Seven Layer Burrito

I learned a new word today:  Malapropism.  According to Google it means the usually unintentionally humorous misuse or distortion of a word or phrase especially the use of a word sounding somewhat like the one intended but ludicrously wrong in the context. 

I have an embarrassing problem.  I don't fit well in an airplane seat.  That's not the embarrassing problem--or it shouldn't be embarrassing, nor my problem.  The airlines should be embarrassed about their problem with the lack of space available on commercial flights...I digress.

My problem is that I need a seat belt extender to sit "comfortably" with my seat belt fastened at all times on an airplane.  It took me a long time, and several excruciatingly uncomfortable flights to come to terms with this fact (try cinching your belt up three notches two tight, fold yourself into a laundry basket and attempt to hold still for 3 hours and you'll know what I'm talking about).  It's embarrassing to have to ask for one, even more so if you sit down in your seat, ding your bell, then ask the flight attendant to bring you one, then they forget and have to be reminded again, and so forth.  I've found it's more efficient for everyone if I just ask for one from the smiling attendant when you board the plane.  Here's where the problem comes in.

For some reason my brain to mouth wiring has swapped the three words "Seat Belt Extender" with "Seven Layer Burrito"  and specifically as I board a plane.   I can usually remember the correct phrase anywhere else, and I have never once been tempted to order a seat belt extender from Taco Bell.  But for some reason, every time I step on a plane and look at that smiling flight attendant, my brain wants to ask for a Seven Layer Burrito.  It hasn't actually happened yet.  I usually start rehearsing to myself as I wait to board the plane..."Seat belt extender, seat belt extender seat belt extender, seven--no seat belt extender" and by the time I reach the door, I can say it correctly.   But one of these days it's bound to happen. 

My son takes great delight in this.  I made the mistake of once telling him about my problem.  Now, if I'm flying with him, he grins and repeats to me as we walk down the jetway:  "Seven layer burrito, seven layer burrito, seven layer burrito."  Because he thinks it would be hilarious to watch what the flight attendant does when a fat lady asks for a seven layer burrito. 

I'll be honest, I'm kinda curious myself. 

Malapropism.

Sophomoric English

If there's one thing my children have gleaned from their English/Language Arts & Reading (ELAR) classes over the years, is how to suck the joy out of reading.

As parents, we've tried very hard to cultivate a love of reading and language in our children.  From their earliest days we've read to them, with them and encouraged them to find books they love and read to their hearts’  content.  We've also encouraged them to develop a healthy sense of humor and perspective. It’s fun to watch them as they grow and mature in both their understanding and knowledge and their wit.

During one of Ethan’s middle school ELAR classes, the teacher told the kids to pick some books that were a little above their reading level (lexile score) in order to stretch them.  They know their lexile score from the state testing they're required to take. I don't put much stock in the lexile scores--they aren’t that useful to me when lexile-appropriate book searches for your 8th grader come back with titles like Solar Energy, Technology Policy and Institutional Values, because, for better or worse, they don't typically stock college textbooks in middle school class rooms or libraries—so the teacher took a look at his score and just told him to read whatever he enjoys--which is really my approach.

Last year, freshman English was a great success for the teacher, if not for Ethan.  He came out of that class with a newfound joyless view of literature generally and an understanding that reading can be used as an instrument of torture.  Case in point,  despite my love for Shakespeare, the teacher managed to instill in Ethan, an utter hatred for the playwright.  Rather than helping him to enjoy the richness and beauty of the language, the course sucked him dry of any future desire not just to read, but to watch anything remotely related to the Bard.  In fact, I would not be surprised, knowing that threads of Shakespeare run throughout much of even modern literature and entertainment, if Ethan, noticing any such thread, promptly shuts down and refuses to ever be subjected to even a suggestion of Shakespeare ever, ever again.

Fortunately, Ethan hasn't refused to read for pleasure entirely (yet), and is striving to recover from Freshman English.  We have had hopes that Sophomore English will be a better experience for him, despite his repeated claims that high school English has nothing to offer, and is looking for a way to test out and skip it altogether.  Nonetheless, we have reason to hope that this year will be better--if not in content, at least in perspective.  Ethan's taken a bit snarkier approach.  Today he told me that the teacher asked the students to set a personal goal for English.  Since, "to avoid taking another joy-sucking high school English class" probably wouldn't have gone over well with the teacher, the goal he wrote down, he told me with a smirk was: "to achieve an 1800 lexile score."  Which I found to be hilarious as we plugged 1800 into the lexile score book search for Science and Technology, and came back with International Handbook on Chemical Weapons Proliferation.  I'll put in a request at the library so I can get in the hold queue for that one.

