Steven Harper's Blog, page 20
December 23, 2022
The Covid Diaries 3: Smell
Wednesday morning, I noticed I'd completely lost my sense of smell. I tested with a bunch of stuff--ranch dressing, hot mustard, sriracha, peanut butter, vinegar. Nothing. It was like smelling empty air. And, of course, I could taste almost nothing. A PB&J sandwich had a slight sweetness to it, but otherwise it was no different from eating a slice of ham or some mac and cheese. I even baked a loaf of bread in the bread maker. Not a thing. Darwin couldn't smell it, either.
I did some research and learned that olfactory loss can go on for anywhere from two weeks to eighteen months, with two to three months being common. Holy crap!
Given all the other medical outrages done to my body, and given that these problems have sent me into anxiety spirals so bad I need therapy and anti-depressants, I thought for sure that I would be completely freaking out over this new loss.
Nope. Nothing. No anxiety, no freaking, no panic. Nothing. How about that?
I didn't =like= the loss, but I seemed to be filing it under, "Annoyances: Small."
Why was this? I gave it a great deal of thought and came to the conclusion that the other problems were caused by other people. They had done things to me that caused me pain, humiliation, and anxiety, either through their own carelessness, callousness, or malice.
Losing my sense of smell to covid, on the other hand, had no human agency. It's a virus. No one DID anything to me. It's just a symptom of illness. So no reason to get upset.
An interesting facet of my own psychology.
Meanwhile, my sister Bethany mentioned to me that a friend of hers tried some exercises when she lost her sense of smell due to covid. Every time the friend ate something, she concentrated on what it was supposed to smell and taste like. She also regularly sniffed various foods and concentrated on how they should smell. The idea was to retrain or reactivate neural pathways.
I thought, what the heck, right? May as well try. I decided to try with ranch dressing, sriracha, and Italian dressing, all pungent and evocative.
Nothing. And it's such a weird sensation! You crack open a bottle and you're used to identifying the contents instantly by smell. Now it was like the containers were empty. I squeezed the bottles to puff air up my nose. Nope, nothing.
Still, I did this at least twice an hour and also every time I ate, thinking about what I was supposed to smell and inhaling hard.
Thursday evening, I grabbed the bottle of ranch and . . . was that a whiff? It was! Madly I puffed the bottle at my nose, inhaling like a coke addict. It was there--a tiny hint of ranch spices. Encouraged, I tried the sriracha and the Italian. Also tiny, tiny bits. Cool!
I kept this up all day Friday, and noticed the scents were getting stronger for me. Then Darwin peeled a tangerine, and I realized I could smell it from a yard away. I peeled one myself, and got good smell results. Yes!
Right now, I think I'm at about 60-70% of full, and it's only been a couple days. If you've lost your sense of smell because of covid, try this method. It might help!
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I did some research and learned that olfactory loss can go on for anywhere from two weeks to eighteen months, with two to three months being common. Holy crap!
Given all the other medical outrages done to my body, and given that these problems have sent me into anxiety spirals so bad I need therapy and anti-depressants, I thought for sure that I would be completely freaking out over this new loss.
Nope. Nothing. No anxiety, no freaking, no panic. Nothing. How about that?
I didn't =like= the loss, but I seemed to be filing it under, "Annoyances: Small."
Why was this? I gave it a great deal of thought and came to the conclusion that the other problems were caused by other people. They had done things to me that caused me pain, humiliation, and anxiety, either through their own carelessness, callousness, or malice.
Losing my sense of smell to covid, on the other hand, had no human agency. It's a virus. No one DID anything to me. It's just a symptom of illness. So no reason to get upset.
An interesting facet of my own psychology.
Meanwhile, my sister Bethany mentioned to me that a friend of hers tried some exercises when she lost her sense of smell due to covid. Every time the friend ate something, she concentrated on what it was supposed to smell and taste like. She also regularly sniffed various foods and concentrated on how they should smell. The idea was to retrain or reactivate neural pathways.
I thought, what the heck, right? May as well try. I decided to try with ranch dressing, sriracha, and Italian dressing, all pungent and evocative.
Nothing. And it's such a weird sensation! You crack open a bottle and you're used to identifying the contents instantly by smell. Now it was like the containers were empty. I squeezed the bottles to puff air up my nose. Nope, nothing.
Still, I did this at least twice an hour and also every time I ate, thinking about what I was supposed to smell and inhaling hard.
Thursday evening, I grabbed the bottle of ranch and . . . was that a whiff? It was! Madly I puffed the bottle at my nose, inhaling like a coke addict. It was there--a tiny hint of ranch spices. Encouraged, I tried the sriracha and the Italian. Also tiny, tiny bits. Cool!
I kept this up all day Friday, and noticed the scents were getting stronger for me. Then Darwin peeled a tangerine, and I realized I could smell it from a yard away. I peeled one myself, and got good smell results. Yes!
Right now, I think I'm at about 60-70% of full, and it's only been a couple days. If you've lost your sense of smell because of covid, try this method. It might help!
comments
The Covid Diaries 2: The Flattening
Monday I was feeling fairly gross. Darwin was in better shape. We drove down to the clinic, and called in. We were put through to the doctor, who asked if we wanted a Paxlovid scrip if we were positive, we said definitely did. The doctor also told us that we'd need the positive results before the pharmacy would give us scrips.
