girlfiend

My sweet, sweet Isaac has been at the vet since 6.30 last night and they still don’t know what’s wrong with him.

Isaac is the most genial of my cats. He’s fat and happy and loves attention. Isaac, fat belly swinging, runs to greet me when I get home and rolls over for belly rubs before I refill the food bowl. He likes the outside because he can get love from the neighbors, but he comes when he’s called and he stays close to home so he can snack as often as possible.

But yesterday he was nowhere to be found. He went out in the morning and though I called his name every few hours he didn’t come back. Around 6 I opened the door to let Howard in and Isaac was on the porch with him. Howard ran right in, but Isaac (who looked rather disheveled) slowly, tentatively, gingerly walked in, and rather than running off towards the food bowl he made his way to the closest chair and found he didn’t feel well enough to jump up. I checked his arms and legs for injuries and he didn’t react until I started patting down his belly. Isaac did not want his belly touched. Although he didn’t try to bite me, he cried to let me know I should back off. Wondering if he was hit by a car or injured from a fight, I promptly grabbed the carrier, called Boyfiend to let him know where I was going and set off for the Emergency Room.

Boyfiend (who decided to come with me) and I got to the Emergency Room around 6:30. They briefly checked him out, decided he was stable and left us to wait. And wait and wait. While we waited we saw the teeniest, tiniest kitten die after complications from lung surgery, a cat whose tail was bleeding for unknown reasons, a dog with a bloody ear, a bird with a crushed wing, a basset hound with a bloody eye, a little pug also named Isaac, a little girl who sobbed after she lost her dog to a heart attack, 3 year-old twins dressed as cats accompanying their parents and a cat with two broken legs, and several other dogs and cats with unknown injuries. It was a busy night at the Animal Emergency Room. Isaac was lethargic in his box.

Shortly after 11 a student vet called me back to take a medical history before examining Isaac. By midnight they’d accomplished nothing. The vet was only able to tell me that Isaac was experiencing discomfort in his abdomen, but they didn’t know why. In order to fully examine him they’d have to sedate him so they were going to send me home and keep him for x-rays at an approximate cost of $800-$1200. After a brief visit with Isaac, who didn’t even lift his head when I said his name, we left for home.

We went to bed around 1 a.m. At 4 a.m. the doctor called to tell me that Isaac’s abdomen was clearly bruised, but the x-rays were inconclusive and they were going to send Isaac out of the Emergency Clinic and up to the Internal Medicine department for an ultrasound, at an approximate cost of $2000-$3000. He then transferred me to the business office so I could leave them a $1000 deposit. The business office informed me that although I may get a call sooner, I wouldn’t be able to call for information until noon.

This morning at 7:15 I went to work and waited some more. At noon I called and was given the name and voicemail of Isaac’s new vet. I left a message and waited. By 1:45 I still didn’t have any news so I called back. This time the vet was able to speak with me. The ultrasound showed that Isaac may be experiencing kidney problems. One is small and hard looking, the other looks large. Both kidneys show signs of mineral deposits. They can’t tell if Isaac’s abdominal and back pains are because of his kidneys, or if he experienced some sort of trauma and the kidney issues are incidental. A chest x-ray showed fluid around his lungs, but they don’t know what the fluid is. Isaac has a fever, but they don’t know what’s causing it. All they know is that he’s experiencing abdominal discomfort. The next step is to extract and examine the fluid on his lungs to see if it’s blood from an internal trauma or something else.

My kitty’s still in pain, and no one knows why. I hope someone with more information calls soon.

While flipping through the Tivo guide the other night I came across the name Kirk Cameron. Since nothing better was on I changed the channel to see what Mike Seaver was up to nowadays. Like many other girls in my generation, I once had a huge, silly crush on Kirk Cameron. Goddamn, he was cute on Growing Pains. Of course he’s not so cute now.

If you’re a pop culture junkie like me, you know that Kirk turned into a born-again lunatic, as evidenced by his show on TBC (which I incorrectly assumed stood for ‘The Bible Network,’ as opposed to its true name, ‘Trinity Broadcasting Network.’ ) There’s nothing cute about a Jesus Freak who when asked how religion has impacted his life responds, “Religion hasn’t, God has! Religion makes me ralph…God makes me rejoice!”

