Breakfast! Get Yer Breakfast!

I have had, recently, a yen for breakfast foods (particularly if they're wrapped around Justin Timberlake, as seen at left).

Part of this is related to the ever-present nausea I have, which makes me want to eat sweet things, like ice cream. Alas, woman cannot exist on ice cream alone, and so I decided that cereal would be an excellent addition to my daily diet, what with all that fiber, the milk that gives me calcium, and the fact that they're mostly fortified.

Last night, though, I had a hankering for pancakes.

I rarely want pancakes. Usually when I crave breakfast foods, it involves multiple rashers of thick-sliced applewood bacon, with maybe a side of cinnamon toast.

But no, I needed pancakes, so I decided to make them.

I tend to forget that I am not particularly adept at the art of pancake-making. They tend to be black on one side, and perfectly golden brown on the other. But is that a globule of undissolved flour in the middle? Huh, yes it is. Ew.

I managed to make five tiny edible pancakes (out of a batch of 12, mind you), and thought my craving for batter-based breakfast foods was at an end.

I was so wrong. So very very wrong.

Today, at the grocery store, I decided to buy some frozen waffles. So now, I have three frozen waffles awaiting their turn in the oven. There is one thing that alarms me, however: the waffles I bought are whole-grain, so they're a dark tan color. The directions tell me to cook them until golden brown.

They're already golden brown.

So does this mean Cook until a dark umber color or Cook until deep sepia? I suppose I'll find out once I've cooked them. For no less than 10 minutes, otherwise there is apparently some dire circumstance awaiting me. Any less than 10 minutes, and they won't be edible, according to the packaging.

These waffles will self-destruct in less than 10 minutes.

New Developments in the World of Medicine

Did you know magnesium is good for migraines? I sure as heck didn't, not until my doctor's appointment on Monday. That's when I went in and told my neurologist - who I see more often than I see my Happy Hour compatriots, sadly enough - that the preventive migraine medicine was exacerbating some health problems while helping with the migraines.

She now has me on what she calls a "three week wash-out" to get the old medicine out of my system (it accumulates over time, apparently) and to get me back to my "baseline of health" before we try something new.

She wants me to have something to compare my next medicine to.

And I'm now taking magnesium. Which you have to take with calcium for optimum absorption. So the good news is that I'm now getting plenty of calcium and the magnesium will help with my migraines, hopefully. In studies, it supposedly helps people with migraines.

NEVERMIND.

I just did some research on the interwebs to see if I could find some fancy statistics to throw in here, and guess what? I'm taking the wrong type of magnesium. Good thing I didn't splurge for the expensive vegan $26 bottle at Whole Paycheck and went for the $6 "I eat meat, so I don't care" bottle.

Apparently, I shouldn't take it with calcium, because it counteracts the migraine effects. Or something. And despite the fact that most vitamins should be taken with meals, I should take the magnesium for migraines on an empty stomach. Hmmm... There's a doctor cited in a couple of the articles. Maybe I'll give him a shout and see if he can confirm this info (since the two articles - both with different copyrights on them for two different authors - were identical).

Because I'm sure there's nothing an internationally respected migraine researcher enjoys more than having an intern architect from Texas email him to ask him about magnesium and migraines...

Why would I feel the need to go straight to the source of the info, instead of taking the glorious interwebs' word for it?

Because the credibility of the articles I've read isn't particularly high.

They misspelled "components."

Seriously, people, there is no "I" in "Team," and there is no "a" in "components." Bust out a dictionary sometime.

Food, Glorious Food!

I went to Houston, this weekend, to visit my sister and her husband. My dad was out of town, and my mom and I decided we'd like to spend the Easter holidays en famille so we road-tripped on down I-45 Friday.

My mom reunited (and it felt so goooood) with one of her gal pals from college Friday evening, and my sister and the hubster took me to Grimaldi's out in Sugarland, whose motto should be Sugarland: Our stores' signage is creepy! Seriously, all the stores and restaurants have signage the height and font and color of which is dictated by city ordinance so it all matches and gives the thing a Stepford feel.

On to the food! Grimaldi's cooks their pizzas - it's a pizza place, natch - in a coal-fired oven, so the crust is crispy on the outside, but chewy on the inside, and delicious all over. Their mozzarella is the real deal, folks, not that Kraft grated stuff. It's made from the milk of free-range cows, and tastes like the mozzarella di bufala that comes in tubs of water (whey?) in the dairy section of Whole Paycheck - er - Foods. We ordered our pizza with artichoke hearts, Italian sausage, and sundried tomatoes. Delicioso!

Saturday, we had a breakfast of almond croissants from the farmer's market (not sure which one, though, because I slept through the market excursion and awoke in time for the eating bit), scrambled eggs, and strawberries. Lunch was eaten at Stone Mill Bakers in between bouts of frantic interior design shopping. All the ladies had their to die for curried chicken salad sandwich box lunch, which includes a bag of chips, a drink, and a cookie! I had an iced egg-shaped sugar cookie. Yum! Their curried chicken salad is served on raisin bread. Heaven! Heaven!