Perhaps I should have clued into my future back when he was a preschooler.

How I Met Your Father

I don't remember the first time I met my future husband.  In fact, I was a little creeped out when he pulled out a framed picture of me and him together from the first time we'd met.  A picture I didn't remember posing for.  It was on our second date (during which he pulled out the picture--not that I met him on our second date.  Because really, is it even possible to meet someone for the first time on a second date?  Perhaps if you have short term memory loss, because then every date is like a first date.  I might be good at that, having short term memory loss, not going on lots of first dates, because I have an extreme fear of commitment--but that's for another post, I digress).  When you go out with a guy, and he seems nice, and then you go out with him again, and he pulls out a framed picture of you and him, taken two years ago that you don't remember being in, he kinda seems creepy at that point.  And that's my point--it was a little creepy, but not enough to preclude a third date.

Let's back this train up into the station.  I had graduated from college at BYU (more stories on that later), had returned to Seattle to where my parents had moved whilst I was at BYU (seriously, couldn't they have done that sooner?  I could have begun this sentence with "I had graduated from the University of Washington, which is so much cooler than BYU", or at least that's how I felt at the time), had decided to serve a mission for the Mormon church, of which I was/am part (sorta why I went to BYU I suppose--not many people who aren't Mormon do go to BYU, but some do, sometime I'll tell you about my Catholic friend who proclaimed me the patron saint of backing 16 passenger vans down narrow tunnels at BYU), had returned from my mission and was living back at my parents home, figuring out life.

It was during this period that said creepy photo was taken.  I had chosen not to attend Sunday church meetings with other single people, and chose instead to attend the family congregation with my parents (this was due to some scarring experiences I'd had in singles congregations--also a story for another post), but my little brother was in town one summer from BYU, and he was totally in to the singles congregation, and was always like "Come on! just come to this activity with me!  It'll be fun!" And I'd be like "you mean fun, like creepy 35 year old virgins hitting on 18 year old girls fun? or Marriage proposal on the second date sort of fun?" and he'd be like "You're such a downer, those 18 year old girls are smokin' hot!" and I'd be like, "but the 35 year old creepoids who imprint on me, the fat girl they assume is desperate enough not to notice their creepiness, but have decided that I am their mate for life upon first sight, are decidedly NOT smokin' hot, and whereas the 18 year old girls have all decided that you're fun, and not creepy, I on the other hand have no chance with you because you're surrounded by 18 year old girls imprinting on you, but mostly because you're my brother and that's gross."  I think his experiences and my experiences with singles congregations were slightly different, and certainly less emotionally scarring for him.

But, I acquiesced and we went to this event--a BBQ at a state park if I recall.  And sometime during that event, my brother, ended up in a photo with me, my future husband, and the girl that was in love with my future husband.  I think she'd carefully arranged it so she could casually have a photo with Matt, because she was leaving soon on a mission, and wanted something to remind her of him.  I was totally oblivious to all of this, was merely a pawn in her scheme --and apparently had no recollection of it at all.  Good times.

So then, this girl, whom we will call Kit, to protect her anonymity, frames said photo, and mails Matt a copy of it from her mission a year or so later, probably so he'd have a photo of him and her together with which to anticipate her return, which arrived sometime between my first and second dates with Matt.  If she'd realized she was sending him a framed picture of herself with him and his future wife with his future brother-in-law as a memento to remind him of her, she might not have reconsidered.  Unless perhaps she thought that by doing so, he just might creep me out enough to scare me off.  But I don't think so--Kit's a really nice girl.  Regardless of motive, the deed was done, and there I was, sitting in Matt's car, staring incredulously at this framed photo of me and him and my brother and Kit.  Of which I had no recollection of taking.

It gets worse.  You see, when I told Matt I had no recollection of that event, he prodded me:  "You mean you don't remember that day?  or later that night when you came back to my house with a bunch of other singles and everybody swam in the pool?"  And then it hit me--"Wait!  I remember that night! That was your house?! I didn't swim much, I spent the whole evening sitting in the hot tub talking to Kit about her impending mission, since I'd just returned from mine.  And no, no I don't have any recollection of you--sorry.  But I do remember your house now--I wasn't sure whose house we were at, I just sorta followed my brother."

I think I hurt his feelings.  Which may have been the first time, but certainly wouldn't be the last.  In fact, if there's one thing that defines our marriage, it's chronic pain.  But the second thing that defines our marriage is me chronically hurting Matt's feelings.  I'm particularly insensitive, and don't have much of a filter, so yeah, that happens.  A lot.