The show was Kirk preaching about his Way of the Master Ministry. It was pretty lame in a born-again sort of way, explaining how easily Satan can take over your life. He talked about the ten commandments and how if you don’t follow them Satan has won and that Satan is so smart he can even get ministers to preach for him. They interviewed some guy from the Church of Satan then did a “man-on-the-street” type of interview segment where they interviewed kids at a concert to prove that Satan lives in rock music. The worst part of the show was when Kirk very seriously compared not believing in Satan to not believing in terrorists. To prove his point he showed a film clip of the first plane hitting the Twin Tower, because that’s what happens when you don’t believe.

The thing that confuses me most about these fire and damnation Christians is that it just seems like the complete opposite of what Jesus was all about. As a Jewish girl I don’t profess to be an expert but I always thought that Jesus preached love, forgiveness and compassion, not you’ll rot in hell if you curse. It’s just sad to me that so many people looking for something, anything to make their lives better, choose to believe in a vengeful, wrathful god who will smite you down on judgement day because you aren’t trying to convert the natives. I just can’t imagine wanting to subscribe to the “Friends don’t let friends go to hell” newsletter.

My new favorite local website is Overheard in Philly. I love this city.

Yeah, And You’re Part Idiot, Part Moron

Crazy man with pet carrier to entire deli: “I got me a cougar… Got it from my uncle in Virginia.”

Man #2: “Can I see?”

Woman: “You better keep away from that thing!!! I hear they are part cat part wolf.”

Salt & Pepper Deli
47th & Chester Ave
Overheard by Brannon

Until recently, I’d been sort of glad not to be teaching. Making dozens of medium skim lattes isn’t really a bad career. But these last two weeks or so, every now and again I’ll get a small feeling of loss or regret. It happens at the most random moments and there’s no real rhyme or reason. I don’t feel it all of the time and I certainly don’t feel it most of the time. But when I feel it, it makes me stop and think about the last six years of my life.

Working in the big, icky, urban school district was horrendous. Well, teaching kindergarten wasn’t all bad, aside from the woman I team taught with it was quite lovely. I loved working with small children and I loved teaching little kids to read and love books. I just hated being forced to teach them with outdated, slightly racist materials and records with corresponding worksheets from the early 1960s. (”M… Moccasin… Circle the moccasin in the first row.” Like poor five-year-olds in the ghetto know what a moccasin is.)Teaching sixth grade in the district was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do, but that was more the fault of the school itself and it’s terrible leadership than any fault of the kids.

Teaching at the urban charter school, despite my hatred for the principal and several of the school’s stupid policies, was actually a wonderful experience. I learned how to teach, how to manage a classroom and how to form close relationships with students without crossing any weird lines. Teaching Special Ed English classes was incredibly challenging and rewarding as was teaching high school. Damn those kids were dirty. For a while I taught this half hour multi-sensory reading class where the kids had to look at a letter, say a word that starts with the same letter, then make its sound. “Apple, aa. Mouse, mmm.” Only with those kids it was, “Dick, d. Titty, t.” I missed those kids dreadfully when I first left for the ritzy suburban district.

Of course teaching in the ritzy suburban district was as rewarding as working in the charter school if not more so. Those kids were smart and funny and motivated, and the ones who weren’t were fairly well-behaved. I actually got to teach there, not just manage and contain. I loved the kids and the staff and the school and was heartbroken when I got booted from my position.

I’m boring myself here. I won’t even get into the challenges of last year and those cutie little peanuts and the less cute little assholes and the fatass principal and her complete lack of tact and understanding. I miss teaching sometimes. The back and forth. The little challenges and the planning. I miss creating units that the kids think they’ll hate and end up loving and the projects that turn out better than I ever expected. I miss having an excuse to read tons of teen and young adult novels and the ability to recommend the good ones and the thought-provoking ones and even the ones that are just plain silly to kids who’ll end up liking them as much as I did.

I am glad that I didn’t have to start anew with new kids and a new staff and a new school while experiencing my first pregnancy. I know I’ll be thankful that I’ll have the luxury of being a mom at home with my kids and I won’t have to miss all of their firsts. (Back in college when I worked at the daycare it was heartwrenching when parents would come in and say, “Junior took his first step last night!” and I’d know that Junior had actually been walking for a few day, but we didn’t want to say anything because we didn’t want mom and dad to feel like they’d missed something.)But I do miss it. All the teacher blogs I read aren’t really helping matters much either.