We waited in the car until a Very Nice Man came out, administered the tests, and told us to watch our emails for the results.
Back home, I was getting more and more miserable. Terrible malaise. Extreme fatigue. Aches. I was downing ibuprofen and DayQuil. I spent the day half-asleep on the couch, occasionally watching TV.
The next day, we waited for the results so we could get the Paxlovid, but the email didn't come. I was starting to feel better, but Darwin was in a bad way. He could barely sit up. I took to checking his blood oxygen levels every hour. Fortunately, they stayed above 95.
Meanwhile, I was half-panicking over my teaching. My seniors are working their way through HAMLET, and it's something that a substitute can't really help them with. But I was going to be out for the entire week before break, and when we get back, we'll only have a few days before exams. I can't give them other work and still expect to get through HAMLET by the end of the semester. So I ended up telling them to keep working on the play on their own as best they could and I'll have to deal with problems when I get back. My freshmen I set to watching the movie OF MICE AND MEN as a review for exams, and my mythology class worked on a small project relating to the Hero's Journey.
I was actually cleared to go back to work on Thursday, the last day before break, but Darwin was still very sick on Wednesday evening and didn't want to be left alone. Additionally, I still tired easily and realized I'd probably be wiped out after only an hour or two at work, so I decided to call in. I've lost four precious sick days to this thing, and the district stopped giving us teachers special covid sick leave because the federal money ran out.
On the other hand, my winter break has been extended for a week.
Reluctantly, we called off our holiday celebration--again. This is the third year in a row we've canceled due to covid. But Darwin will still be contagious by Christmas Day, and we have too many people who really, really can't afford to be exposed, especially to a variant that can elude the vaccine, as this one has.
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We waited in the car until a Very Nice Man came out, administered the tests, and told us to watch our emails for the results.
Back home, I was getting more and more miserable. Terrible malaise. Extreme fatigue. Aches. I was downing ibuprofen and DayQuil. I spent the day half-asleep on the couch, occasionally watching TV.
The next day, we waited for the results so we could get the Paxlovid, but the email didn't come. I was starting to feel better, but Darwin was in a bad way. He could barely sit up. I took to checking his blood oxygen levels every hour. Fortunately, they stayed above 95.
Meanwhile, I was half-panicking over my teaching. My seniors are working their way through HAMLET, and it's something that a substitute can't really help them with. But I was going to be out for the entire week before break, and when we get back, we'll only have a few days before exams. I can't give them other work and still expect to get through HAMLET by the end of the semester. So I ended up telling them to keep working on the play on their own as best they could and I'll have to deal with problems when I get back. My freshmen I set to watching the movie OF MICE AND MEN as a review for exams, and my mythology class worked on a small project relating to the Hero's Journey.
I was actually cleared to go back to work on Thursday, the last day before break, but Darwin was still very sick on Wednesday evening and didn't want to be left alone. Additionally, I still tired easily and realized I'd probably be wiped out after only an hour or two at work, so I decided to call in. I've lost four precious sick days to this thing, and the district stopped giving us teachers special covid sick leave because the federal money ran out.
On the other hand, my winter break has been extended for a week.
Reluctantly, we called off our holiday celebration--again. This is the third year in a row we've canceled due to covid. But Darwin will still be contagious by Christmas Day, and we have too many people who really, really can't afford to be exposed, especially to a variant that can elude the vaccine, as this one has.
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The Covid Diaries 1: The Onset
After three years of masking and avoiding and vaccinating and boosting, we finally got covid. Here's how it went down.
On Friday, I was on the treadmill and ... just not feeling it. I had to force myself to run faster than 4.5, and usually I'm at a 6 or 6.5. I cut the workout short, showered, and had supper. By late evening, it was clear Something Was Wrong. I felt tired and draggy and lethargic.
On Saturday morning, I felt worse. Achy, exhausted. No congestion, no fever. I took a home covid test. Negative. Okay, then. Must be a garden-variety thingie. By afternoon I felt worse still, and I took ANOTHER home covid test. Still negative. So I settled in for a weekend cold.
By Sunday afternoon, I was pretty miserable, and Darwin was also getting sick. He was, in fact, getting sick faster than I did. I remembered that I'd had all the booster shots and Darwin had only had one. Darwin felt so awful, he didn't even want to sit up.
I gave him a covid test. Positive.
Well, shit.
I gave myself a third test. Positive.
Uh oh...
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On Friday, I was on the treadmill and ... just not feeling it. I had to force myself to run faster than 4.5, and usually I'm at a 6 or 6.5. I cut the workout short, showered, and had supper. By late evening, it was clear Something Was Wrong. I felt tired and draggy and lethargic.
On Saturday morning, I felt worse. Achy, exhausted. No congestion, no fever. I took a home covid test. Negative. Okay, then. Must be a garden-variety thingie. By afternoon I felt worse still, and I took ANOTHER home covid test. Still negative. So I settled in for a weekend cold.
By Sunday afternoon, I was pretty miserable, and Darwin was also getting sick. He was, in fact, getting sick faster than I did. I remembered that I'd had all the booster shots and Darwin had only had one. Darwin felt so awful, he didn't even want to sit up.