Stalking Carter Brey

I remember when I first heard Carter Brey play cello. I was a student at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.  I was struggling to decide what to major in, torn between really useful major choices such as Theatre Arts, or Violin Performance.  No really, violin performance was never going to happen--we all knew that.  But nonetheless, I was taking violin lessons for a semester from an incredible violinist.  She had me play a note a couple of times, making the slightest adjustment and asking - "can you hear the difference?"  No.  No, I couldn't hear the difference.  Let's just say my hearing was not that refined--never would be.  Violining was destined to be a hobby in my life.  And that was okay.

I digress.  Where was I?  Yes, Carter Brey.  In taking up the violin, I'd often wondered if I'd picked the wrong instrument.  When you make a lifelong decision like what instrument to dedicate hours and hours of your life to, week after week, for years to come, that decision should not be left to the whims of a seven year old.  And yet, seven year old me chose the violin.  Which was fine, except that after a few years, secretly, part of me wanted to play the cello.  It's really just evidence of my ongoing fear of commitment.  Always wanting what could have been, rather than what is.

Wait, back to Carter Brey.  So there I was, at BYU and the Utah Symphony was down in Provo on campus giving a concert before returning back to their usual digs at Symphony Hall in Salt Lake City.  And my teacher let it slip that they were having a dress rehearsal that afternoon, and that I could more than likely slip in back unnoticed.

Which I did.

Carter Brey was a guest soloist for that concert.  Carter. Brey.  He's no Yo Yo Ma, but damn that man can play a cello.

I can't recall whether my love of Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B minor came before, or because of that dress rehearsal, but I do know that my obsession with Carter Brey began there.  I didn't know who he was before that day, but I certainly have never forgotten him since.

I sat, mesmerized by his balding head and the sweet, sweet tenor of his cello squeezed tightly between his thighs.  It was enchanting, thrilling, and just a wee bit naughty for this BYU co-ed.

And then it was over.  It was a bit of a one-night stand.  Something we would always have, and always remember, but not something I pursued further.  I didn't rush out to buy any and everything recorded by Mr. Brey (or maybe I tried to, but in the 90s you couldn't just go to iTunes or Amazon music.   So we just left it at that one, sweet night and fondly remembered my erstwhile would-be cello boyfriend.

And I went about the rest of my college life.  I majored in Theatre, graduated a couple years later, traveled a bit around the world, and then, about 6 years later, I was living in New York City, stage managing for a fledgling theatre troupe at night and taking temp work during the days.

I was working at the New School University in the city.  In Human Resources.  And for some reason, I had need of looking up the faculty contact information.  That's when I stumbled across it.

Carter Brey's home address.

I had been mesmerized and charmed by his playing but, not to the stalking level of actually figuring out much about him personally--if only Google was a thing in 1993.  If it had been, I might have known that in 1996 he had become the principal cellist for the New York Philharmonic, and that he also taught at the New School.  And I probably would have thought to look him up the moment I arrived at the university.

I think I may have even written down his address.  Considered stalking him.  I was on the fence, so to speak.  The stalking fence.  To be, or not to be....a stalker...that is the question.

I didn't think I was the stalking type.  But there was something stirring in me at that moment.  Knowing I had hitherto-fore unknown knowledge.  Power.  And a little stalking seed began to germinate in my soul.

I took that little post-it with his address home, secreted away in my bag.  I would stare at it at night, contemplate its significance--should I?  Or shouldn't I?  I mean obviously I shouldn't.  I shouldn't even have written it down of course.  But I did.  And I could.  All I really considered doing was taking a subway to his neighborhood and casually milling around, soaking in the Brey-ness of it all.

Maybe find a coffee shop nearby.  Or even perhaps within view of his place.  Sit there for a bit--soaking in the Carter-mosphere, listen for the faint strains of a cello.  I mean, I wouldn't even go up to his door, or sit outside his window late at night hoping for a glimpse, most likely.

These are things normal people don't do.  Or think about.  Or do they?  Maybe that's it--normal people maybe think about these things, but don't do them, right?

Right.

So after a few days of fantasizing about knocking on his door and being invited in for a private concert, I got rid of the post it.  I really did.  And I never did go there.  And I didn't ever hear him play again.  But I'm thinking about going to see the philharmonic the next time I'm in the city.

I'll behave.

Promise.


Photo credit to the New York Philharmonic website from whence I totally snatched it.
But google images has lots on him.  Like this one that has got to be from the 90s, cuz this is how I remember him from our one afternoon together:


Or this one


I'll stop now.

Right after this one.


And this one...

That's the spot...right there.