Chris from Practical Theory left a comment on my last post. Reading his site really made me want to be a part of what he’s doing. The opportunity to start a new school, going in there with all of the shiny blank slate idealism and energy. It just makes me miss the classroom. Desperately. But maybe tomorrow when I leave work at noon and don’t have to create sub plans and behavior charts and hands-on activities to keep the kids from driving the sub up a tree, I won’t miss it as much.

I can’t decide whether I want to find out the gender of the baby before it’s born. Here are a few factors in the decision making process:

• I hate surprises.
• Although we’re definitely thinking about names, I don’t plan on naming the baby before it’s born- as much as it’s cute when other people do it, I can’t start referring to my belly by name.
• Boyfiend wants to be surprised.
• Even if we do find out, I don’t actually plan on telling anyone. I’m sure I may slip up, but I’m certainly not planning on announcing it. (I much prefer gender-neutral baby paraphernalia to the typical blue and pink.)
• Even though I don’t plan on telling anyone, there’s no way I could keep it from Boyfiend. If I knew he’d want to know too, even though he doesn’t want to know.
• The doctors already know because of the amnio.
• We have a full anatomy ultrasound on Wednesday, so we can probably see for ourselves what sex it is should the little peanut choose to reveal itself. (Its legs were modestly crossed last time.)

So what do you think? Should I let Boyfiend have his fun and be surprised? I could have found out almost two weeks ago but didn’t. Or should I do what I’ve been dying to do since I learned I was pregnant and find out?

My blood pressure has skyrocketed since Wednesday, and it’s all because of knitting. I took my first knitting class on Wednesday and it’s one of the least relaxing hobbies I’ve ever started. There’s nothing calming about casting on ten stitches then noticing you have twelve three rows later. Since Wednesday I’ve knitted and purled the same length of yarn over and over again, screwing it up and unraveling the whole thing because I don’t know how else to fix it. I’m supposed to go back today for extra help. I graduated from high school and college with honors and now I need a remedial knitting class. I don’t know how I’m going to knit a pair of mittens in the next three weeks.

At least I’m a good cook.

On Sunday we celebrated the fall and the sunshine by visiting Linvilla Orchards and picking apples. Overwhelmed by the bounty, we filled a box with Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, Idared, and Staymen Winesap. We went a little overboard.

Boyfiend gets two with his lunch, we’ve given a bunch away, and I’ve been cooking apples like mad. Last night Mix came over just in time to help me bake. We started with two dozen Apple Strudel Muffins.

These are awesome muffins. (I think I overfilled the cups which is why they look a little flat. When I doubled the recipe I ended up with too much batter, but it certainly did not affect the taste.) The vanilla really makes these muffins far superior to a similar Joy of Cooking recipe I’ve tried in the past.

When the muffins cooled we started the Jewish Apple Cake. Since I only have one tube pan I didn’t double the recipe. I just added more apples than the recipe called for. We haven’t actually tasted it yet. I didn’t take it out of the oven until after 10:30 last night but after cooling it looked perfect.
I hope it tastes as good as it looks. After making the batter and arranging the apple layers I realized that I forgot to add the oil. By realized I mean I knocked it off the counter and onto the floor and Mix’s leg. We had to dump the batter and apples out of the tube pan and remix it. I’m sure it will be fine, but moving on to the next project was no picnic with the oil slick on the floor.

The next project was setting up to make Apple Butter. Since it’s a crock pot recipe that calls for cooking on the high setting for an hour I chose to cook it on high for an hour last night, rather than drag my ass out of bed an hour earlier this morning. After cooking on low today, my whole house smells incredible. I have a feeling that the finished product is going to be much sweeter than I like, but it smells so good I don’t care.

It appears that most apple recipes don’t actually call for all that many apples so I still have more than a dozen apples left. When I got home from work I made a big pot of apple sauce and I can’t decide what to do next. Since I have an entire cake and the half dozen muffins we haven’t given away I’m looking for an apple recipe that freezes well. Any suggestions?

In case you hadn’t noticed the sidebar, I finished my 50 book goal for the year. Go me!