I gave him a covid test. Positive.
Well, shit.
I gave myself a third test. Positive.
Uh oh...
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December 10, 2022
Yule Planning 2022
Today Darwin and I revved up the Yuletide season, the first one in our new house! I baked a pile of piragi for our family gathering next weekend (including ones filled with Nutella and ones filled with raspberry, as well as the traditional ham) and some banana bread just because I could. Then we put up the tree and strewed the living room with lights and decorations. Afterward, thanks to the magic of streaming, we decided to watch SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN ("Put one foot in front of the other, and soon you are walkin' 'cross the floo-ooo-ooor!') and the George C. Scott version of A CHRISTMAS CAROL, which is the best one, in our opinion. It was a cozy day!
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December 4, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 24 (The Best Laid Plans)
Last week, I drove up to my new shoulder specialist for the latest. I'd just had an MRI, and we were consulting. The results of the MRI were already loaded to my patient portal and I'd untangled the medical jargon enough to understand that the tendon was still inflamed, which was probably why I was still in pain. My prediction, based on what the doctor had said last time, was that he'd give me a cortisone shot and this would reduce the inflammation enough to end the pain--hopefully for good.
The best laid plans...
I arrived at the clinic well before the appointment, checked in electronically through the patient portal app, and ... waited. And waited. A nurse finally brought me to an examination room, where I waited some more. They were way, way behind. I don't object to this, per se. I know unpredictable stuff happens. But it seems like if they get more than half an hour behind, there should be a way, in this day and age, to send out an automated alert to the rest of the patients that day to say there was no need to rush to the clinic.
At last Dr. P-- came in. He showed me the MRI images and confirmed that the tendon was inflamed. He said he couldn't predict when the problem would end, only that it probably would. Eventually. Some time. This heartening news was followed with, "I don't recommend cortisone. I don't think it'll help much, and it might do some damage." The inflammation, you see, isn't really inflammation; the operation made the tendon rework its own tissue into a different configuration that mimics inflammation. So no shot. Live with the pain.
He also said I need to return to physical therapy.
My shock and dismay must have registered on my face despite the covid mask because Dr. P-- hurried on to say that there were options. I didn't have to go into the PT clinic regularly--I could "just" do the exercises at home and visit the clinic every two or three weeks.
I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I hadn't realized how much I'd been anticipating a completely different scenario, one that ended with the pain ending and the words, "Your shoulder will regain strength on its own now--no need for PT." Instead, I was getting the exact opposite--more PT, more time lost, more pain.
I sat rigidly upright to keep myself under control. A while later, my ankles started hurting, and I realized I had hooked them both around the chair legs so hard, I was practically bending the metal. I made them relax.
"What do I do about pain, then?" I asked. "I'm already taking Meloxicam and ibuprofen."
"You shouldn't take more ibuprofen if you're taking Meloxicam. They're both nsaids. Does the Meloxicam work?"
"I don't know. The pain isn't constant unless I move my arm in certain ways, so when the pain fades, I don't know if it's because it just decided to fade or because I took meds."
He had no other recommendations for pain. He also said that I really didn't need to see him anymore--there wasn't much he could do. The physical therapist would be better at handling stuff.
This idea I flatly rejected and said I needed at least a check by the doctor every few months until I was completely healed. I already knew that if I didn't make another appointment right after the current one and tried to call for one if/when I had serious trouble, it would take months and months. Better to have an appointment on the books already. Dr. P-- reluctantly agreed.
"How often should I be doing PT at home?" I pressed.
"Most days," he said.
I didn't bother to ask how long. The answer would only be some version of "fuck if I know." Back at reception, I made another appointment for March and marched out.
It was in the car where I lost it. It seems like I cry and scream in parking lots a great deal.
We're now approaching the one-year anniversary of the surgery. Two days ago, I started the home exercises again. Half an hour of exercises, fifteen minutes of stretches. Yesterday during the planking pushups, I had to stop in mid-push to fight off a wave of anger and frustration.
And now I'm back at it. Again.
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The best laid plans...
I arrived at the clinic well before the appointment, checked in electronically through the patient portal app, and ... waited. And waited. A nurse finally brought me to an examination room, where I waited some more. They were way, way behind. I don't object to this, per se. I know unpredictable stuff happens. But it seems like if they get more than half an hour behind, there should be a way, in this day and age, to send out an automated alert to the rest of the patients that day to say there was no need to rush to the clinic.
At last Dr. P-- came in. He showed me the MRI images and confirmed that the tendon was inflamed. He said he couldn't predict when the problem would end, only that it probably would. Eventually. Some time. This heartening news was followed with, "I don't recommend cortisone. I don't think it'll help much, and it might do some damage." The inflammation, you see, isn't really inflammation; the operation made the tendon rework its own tissue into a different configuration that mimics inflammation. So no shot. Live with the pain.
He also said I need to return to physical therapy.
My shock and dismay must have registered on my face despite the covid mask because Dr. P-- hurried on to say that there were options. I didn't have to go into the PT clinic regularly--I could "just" do the exercises at home and visit the clinic every two or three weeks.
I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I hadn't realized how much I'd been anticipating a completely different scenario, one that ended with the pain ending and the words, "Your shoulder will regain strength on its own now--no need for PT." Instead, I was getting the exact opposite--more PT, more time lost, more pain.