The Tao Of Daisy

Two weeks ago, we had to make a difficult decision to say goodbye to my children’s other mother, Daisy. Daisy was 18 years old—and has been just about the only constant in my children’s lives. Between our incessant moving, health and other various life crises, Daisy was the constant, the calm in every life storm.

She could soothe my children in a way of which their mother is totally incapable. She was part of the family before my children were. She seemed to think Ethan was her own kitten from the time we brought him home from the hospital until the time he carried her to the animal hospital for the last time.

I’ve owned a lot of cats in my lifetime and Daisy was unique among them. She, like my son has always been an old, wise soul. And as much as I complain about our house being overrun by cats, she is, and will continue to be deeply missed. Here’s to you Miss Daisy. See you on the other side.

As a coping mechanism for us all, I started writing the Tao of Daisy during her final days. It is a tribute to the deep wisdom and touch of mysticism that embodied her existence:

Tao of Daisy

The origin of the cat is unknown. It is the ultimate mystery and is important because it is mysterious. Cats are by nature mysterious. Were the origin to be known, it would cease to be a mystery and the cat would cease to be a cat. Therefore do not seek what cannot be known. Rather, pet the cat before you.
All things come from and return to the Mother Cat. If you believe you came from elsewhere you are mistaken. You did not begin until the cat chose you. You will have no end until the cat is finished with you.
Your Mother Cat protects you. Sometimes with her claws, sometimes with her tail. And sometimes she attacks you with her claws or her tail. Accept such with humility, for you deserved the chastisement.

When faced with a decision of great import, find a warm, soft place. Curl up and let the nap of deciding envelope you. If, when you wake, you are still undecided, return to the nap.

If the view from your window is snowy, stay on the warm side of the glass.
When faced with great danger, hide. When you emerge, if the danger lingers, hide longer.

Tuna comes to the patient cat. If patience is prolonged, the provider is at fault and must be chastised.
Do not accept a dish that is less than half full. The wise cat must be still and stare until the bowl is filled.

Gynomite!

I think my gynecologist has now placed a permanent flag in my chart indicating that I am a "difficult patient."  Even though I am not.  I don't really like confrontation--especially in medicine.  I've always just gone along with things.  Except when I haven't.  And unfortunately for my poor Gynocologist, those moments have been at her office.  

Backing up a few years...I had dutifully gone in for the annual pee in a cup and stick a swab up your hoo-haw celebration, and got some labwork done in the process (I started down the menopause road at 34--but that is another post altogether).  Two weeks later, I was summoned in to the office to review my lab results with the doctor.  I checked in, and as per usual, was told to go pee in a cup.  

For those of you of the female persuasion, you know what this entails.  For me at least, it generally means contorting myself into an awkward position for the pleasure of peeing all over my hand, writing my name on my little cup, like you did for a grade school science experiment, and leaving it in a secret little door in the wall for someone to grade.

I also know that the only reason this is done, is to check if you are pregnant.  Now, having already gone through this joyful ritual a mere two weeks earlier, knowing even then, that I was not and could not be pregnant then, only to be asked to go through the ritual again so that I could review the blood work results with my doctor "stuck in my craw" as they say (who "they" are, we've yet to understand).  

Therefore, I politely declined.  The office admin looked shocked.  I asked why they needed my pee again?  She said that insurance requires a pee test for every visit.  I politely stated that I doubt the insurance company wants to pay for unnecessary tests unrelated to the nature of my visit here today--unless the doctor wished to discuss my labwork over a particularly strange cocktail mixed in a paper cup with my name written on it (I didn't say that last part).  Again, shocked look as she said she would let the doctor know.  Is it really so uncommon that someone refuses to pee in a cup?  Have we all become lemmings, wherein we leave all dignity at the door of the doctors' office?

To her credit, when the doctor called me back, she apologized for her staff and confirmed to me that they did not indeed need a urine sample to review my blood work.   Nonetheless, I imagine there was some sort of flag placed in my chart at that time (....uncooperative, refuses simple requests, asks too many questions....)

Fast forward to last year.  I showed up, dutifully peed in a cup (I think I might start making refusal of that one a regular occurrence though--seriously people, unless we want to revisit immaculate conception in this century, I'm not pregnant), dutifully had my hoo-haw swabbed, then had "the talk" with my gyno.  Let's be clear--I really like my Gynecologist.  She's great--I mean for somebody who chose as a profession to stick there hands up you-know-where--I'm not going to invite her to dinner (without asking her to thoroughly scrub up at least), but she seems to know her stuff, is kind and not condescending in any way.  