I’m now halfway through the pregnancy and I feel great. I’m somehow in the middle of an upswing. I feel good and actually have energy again. My belly is getting bigger and bigger and my ass, for the time being, has stopped growing with it. Yesterday I went to a yoga class and didn’t need a nap afterwards. Even my mood’s not too bad, which is a complete turnaround.

A little more than three weeks ago at my last OB/GYN appointment they sent me to a lab for bloodwork. The doctor assured me that it was just a screening test and that since I’m young and healthy it probably wouldn’t be anything to worry about. I left the office, stopped at IHOP for a massive, unhealthy breakfast, and headed toward the lab.

Of course I couldn’t find the lab. I drove up and down the same street for fifteen minutes looking for a number I couldn’t find until my greasy breakfast started to affect my stomach. At first I thought I’d be able to hold it and drive home. My rationale was that I’d be able to look up the address on google earth, since the place was obviously in an unidentified office park, but as I headed in that direction I knew I’d never make it. I pulled into a shopping center parking lot, moved as quickly as I could into the supermarket, and took the biggest crap I’ve ever taken in the supermarket bathroom, while a supermarket employee yapped on her phone in the stall next to mine. After that I was able to call a friend to help get the address for the lab, get there, take the test, and promptly forget about it.

A few days later on a dreary Monday (coincidentally after taking another crap in a supermarket restroom) I noticed I had seven missed calls on my cell and one new message. Only two numbers showed up: Boyfiend’s and one I didn’t recognize. Boyfiend’s message sounded panicked. “I got a message from your doctor. The tests came back from the lab. Call me.” So I called him. The doctor couldn’t reach me so he told Boyfiend that the bloodwork showed I was at an increased risk for Down Syndrome. The screening test is 70 to 80% accurate and he scheduled me for a meeting with a genetic counselor and an ultrasound on Wednesday. Since I’d been reading pregnancy message boards I was extremely calm and told Boyfiend that the test has a high false positive rate and that it was nothing to worry about. Then I started to panic. I called the doctor and left a message.

The next day I called again. And again. No one called me back. The more I looked for information on the test the more I freaked out. I poured over message boards and read everything I could find. Still no one called back. I was terrified and livid. Not only did my baby have fucked up chromosomes, my stupid doctor, after leaving a message with my husband, not me, wouldn’t call me back.

Wednesday we went in for the meeting with the genetic counselor who finally gave me some information. My bloodwork showed that I had a 1 in 72 chance of having a baby with Downs Syndrome. For most women my age the chances are 1 in 1,000. She went over our medical and family histories and explained everything that the fucking doctor who never called me back didn’t. The doctor also never told Boyfiend that he’d scheduled us for an amnio. The doctor scheduled me for an invasive procedure that has a miscarriage rate and didn’t bother to fill me in.

When we were done with the genetic counselor we had the ultrasound. Everything on the ultrasound looked perfect- the baby had perfect little hands, a cutie little nose, lips, mouth and chin, little tiny feet and toes, and a perfect beating little heart. The little peanut was waving its arms around and its little legs were crossed. The ultrasound tech took pictures and measurements. Nothing appeared wrong, which made it even more heartbreaking to think that something was. Even so, they weren’t going to lower my risk without the amnio. I was afraid to take a picture home.

After the doctor performing the test looked at the ultrasound pictures and measurements it was needle time. Boyfiend held my hands as they stuck it through my stomach and into my uterus. I didn’t see the actual needle- I hear it was huge- but I did see it on the ultrasound monitor. My uterus tensed and pulsed as it entered, which was crazy to watch, but the needle didn’t go near the baby. They sucked out some amniotic fluid, removed the needle, washed the stuff off of my belly, and gave me a band aid. There was nothing to do but hope I didn’t miscarry and wait two weeks for the results.

Those two weeks sucked. The only thing that kept me sane was working. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t want to tell anyone about the test. As much as I wanted support, I couldn’t bear the idea of other people worrying or worse asking questions. I told my dad who I knew would just do his best to act as though everything was fine. He didn’t ask any questions, but he called almost every day to say hi and stopped in at work a couple times a week. I didn’t really tell anyone else. I just worried and waited and went over all of the worst case scenarios.

All I could think about was why. Why would we, two young, healthy people with no history of any genetic problems have such a high risk? Shit, we both have worked with special needs students, we really weren’t expecting to have to raise one. While logically I knew it was nothing I had done, I still couldn’t help but think it was somehow my fault. For days and days I was convinced of the worst.