I sat rigidly upright to keep myself under control. A while later, my ankles started hurting, and I realized I had hooked them both around the chair legs so hard, I was practically bending the metal. I made them relax.
"What do I do about pain, then?" I asked. "I'm already taking Meloxicam and ibuprofen."
"You shouldn't take more ibuprofen if you're taking Meloxicam. They're both nsaids. Does the Meloxicam work?"
"I don't know. The pain isn't constant unless I move my arm in certain ways, so when the pain fades, I don't know if it's because it just decided to fade or because I took meds."
He had no other recommendations for pain. He also said that I really didn't need to see him anymore--there wasn't much he could do. The physical therapist would be better at handling stuff.
This idea I flatly rejected and said I needed at least a check by the doctor every few months until I was completely healed. I already knew that if I didn't make another appointment right after the current one and tried to call for one if/when I had serious trouble, it would take months and months. Better to have an appointment on the books already. Dr. P-- reluctantly agreed.
"How often should I be doing PT at home?" I pressed.
"Most days," he said.
I didn't bother to ask how long. The answer would only be some version of "fuck if I know." Back at reception, I made another appointment for March and marched out.
It was in the car where I lost it. It seems like I cry and scream in parking lots a great deal.
We're now approaching the one-year anniversary of the surgery. Two days ago, I started the home exercises again. Half an hour of exercises, fifteen minutes of stretches. Yesterday during the planking pushups, I had to stop in mid-push to fight off a wave of anger and frustration.
And now I'm back at it. Again.
comments
Dual Thanksgivings
This post is a bit late, but whatchagonnado?
My brother Paul and his partner Becky wanted to have a Thanksgiving that combined our family and hers, and they suggested we all meet at Zehnder's Restaurant up in Frankenmuth. The rest of us were amenable, so off we went!
Frankenmuth is a tourist town in mid-Michigan. The town was deliberately designed with a fairy-tale Bavaria theme. Lots of gingerbread architecture, a water park, Bronner's (a mall-sized store that sells nothing but Christmas stuff), lots and lots of shops, and two major restaurants: the Bavarian Inn and Zehnder's. The latter is most well-known for its family-style chicken dinners, and it serves hundreds and hundreds of them every day. Thanksgiving, of course, is their biggest day of the year.
Paul made reservations, and on Thursday Darwin and I drove up. The weather was amazing warm--50s and breezy--totally not the usual dreary Michigan autumn day! The parking lot at Zehnder's, which rivals those of many shopping malls, was packed, and it took us some time to find parking. Zehnder's itself is HUGE and covers two floors that include multiple banquet halls. The large lobby, which uses queue mazes like an amusement park, was stuffed with people.
We found Paul and Becky right off, and later the rest of the crew arrived. I met Becky's parents, two sons, and daughter, and I was a little startled to learn that my mother and Becky's mother were already well-acquainted. The reservation lady quickly led us to one of the downstairs banquet halls, where a long table was already laid for us.
Zehnder's, you have to understand, is a machine. You sit down, and the process begins. The server does a head count of the people who want dinner (turkey today) and a few minutes later, the food arrives on large platters you pass around the table. Empty plates and platters are whisked away and replaced with full ones, if you want more. It's a good place for Thanksgiving because they're used to big groups and can handle whatever you throw at them.
We talked and ate and ate and talked. It was very convivial and enjoyable. And when it was done, there was no cleanup!
After many good-byes, we drove home, and I continued prep for Thanksgiving II: The Gobbling.
See, on Friday we were having over the boys (who couldn't go to Frankenmuth), and for Darwin's side of the family. I'd already prepped the white potatoes and sweet potatoes, made stuffing from scratch, and baked pies and piragi. Now I had to brine the turkey.
I decided this year to try a dry brine, instead of bath of salt water. This basically meant smearing a mixture of kosher salt, a bit of sugar, and some herbs onto the turkey skin and setting in the garage overnight. It's less messy than wet brining, and would be easier to carve--wet-brined turkey exudes a LOT of juice and makes a big carving mess. This didn't take long, really, which was nice.
I'm experienced at Thanksgiving now, so my stress levels were a lot lower. We were also "only" having about eight people over instead of the usual twenty-some, which brought the stress even lower!
Friday morning, I stuffed the turkey, set it in the oven, and got to work on the rest of the food. Here I discovered a small tactical error--my gas stove cooks a LOT faster than any of the electric stoves I've had, and I miscalculated how long it would take to make the stove-top dishes. The potatoes and carrots were done FAST. Fortunately, my serving stuff is all heated, so everything could stay warm until everyone arrived.
And they did. Max and Aran and Shane and Mary and Noah and Fred (a close friend of Shane). Noah terrorized the cats and rushed about shrieking his excitement at visiting his grandpas until we got him to stop. I co-opted him into the kitchen as my assistant, which gave him a nice distraction. We ate and talked and ate and talked. And then everyone headed out.
Darwin and I cleaned up, and order was restored to the kitchen. It was a lovely holiday!
comments
My brother Paul and his partner Becky wanted to have a Thanksgiving that combined our family and hers, and they suggested we all meet at Zehnder's Restaurant up in Frankenmuth. The rest of us were amenable, so off we went!