Saturday night was grass-fed beef roast cooked on the brother-in-law's grill with green and red bell peppers and onions in beer (mmmmmm, beer) with a green salad (arugugugugugula, green beans, other green yummy things) and then shortbread with blackberries and Hank's vanilla ice cream. Hank's ice cream is the best ice cream known to mankind. It bests Bluebell by a country mile. It has so much butterfat in it that you can feel your arteries clog as you digest it. It is wonderful.

You may think my gustatory tale is over, but you are incorrect. Oh no. The coup de grace is just around the corner.

Easter morning, we all went to services at the Emerson Unitarian Universalist Association, and then proceeded to brunch at the Backstreet Cafe on South Shepherd. They had a fixe prix menu for the holiday, and it was an exercise in mental gymnastics to decide what I wanted to order. I could have ordered the vichyssoise followed by roasted leg of lamb with spinach and then strawberry shortcake, or crawfish risotto followed by lobster benedict with a filet and stuffed mushroom and then banana custard, or chicken liver pate followed by the sea trout and then blackberry cobbler with burnt butter ice cream.

I opted, however, to show some restraint, and ordered the mixed greens, followed by the pepper sauteed shrimp with crawfish grits and tempura green onions, with a simple palate cleanser of orange chocolate bread pudding and a dollop of creme fraiche.

Very restrained, indeed.

Limp as a Wet Noodle

I'm in love. Okay, so I'm still in love with Mrs. Robinson - metaphorically speaking - but she now has a rival for my affections, and her name is Julie. Sweet, sweet Julie.

What, you ask, Could this Julie possibly have done to so ingratiate herself with you, Ms. StrainedConsciousness?

She gave me a foot massage.

But not just any foot massage. Oh no. This was an all-out, no holds barred, wonderful world of - um - wonder foot massage. With rocks. Hot ones.

I went to the usual nail place by my apartment. I rarely get the spa treatment there because it's just so darned expensive. However, it's been a rough week, so I decided to splurge. Suffice it so say, this is a once-every-6-months kind of splurge. It cost the same for a manicure and pedicure as it costs for TWO manicures and pedicures at my mom's nail salon. Or, I could get my hair cut and buy hair product and tip my hairstylist for the cost of this manicure/pedicure combo + tips. But that's beside the point.

Rocks. Hot ones.

When they handed me the little laminated sheet with the prices and services included in the spa manicure/pedicure, I waved my hand and said "Sure. Lavender, please." Yup. You get to pick your scent. Watermelon? No thank you. Citrus? It would have me craving sorbet. But lavender is relaxing. It's soothing. And combined with the awesome deftness of Julie's little fingers, it's enough to leave a girl in a puddle on the floor.

Rocks, people.

She removed my old nail polish, trimmed my toenails, cuticles, and cleaned the toejam out from under my nails. All standard procedure, all done while my manicurist filed my nails and trimmed my cuticles, etc. She used a pumice stone to soften my heels and remove the calluses. Again, nothing new, here.

Then, I saw a glimpse of heaven. Julie pulled out a plate with four artfully arranged bowls on them, the kind you get in sushi restaurants with little mounds of pickled ginger and wasabi that I never use because I don't like either. She took a scoop of sea salt from the foot-condiment tray and began rubbing it over my feet. It was very coarse and tickled like blue blazes. She used a different salt for my calves and ankles, which was less coarse. Then came the lavender pumice cream. Yes, cream with little bits of pumice stone smashed up into it that moisturizes and exfoliates at the same time.

When she was finished with the pumice, she put my feet into the water basin attached to the shiatsu massage chair and rinsed all the salty pumicey goodness off my legs and feet. It also kind of tickled. I'm very ticklish on my toes, okay?

She pulled my feet out of the water, placed them on a nice clean towel, free of sea salt and pumice residue, and squirted lavender scented oil on my legs. At this point, the manicurist walked over with a bowl of water. In the water were 10 river rocks, big enough to fit in the palm of your hand. The pedicurist and manicurist (who had done the same thing to my arms, but not quite as gently) each took rocks out of the HOT water, and began rubbing them over my skin.

Amazing.

This went on for 10 minutes for my hands and forearms, and 20 minutes for my feet. That's the period of time most pedicurists will massage your legs for a pedicure, if you're lucky.

But, oh no, Miss Julie wasn't finished. She proceeded to rub lavender scented lotion into my skin for 20 more minutes. Heaven! Pure heaven!

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a complete and total sucker for having my back scratched, kneaded and pummeled. The same goes for my legs. Especially when there are smooth, warm river rocks gliding over them.

I am now riding high on a wave of endorphins, usually released only by eating copious quantities of bacon or ice cream (I actually just ate bacon as part of my dinner, so, you know, double-whammy).

I love Julie. I LOVE HER.

And I gave her a big tip. I'm not ashamed to buy my love.

