neutral heels that weren't stained with punch circa Winter Formal '07. My fancy pants are all hemmed, and I plan to iron AND lint roll them tonight. I also looked up the most common interview questions on a career website so I could think up some articulate responses in advance. For example:

• Why do you want to work at this company?
• Red Robin isn't hiring right now.
• My agency just tells me what to do and I do it. Shall I tell you about my strong leadership skills?
• I heard you don't give drug tests.
  
• What are your weaknesses?
• "Some people say I'm too nice?"
• Cheese - melted, grilled, string, block, wedge, wheel, ball, wrapped in puff pastry, or fried on a stick.
• A good-lookin' man in a suit. Or out of one, if y'know what I mean.
  
• Tell me about a time when you...completed a large project/overcame an obstacle/resolved a conflict at work.
• It was a dark and stormy night. (Wait expectantly for next question.)

Easy peasy. 

Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen

Those of you who know me are already aware that I am an excellent cook. Why, just last week I made Very Good Grilled Cheese, a recipe that's been in my family since the invention of sliced bread.* And who could forget the Instant Pudding Fest of '09, when everyone showed up with butterscotch and Bill Cosby wrote that particularly nasty response to our fan letter? Sadly, though, The Boy's stomach will not let him eat gluten, dairy, or eggs, so my talents are wasted in light of these culinary cutbacks.

Basically, we eat a lot of Mexican. Every day's a fiesta here in South Central PA.

His diet doesn't really affect me, since I can gobble down five dozen eggs and entire bushels of raw wheat while he's at work and doesn't know what he's missing. For dinners and weekends, however, we have to be a little more creative. Sometimes we're able to whip up mushrooms in a white wine bath or beef bourguignon, tipping our hats at our own fanciness, but last night we tried to finagle a recipe for flax meal pancakes with egg, milk, and flour substitutes.

They turned out great, since we just happened to be in the mood for globby, grainy banana-discs smothered in syrup to hide the distinct, old-person flavor of all the flax. Now, I really shouldn't give away all my secrets, but I suppose - oh, just this once, now! - Auntie Carrie will share this wonderful, hearty recipe with you.

Breakfast or burgers? Who can tell!

Perfect Flax Meal Pancakes 
(made with egg, milk, and wheat substitutes)

Yield: Half a serving. Throw the other half out, or save for disc golf.

1.  Find a recipe for gluten-free, vegan flax meal pancakes. I hope you didn't think I would just give you the recipe. We searched for half an hour just to find one recipe whose ingredients we could pronounce. The reward will be much greater if you have to struggle for it.
   
   
2. Start mixing everything together. We used flax meal, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and some other stuff I can't remember right now. Honey, vinegar, stuff like that. Basically just throw in whatever you need to use up. Leftover ham, a mushy cucumber, some mold. If you don't happen to have flax on hand, just use some sand: it tastes almost the same, and it's full of nutrients!
   
   
3. Grind up some bananas. If you have to gag, that's okay. Bananas are disgusting, but it seems they make a bang-up substitute for eggs in pancake recipes. I'm still unconvinced. Wouldn't use 'em in waffles.
   
4. Mix everything up. Shout, "HEY. IT LOOKS LIKE BATTER." Smile creepily at your cooking partner.
   
   

   

   Hooray for cooking!

   
   
5. Heat up some oil in a pan. Don't let it get too hot now, or you'll end up with fried dough lumps, all charred on the outside and wet in the middle. The recipe actually calls for coconut oil, but it turns out you have none because coconut oil is especially useful for shaving your legs. Shout, "This sort of thing would never have happened to Julia Child!" and dissolve into tears for the next twenty minutes. Collect your tears and use the liquid in place of the oil.
   
6. FRY THOSE BAD BOYS UP! You'd think that they would get all bubbly on the top like real pancakes, but they don't. They just sort of lay there all still, like a Victorian woman in the sack. So just do a hundred fancy flips with your spatula and then wrangle with the pan a little to get your pancakes off their blackened backs and onto their bellies. Pour yourself a cup of coffee  and then prod your little cakes. Are they strangely springy, despite their crisp exterior? When you poke your spatula into them, is there a distinct ooze? Then HOORAY, THEY'RE DONE!
   
7. Enjoy. Eat them as soon as possible - literally flip them right out of the pan and into your mouth. With any luck, the heat will scorch your taste buds and make the pancakes seem almost edible.

Next week I'll be sharing my secret recipe for Auntie Carrie's Butterscotch Pudding made in a crockpot. You won't want to miss it!




*Before then, we were known for our Pretty Okay Grilled Cheese.



Image by Alan Shapiro.