Frankenmuth is a tourist town in mid-Michigan. The town was deliberately designed with a fairy-tale Bavaria theme. Lots of gingerbread architecture, a water park, Bronner's (a mall-sized store that sells nothing but Christmas stuff), lots and lots of shops, and two major restaurants: the Bavarian Inn and Zehnder's. The latter is most well-known for its family-style chicken dinners, and it serves hundreds and hundreds of them every day. Thanksgiving, of course, is their biggest day of the year.
Paul made reservations, and on Thursday Darwin and I drove up. The weather was amazing warm--50s and breezy--totally not the usual dreary Michigan autumn day! The parking lot at Zehnder's, which rivals those of many shopping malls, was packed, and it took us some time to find parking. Zehnder's itself is HUGE and covers two floors that include multiple banquet halls. The large lobby, which uses queue mazes like an amusement park, was stuffed with people.
We found Paul and Becky right off, and later the rest of the crew arrived. I met Becky's parents, two sons, and daughter, and I was a little startled to learn that my mother and Becky's mother were already well-acquainted. The reservation lady quickly led us to one of the downstairs banquet halls, where a long table was already laid for us.
Zehnder's, you have to understand, is a machine. You sit down, and the process begins. The server does a head count of the people who want dinner (turkey today) and a few minutes later, the food arrives on large platters you pass around the table. Empty plates and platters are whisked away and replaced with full ones, if you want more. It's a good place for Thanksgiving because they're used to big groups and can handle whatever you throw at them.
We talked and ate and ate and talked. It was very convivial and enjoyable. And when it was done, there was no cleanup!
After many good-byes, we drove home, and I continued prep for Thanksgiving II: The Gobbling.
See, on Friday we were having over the boys (who couldn't go to Frankenmuth), and for Darwin's side of the family. I'd already prepped the white potatoes and sweet potatoes, made stuffing from scratch, and baked pies and piragi. Now I had to brine the turkey.
I decided this year to try a dry brine, instead of bath of salt water. This basically meant smearing a mixture of kosher salt, a bit of sugar, and some herbs onto the turkey skin and setting in the garage overnight. It's less messy than wet brining, and would be easier to carve--wet-brined turkey exudes a LOT of juice and makes a big carving mess. This didn't take long, really, which was nice.
I'm experienced at Thanksgiving now, so my stress levels were a lot lower. We were also "only" having about eight people over instead of the usual twenty-some, which brought the stress even lower!
Friday morning, I stuffed the turkey, set it in the oven, and got to work on the rest of the food. Here I discovered a small tactical error--my gas stove cooks a LOT faster than any of the electric stoves I've had, and I miscalculated how long it would take to make the stove-top dishes. The potatoes and carrots were done FAST. Fortunately, my serving stuff is all heated, so everything could stay warm until everyone arrived.
And they did. Max and Aran and Shane and Mary and Noah and Fred (a close friend of Shane). Noah terrorized the cats and rushed about shrieking his excitement at visiting his grandpas until we got him to stop. I co-opted him into the kitchen as my assistant, which gave him a nice distraction. We ate and talked and ate and talked. And then everyone headed out.
Darwin and I cleaned up, and order was restored to the kitchen. It was a lovely holiday!
comments
November 23, 2022
A Different Thanksgiving
For Thanksgiving this year, my brother Paul really wanted to have the feast at a restaurant, specifically Zehnder's in Frankenmuth, and include the family of his lady friend Becky. The rest of us were amenable, so Paul made the reservation. You would think I'd be saying, "Hey! A no-muss, no-fuss Thanksgiving!"
Not quite.
First of all, The Boys wouldn't be able to go. Max and Aran have to work, could make it to Frankenmuth and back in time. Aran is usually Sasha's transportation. And Darwin's son Shane wouldn't know much of anyone well. Ditto for our grandson Noah and his mother Mary.
So we're having a second Thanksgiving at our place on Friday.
I started prep when I got home from work today. (See the previous entry.) My energy level was low, and it took some time to get myself moving, but I did.
First up was prepping home-made macaroni and cheese. I got part-way into it and discovered I didn't have evaporated milk. I asked Darwin, who was curled up with his iPad, if he would run out and get some. He was reluctant ("I'm all comfortable") until I pointed out that I was cooking an entire Thanksgiving dinner by myself, and if he wanted to eat any of it, he needed to get his butt moving! So he did.
While he was gone, I got the stuffing ready. (No a brand name, thanks--I rough-cut stale bread, drench it in butter, broth, sauteed onions, and herbs and mix it all together with my hands.) Then I peeled a huge pile of white and sweet potatoes and put them in cold water. When Darwin got back, I finished the mac and cheese. As I completed each item, it went into the garage to stay chilly until Friday.
After we get back from Frankenmuth on Thursday, I'll brine the turkey. I'm experimenting with a dry brine this year to see how it comes out. Basically, you coat the turkey in kosher salt and let it sit overnight, then roast as normal.
Then it was major clean-up time.
So a lot of the heavy lifting for Friday is done!
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Not quite.
First of all, The Boys wouldn't be able to go. Max and Aran have to work, could make it to Frankenmuth and back in time. Aran is usually Sasha's transportation. And Darwin's son Shane wouldn't know much of anyone well. Ditto for our grandson Noah and his mother Mary.