Every time someone asked about the pregnancy all I wanted to say was, “There’s a 1 in 72 chance my baby has Down Syndrome.” What color will you paint the nursery? “My baby might have Down Syndrome.” How are you feeling? “My baby could have chromosomal abnormalities.” Is it a boy or a girl? “Dunno, but it might have Trisomy 21.” What names are you thinking about? “Corky.” I hate that stupid Beatles song now.

After ten days I called. No results. Three days later. Nothing. Finally, last Tuesday, thirteen days later, I called the genetic counselor who called the lab. The tests were only 90% complete, but all of the chromosomes looked normal. I didn’t believe it until Thursday when the test results came back showing no chromosomal abnormalities. My baby doesn’t have Down Syndrome and I couldn’t be happier about it.

Istill need to find a new doctor, but in another week and a half we’ll go back for a full anatomy ultrasound. I have a feeling everything will be okay. I’m looking forward to seeing my little peanut again. Little fingers. Little toes. Little baby thumbs. This time I’ll keep the keep the pictures.

Only twenty more weeks to go.

Yesterday, rather than relax on my day off I decided to cook. It took a while to get going, as Phyllis did not want me to squirt goop in her eye and dodged me for an hour and a half, but once she was properly medicated and after a trip to Kitchen Kapers for some muffin tins and Trader Joe’s for some carrots and parsley I was ready to begin.

I started with the chicken stock. For the past year or so I’ve saved chicken parts and carcasses. It’s nasty, but it makes a decent stock. I threw the assorted chicken parts from my freezer into an enormous stock pot and brought it to a boil. I reduced the heat to a simmer, skimmed the crap from the top, and after forty minutes I added a few chopped carrots, onions, celery stalks and a bouquet garni. For the next three hours I just let it simmer, occasionally skimming, stirring and adding water to cover.

Once the stock was going I started on the muffins. I made pumpkin soup last week from a recipe I got at Pink Martinis.(Good recipe, but I used canned stock and it was way, way too salty- hence the need to make my own damn chicken stock.)I had some pumpkin left over so I figured I’d make Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffins which I love, but haven’t made before. None of my cookbooks had a recipe so I found this one online. It looked like one of the better recipes- one which freaked me out called for olive oil- but I felt like it needed a little something. I added some clove, nutmeg and ground ginger for added spice. When I went to measure the pumpkin I realized I had half a cup too much. Rather than keep it around and try to find something else to do with it, I figured I throw it in anyway. The batter seemed too thick though, so I added milk hoping it wouldn’t screw things up.

Once the muffins were cooling, Boyfiend got home with the disposable lasagna pan I needed so I could make and freeze a lasagna for later. I didn’t have a lasagna recipe I loved, so I sort of combined this one and this one. I snacked on a pumpkin cheese muffin (delicious!), looked at the reviews and took some suggestions. My version combined red and alfredo sauce, spinach, ricotta, cottage cheese, mozzarella, and sauteed onions, shallots, garlic and carrots. I made a big one to freeze and a smaller one that I assembled but didn’t actually cook.

By the time the two lasagnas were assembled and away, the chicken stock was ready. I let it cool for a while, then packed it away. It ended up filling 7 quart sized freezer bags, 4 ice cube trays, and one huge tupperware container. The remaining 4 cups went into the last project of the day, the Creamy Carrot Soup I got from SnazzyKat. I took Erika’s advice and added ginger. I prefer savory to sweet, so I skipped the brown sugar and added extra pepper.

At this point I was exhausted, so for dinner, along with the much tastier than I ever would have anticipated carrot soup and a loaf of Italian bread Boyfiend picked up at the Acme, I reheated the previous night’s meatloaf (I make a kickass meatloaf if I do say so myself) and steamed some broccoli. I went to bed very full last night.

Tonight I cooked the smaller lasagna. It was damn good, but I think I can do better. Let me know if you have a good recipe.

See, the barefoot part may not be accurate now that the weather has changed, but I really am pregnant and in the kitchen. To further add to my domesticity, I’m starting a knitting class next week. Before you know it I’ll be making all my friends macrame plant hangers and sending strangers on the internet tea kettle cozies. I can’t wait until I can get good and drunk again.