Lying Abed All Day

That's what I did Sunday afternoon and all day Monday. There is a definite correlation between weather changes and my migraines, I've discovered.

I've also discovered that migraine medicine doesn't do a damned thing about it. Neat.

The upshot of all of this is that I spent two days on migraine medicine - and missed work on one day - and spent most of today in a fog, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. Had I tried this, yet? Oh. Yeah. I had. Would this work? No. No, not at all. There went two hours. I had, as our receptionist calls it, a migraine hangover.

I prefer alcohol hangovers, I think, particularly because they're fewer and farther between than my migraines, these days.

Tonight is similar to Sunday afternoon and all of Monday - I'm lying in bed. I should be happy about that, though! Right? Right?

I will admit, working from bed is infinitely preferable to work in my decidedly non-ergonomic office chair at work, but at home, there's no one to run out to 7-11 because we all got a hankering for Slurpees.

I would like to randomly make the not-entirely-unrelated observation that Mrs. Robinson is the best receptionist ever.

(Creative Commons sharealike image courtesy of Wikimedia user Guen de Wang who has the coolest name of any of my contributors so far and whose photo can be found at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:7-11_Slurpee_Medium.JPG)

A World of Hurt

I've taken up pilates. Yes, pilates (and note to the spellcheck, that is TOTALLY a word).

It all came about when I realized I could no longer comfortably fit into a couple of pairs of jeans I own, then reviewed the past four months' eating habits - and let's be honest, drinking habits - and realized that I was going to have to exercise and eat better or buy some new clothes.

I don't have the money to buy a whole new wardrobe, so guess which option wins?

I dug out an 8-year-old pilates DVD that I had never even prised from its packaging, but had moved a bazillion times, and went to it Sunday afternoon before going to meet some friends for Japanese food.

I thought to myself, "It's only a 30 minute work-out. And I'll do the Level One exercises - with modification - so I won't strain myself. How hard can it be?"

I think we all know where this is going.

I am rediscovering muscle groups I'd forgotten I possessed. I'm also kind of proud to say that I can name them.

I found:

Obliques

Abdominals

Delts

Biceps

Triceps

These had all been missing for a while. I also found my hamstrings and my calf-muscles - oh dear God, did I find my hamstrings! - and now I'm reveling in the soreness that comes from a second day of exercise. It was infinitely more painful, Monday evening, seeing as my poor widdle muskles were already sore, but it will be totally worth it when I can get back into those jeans...

The black ones...

With the slits up the ankles.

Yeah.

Those.

Just Like College All Over Again

Except not at all, really.

Today, after 5 hours of tagging details - interspersed with a few joyous minutes of designing details - I heard Pacman yell from the other end of the office, "Damn it! I need ice cream."

As anyone in my family will tell you, I am always up for ice cream.

I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice cream!

Scooter immediately asked, "Where could we go for ice cream?" We checked the Internet to see what was near our office - Paciugo's is now closed, so no pricey gelato for us. Eventually, we settled on walking down to the CVS after Pacman announced that he wanted an ice cream sandwich.

We locked the office door - Radio, Lola, and Oldsmobile were all out momentarily - and bolted down the fire stairs and out into the stifling heat of Downtown Dallas on an August afternoon. A five minute walk landed us in the air-conditioned environs of the downtown CVS, with its throngs of homeless buying cases of Natural Light and its white collar workers picking up Band-Aids.

We stood in the ice cream section - just past the beer, which made us wonder if we shouldn't have just headed to the bar on the first floor of the building - and debated whether to buy a 4-pack of the Nestle cones with chocolate and almonds on top, or if we should buy 3 individual ice cream sandwiches. The ice cream sandwiches were on sale, so we grabbed them and headed to the cash register.

I love Downtown because of all the people there from varying social strata that you wouldn't normally find interacting. The woman in front of us - with a gold tooth, but not the whole tooth, the kind that just sort of wraps around partially in the front - had another identifying feature: a bar code tattooed on the back of her neck. I guess it was to complement the three stars tattooed on the side.

Once back in the office, we began speculating: was the bar code there for quicker processing at the county jail? What would she ring up as if scanned? Would she be expensive or cheap?

Because of the tattoo's location, we couldn't see the SKU, but I suspect it was either some significant number (to her) or a string of curse words.

Why did the adventure remind me of college?

When I was in school, we'd be up at the architecture building all night, and occasionally, we'd make a 3 a.m. run to the local QuikTrip to get a huge soda and a hot dog or some chips (or those chocolate cream-filled cupcakes). There were always hapless drivers who'd turned the wrong way en route to I-20 while looking for gas, and their Land Rover would be parked next to a Cadillac sedan from the mid-80s with 26" chrome rims, and there'd be a female "hitch-hiker" in the parking lot, asking for money.

Of course, the QT smelled much better than the CVS. There was plenty of debate about the smell, but we finally settled on:

TRASH + FOOD GREASE + CHEAP PERFUME = EAU DE CVS DE VILLE.