So we're having a second Thanksgiving at our place on Friday.
I started prep when I got home from work today. (See the previous entry.) My energy level was low, and it took some time to get myself moving, but I did.
First up was prepping home-made macaroni and cheese. I got part-way into it and discovered I didn't have evaporated milk. I asked Darwin, who was curled up with his iPad, if he would run out and get some. He was reluctant ("I'm all comfortable") until I pointed out that I was cooking an entire Thanksgiving dinner by myself, and if he wanted to eat any of it, he needed to get his butt moving! So he did.
While he was gone, I got the stuffing ready. (No a brand name, thanks--I rough-cut stale bread, drench it in butter, broth, sauteed onions, and herbs and mix it all together with my hands.) Then I peeled a huge pile of white and sweet potatoes and put them in cold water. When Darwin got back, I finished the mac and cheese. As I completed each item, it went into the garage to stay chilly until Friday.
After we get back from Frankenmuth on Thursday, I'll brine the turkey. I'm experimenting with a dry brine this year to see how it comes out. Basically, you coat the turkey in kosher salt and let it sit overnight, then roast as normal.
Then it was major clean-up time.
So a lot of the heavy lifting for Friday is done!
comments
Long Wednesday
The day before a long weekend, a lot of teachers go for a more low-key day, partly because we're as tired as the students, and partly because absence rates are really high and you don't want to teach something new, only to have to re-teach it for all the students who missed it.
So I ran a low-key day. My seniors were great. We did some reviewing of previous material with online games, listened to a radio version of the book we're reading, and did some drawing of literary scenes. It was very relaxed and fun. Then my ninth graders showed up. They were monsters all class, some of the worst behavior I've seen all year. Immature and bad decisions that bordered on malicious. I was really upset with them, and it was a sucky way to end what had, until then, been a really nice day. I was glad to see the class end.
I have sixth hour prep, and normally I would have ducked out early, but we had a Gay/Straight Alliance meeting after school (we meet every other Wednesday, and this was an "other" Wednesday), so I had not only to stay, but stay late. I thought the meeting would be dead, with maybe three or four students, but we had a full house. All the active members came! I was a little mystified at this--didn't everyone want to get out for the long weekend?--but then I remembered how high schoolers see it.
To a teacher, an after-school meeting is work, and it's much the same as running a class (though the students are better-behaved). More work is the last thing you want on a Friday or the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. But the students see a group meeting as fun time. It's social time and time to unwind with friends. It's the kind of thinking that eventually leads to Happy Hour when they're adults.
The meeting went very nicely, and it was good to get the taste of my freshmen's bad behavior out of my mouth, but as the time for the meeting to end drew near, a lot of them were lingering. Under normal circumstances, I'd've let them, but today I wanted to go home, so I gently shooed them out the door.
By the time I got to the parking lot, it was nearly 3:30, and on the way home, I got caught in the "I'm sneaking out early today" traffic, so it took a LONG time to get home. I was late, in fact, for my online counseling session, but was able to hook up with the therapist anyway.
In the end, it was after 6:00 before I got any downtime. I should have gone for a run, but I said screw it and slacked off.
But the day wasn't done yet. Thanksgiving prep had to begin...
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So I ran a low-key day. My seniors were great. We did some reviewing of previous material with online games, listened to a radio version of the book we're reading, and did some drawing of literary scenes. It was very relaxed and fun. Then my ninth graders showed up. They were monsters all class, some of the worst behavior I've seen all year. Immature and bad decisions that bordered on malicious. I was really upset with them, and it was a sucky way to end what had, until then, been a really nice day. I was glad to see the class end.
I have sixth hour prep, and normally I would have ducked out early, but we had a Gay/Straight Alliance meeting after school (we meet every other Wednesday, and this was an "other" Wednesday), so I had not only to stay, but stay late. I thought the meeting would be dead, with maybe three or four students, but we had a full house. All the active members came! I was a little mystified at this--didn't everyone want to get out for the long weekend?--but then I remembered how high schoolers see it.
To a teacher, an after-school meeting is work, and it's much the same as running a class (though the students are better-behaved). More work is the last thing you want on a Friday or the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. But the students see a group meeting as fun time. It's social time and time to unwind with friends. It's the kind of thinking that eventually leads to Happy Hour when they're adults.
The meeting went very nicely, and it was good to get the taste of my freshmen's bad behavior out of my mouth, but as the time for the meeting to end drew near, a lot of them were lingering. Under normal circumstances, I'd've let them, but today I wanted to go home, so I gently shooed them out the door.
By the time I got to the parking lot, it was nearly 3:30, and on the way home, I got caught in the "I'm sneaking out early today" traffic, so it took a LONG time to get home. I was late, in fact, for my online counseling session, but was able to hook up with the therapist anyway.
In the end, it was after 6:00 before I got any downtime. I should have gone for a run, but I said screw it and slacked off.
But the day wasn't done yet. Thanksgiving prep had to begin...
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Harris
I've avoided writing about this, but I need to.
My friend Harris died last week.
I'm still in shock. Her husband must be in grief beyond grief. Harris had undergone a number of medical procedures in the last several years, and their health was dicey. Last week, they had a massive stroke.