Notwithstanding all that, after my lady bits were properly swabbed, she looked at me seriously and commented that in the years I've been coming to her practice, I'd put on some weight.  Thank you captain obvious.  I told her I was seeing a dietitian currently, and that she was on it.  She then proceeded to have a long conversation with me about various methods of weight loss.  How she had recently lost some weight, and how I could go online and google various things to help me figure out how to loose weight.  I participated politely in the discussion, that went on WAY TOO LONG.  And left.  

I mentioned this conversation later that week to my dietician who about lost it.  She was ready to march on over to my gynecology practice and read my doctor the riot act.  And I realized she was absolutely right.  I should have been a bit more bothered by the whole interchange with the gyno and should have created better boundaries in that discussion--as in refusing to engage in that discussion.  For example, my dietitian pointed out--if something suspiciously canceresque had appeared in my lab results, would she have called me in and discussed googling cancer treatments with me, telling me what she had done to deal with her little bout of cervical cancer?  Absolutely not!  She would have referred me to a specialist and left it at that.  Why does every doctor out there seem to think that A--not only is being fat in and of itself a disease, and is the cause of every other disease, and B--that either by simply telling you to lose some weight, or to diet and exercise, that you will magically be cured of the disease of fatness?  Do they often prescribe treatments with a greater than 90% fail rate?  Because that's what diets are.  By and large the result of dieting is weight gain.  WHY DO PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY DOCTORS KEEP TELLING PEOPLE TO DIET?!!?  

I digress.  My dietitian informed me that I have a right to refused to be weighed, and to refuse to discuss my weight with practitioners that do not specialize in nutrition management.  So it is with much angst that I have approached my annual hoo-haw swabbing ritual this year.  As I said, I am at heart non-confrontational.  I've had a lot of doctors appointments lately (long story), none of whom insisted on discussing my weight in depth, all of whom insisted on weighing me.  Which brings me to a doctor appt I had two days prior to my annual Gynomite visit.  

Here's the thing--I have not weighed myself in well over a year.  I have learned that the drawbacks to weighing oneself regularly far outweigh any benefits (again, topic for another post).  So, because I don't like confrontation, and I know these other doctors are going to be satisfied by simply telling me I should loose weight  to solve all my problems, but back off when I mention I'm seeing a specialist, I've suffered myself to be weighed.  I simply close my eyes while on the scale.  Except last week.  I stepped on the scale, closed my eyes, and lost my balance.  So I opened my eyes and saw the reading.  Again a topic for another post, but this triggered a bit of a mental freak out.  

Knowing therefore that I was to go see Dr. Gynomite in a mere two days, I steeled myself.  I was going to refuse to be weighed!  I submitted to the cup peeing because I like to limit myself to one confrontation per doctor's visit, but then when the attendant told me to step on the scale, I said--politely, that I would not like to be weighed.  Just real fast she replies.  Like doing it fast means it didn't happen.  I asked why she needed my weight, and she said because they need it for the chart but wouldn't be discussed in my visit.  I explained that it was my understanding that a doctor only needs a weight when prescribing weight based medications, and since the only medication I get from this doctor is non-weight based, that I didn't see it as necessary.  And further, that it was my experience at this office that the doctor does discuss weight during my visit, and since I have other healthcare practitioners concerning themselves with my weight, I didn't need another one in the mix...thank you very much.  

Again, blank stare.  She said she's never had anyone refuse to be weighed.  REALLY?  NEVER?  Again ladies, what have we become? Sounds like we need to be more self-assertive.

So I had my bits swabbed, and didn't discuss my weight.  Granted, my doc suddenly "was called to the hospital" so I saw her partner.  I'm pretty sure that little flag in my chart, just got bigger.  

Tune in next time for the Smashburger lunch I really am going to host post mammogram:

"Get your girls smashed, then come get a smashburger with the girls!"

I Can Breathe for the First Time; or Sleepovers With Luis

I spent two nights away from my family last week....with Luis.  He was so gentle with me.  He took time to calm my fears.   He ran his hands through my hair, touched my face, my neck, plying me with alcohol...wipes, and glue.  Lots of glue.  He ran wires down my clothing, made me wear a mask, watched me sleep, and brought me breakfast in bed.

It feels so very illicit, and a little kinky.

But it's not really.

You see, I think I have a problem.  Breathing.  Luis thinks so too. Though he won't say.  He's not at liberty to discuss results with me.

So next week, I'll go see the sleep doctor, and tell her about my two nights at the sleep center with Luis, watching me breathe.  And she'll tell me what Luis already knows--that I have sleep apnea.

And every time I put on my sleep mask by myself, I'll think of Luis.  And how since he's been gone, I can breathe for the first time.