I first knew Harris as Anne Harris. A few years ago, they announced their non-gendered status and have been Harris since then. Harris joined the Untitled Writers Group some twenty years ago, when we were in our thirties, and we became friends. Harris had a sharp wit and earthy manner. If they liked something you wrote, you knew it, and if they thought you'd done something wrong, you knew that, too. One of their more memorable lines about a character of mine was, "My god--a woman with an actual clit!" Harris was the most likely person in the group to understand what I was trying to do with a given piece, and their advice was always valuable to me. As Jessica Freely, they wrote the ground-breaking novel All the Colors of Love. The book made me both laugh and cry in equal doses. They were--and remain--the only non-male author I've ever read who wrote realistic gay male characters.
And then they wrote the short story "Still Life, With Boobs." Go read it. We'll wait!
Harris said that they were inspired to write the story when a friend mentioned that she didn't like wearing a low-cut blouse in public because when she did, it felt like her boobs were having conversations without her. Harris sent various drafts of the story through the group, and we always clamored to read it. I gave them one comment about a plot twist, and you can see it in the final version of story. (SPOILERS FOLLOW.) In Harris's original conception, Gwen's disapproving mother finds Gwen's runaway boobs in an ice cream carton and flips out. I told them, "You should change this. When Mom opens the carton, instead of freaking, she says tiredly, 'Oh. You, too.' " Harris pounced on this idea and gleefully worked it into the story. (END SPOILERS) Harris sent it to F&SF, and Gordon Van Gelder rejected it, but mentioned "the audacity of this story" as a treat. Harris eventually sold "Boobs" to Talebones. The story got a lot of deserved attention, and it became a finalist for the Nebula Award.
We were both Pagan, and we did some ritual work together. At Lammas one year, Harris told a dirty joke about the Goddess that explained how laughter entered the world. Harris and their husband Steve threw world-class holiday parties, too.
In the early 00s, I started teaching graduate school at Seton Hill University in their Writing Popular Fiction program. A few years later, however, my life just got too busy and I told the University I had to stop. The program director was worried--I was the only faculty member who handled fantasy and science fiction, and the student demand in those genres was climbing. Coincidentally, I had recently learned that Harris was looking for some supplemental income, so I put Harris and the University in contact with each other. Harris joined the faculty at Seton Hill and became a major hit. Students begged to be Harris's mentees, and they boosted the careers of many SHU students.
Harris eventually left the Untitled Writers Group, and, since we lived relatively far apart, we drifted. I only saw them at major events and holidays, and then only online. I saw that Harris had gotten into improv theater, and I thought of how in-character that was (so to speak). Harris was always willing to try something new and different.
I feel the loss deeply. It's still hard to understand that they're gone. The space Harris occupied is empty now. They've moved on.
comments
My friend Harris died last week.
I'm still in shock. Her husband must be in grief beyond grief. Harris had undergone a number of medical procedures in the last several years, and their health was dicey. Last week, they had a massive stroke.
I first knew Harris as Anne Harris. A few years ago, they announced their non-gendered status and have been Harris since then. Harris joined the Untitled Writers Group some twenty years ago, when we were in our thirties, and we became friends. Harris had a sharp wit and earthy manner. If they liked something you wrote, you knew it, and if they thought you'd done something wrong, you knew that, too. One of their more memorable lines about a character of mine was, "My god--a woman with an actual clit!" Harris was the most likely person in the group to understand what I was trying to do with a given piece, and their advice was always valuable to me. As Jessica Freely, they wrote the ground-breaking novel All the Colors of Love. The book made me both laugh and cry in equal doses. They were--and remain--the only non-male author I've ever read who wrote realistic gay male characters.
And then they wrote the short story "Still Life, With Boobs." Go read it. We'll wait!
Harris said that they were inspired to write the story when a friend mentioned that she didn't like wearing a low-cut blouse in public because when she did, it felt like her boobs were having conversations without her. Harris sent various drafts of the story through the group, and we always clamored to read it. I gave them one comment about a plot twist, and you can see it in the final version of story. (SPOILERS FOLLOW.) In Harris's original conception, Gwen's disapproving mother finds Gwen's runaway boobs in an ice cream carton and flips out. I told them, "You should change this. When Mom opens the carton, instead of freaking, she says tiredly, 'Oh. You, too.' " Harris pounced on this idea and gleefully worked it into the story. (END SPOILERS) Harris sent it to F&SF, and Gordon Van Gelder rejected it, but mentioned "the audacity of this story" as a treat. Harris eventually sold "Boobs" to Talebones. The story got a lot of deserved attention, and it became a finalist for the Nebula Award.
We were both Pagan, and we did some ritual work together. At Lammas one year, Harris told a dirty joke about the Goddess that explained how laughter entered the world. Harris and their husband Steve threw world-class holiday parties, too.
In the early 00s, I started teaching graduate school at Seton Hill University in their Writing Popular Fiction program. A few years later, however, my life just got too busy and I told the University I had to stop. The program director was worried--I was the only faculty member who handled fantasy and science fiction, and the student demand in those genres was climbing. Coincidentally, I had recently learned that Harris was looking for some supplemental income, so I put Harris and the University in contact with each other. Harris joined the faculty at Seton Hill and became a major hit. Students begged to be Harris's mentees, and they boosted the careers of many SHU students.
Harris eventually left the Untitled Writers Group, and, since we lived relatively far apart, we drifted. I only saw them at major events and holidays, and then only online. I saw that Harris had gotten into improv theater, and I thought of how in-character that was (so to speak). Harris was always willing to try something new and different.
I feel the loss deeply. It's still hard to understand that they're gone. The space Harris occupied is empty now. They've moved on.
comments
Shoulder Surgery 25 (Pause to PT)
So now I don't do physical therapy. For the moment.
This is a good thing. I don't have to drive to Ann Arbor twice a week and go through an hour of lifts and stretches. I don't have to add half an hour of exercises to my daily run. I get home from work, I do a run, and I'm done for the day, and it's not even 4:30.
I should be happy about this, but really, my feelings are mixed. I know my shoulder and arm aren't up to full strength, and I worry that pausing or stopping PT will mean I won't get that strength back. I definitely feel the strain--and pain--when I lift anything more than three or four pounds the wrong way. (When I mentioned this to the doctor, he said, "Then don't lift that way," which is decent medical advice, but thing is, I would like full strength back, thanks. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life with a weak right arm.)
On the other hand, a major burden has lifted. I'm no longer spending five and six hours a week, plus travel time, in physical therapy I hated.
Why is it not completely a thrill? I've been doing this for sixteen months. For a year and a half, my life has been bolt out of work and run to PT, then arrive home, tired and sweating and in pain, and by the time I showered and dressed, it was after 5:00--time to make supper. So my days started at 6:00 AM and I ran non-stop until 6:00 PM. For sixteen months. This made me feel ... helpless. Like I had no control over my schedule or my life. Wrenched daily from one even to the next, doing shit that felt scary or even degrading. ("Here, lift this one-pound weight. That's all someone in your shape can handle. Then I'm going to hurt you a bunch, but that part of the recovery process, so put up with it, you weak little shit.")
After a while, it becomes your life. When it's lifted, you don't know how to let go. I get mad when I think about all the hours I put in (six hours a week times 78 weeks = 468 hours, which is more than ten 40-hour work weeks, or 20 days of 24 hours). How much could I have written in that time? How much could have I read? How much harp could I have played? How much could I have just rested when I needed to? Because the pain is still there, it feels like I completed 468 hours of PT for nothing. Wasted time. Lost time. And I still do an hour a week of talk therapy. Been doing that for a year, so add another 50 hours or so. And the amount of time I've spent on the phone and the amount of time I've spent at the doctor's office and it all adds up to so much time taken away from me.
It's hard to let go anger and frustration you've gotten on a daily basis for sixteen months, even when a chunk of the anger/frustration's source is over. Or at least, on hiatus.
I'm working on that. Being upset doesn't make life better for me. The only thing it does is ensure that I don't give up and I don't let the medical people give up. But it's not something that happens overnight.
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This is a good thing. I don't have to drive to Ann Arbor twice a week and go through an hour of lifts and stretches. I don't have to add half an hour of exercises to my daily run. I get home from work, I do a run, and I'm done for the day, and it's not even 4:30.
I should be happy about this, but really, my feelings are mixed. I know my shoulder and arm aren't up to full strength, and I worry that pausing or stopping PT will mean I won't get that strength back. I definitely feel the strain--and pain--when I lift anything more than three or four pounds the wrong way. (When I mentioned this to the doctor, he said, "Then don't lift that way," which is decent medical advice, but thing is, I would like full strength back, thanks. I shouldn't have to spend the rest of my life with a weak right arm.)
On the other hand, a major burden has lifted. I'm no longer spending five and six hours a week, plus travel time, in physical therapy I hated.
Why is it not completely a thrill? I've been doing this for sixteen months. For a year and a half, my life has been bolt out of work and run to PT, then arrive home, tired and sweating and in pain, and by the time I showered and dressed, it was after 5:00--time to make supper. So my days started at 6:00 AM and I ran non-stop until 6:00 PM. For sixteen months. This made me feel ... helpless. Like I had no control over my schedule or my life. Wrenched daily from one even to the next, doing shit that felt scary or even degrading. ("Here, lift this one-pound weight. That's all someone in your shape can handle. Then I'm going to hurt you a bunch, but that part of the recovery process, so put up with it, you weak little shit.")
After a while, it becomes your life. When it's lifted, you don't know how to let go. I get mad when I think about all the hours I put in (six hours a week times 78 weeks = 468 hours, which is more than ten 40-hour work weeks, or 20 days of 24 hours). How much could I have written in that time? How much could have I read? How much harp could I have played? How much could I have just rested when I needed to? Because the pain is still there, it feels like I completed 468 hours of PT for nothing. Wasted time. Lost time. And I still do an hour a week of talk therapy. Been doing that for a year, so add another 50 hours or so. And the amount of time I've spent on the phone and the amount of time I've spent at the doctor's office and it all adds up to so much time taken away from me.
It's hard to let go anger and frustration you've gotten on a daily basis for sixteen months, even when a chunk of the anger/frustration's source is over. Or at least, on hiatus.
I'm working on that. Being upset doesn't make life better for me. The only thing it does is ensure that I don't give up and I don't let the medical people give up. But it's not something that happens overnight.
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