At Least I Will Eat Well, This Week

I no longer eat gluten. My migraines occur less frequently, my skin is improved (or, at least, it is improved between the days when I have dates, but always seems to unleash its full fury the day of a date; I think my skin wants me to stay single), and I lost 10 lbs. without changing my exercise regime a single solitary bit.

Awesome, right?

Yes, in most ways. And now, I'm going to sound like the world's whiniest person.

Because I have very little to wear in the way of "Date Clothes."

I didn't date for about two years, and now that I'm dating again, I'm rapidly discovering that the clothes I wore pre-gluten-free-diet are, for the most part, too big.

I know: P.O.O.R. B.A.B.Y. (and then you make a gagging motion when I turn my back. It's cool, I understand).

(Also, with my broad, square shoulders, some of the things I used to wear when I was bigger now make me look like a freaking Greenbay linebacker).

For the date with Mr. Ihavenoideawheremylifeisgoing, I bought a shirt from Banana Republic to wear that goes with my limited color palette wardrobe rule/theory, wore it with my great-grandmother's gorgeous gold pocket-watch/necklace, and felt fabulous.

Too bad the fabulousness was sort of wasted...

But I can't go out and buy something new to wear every time I have a date. I'm a grad student. I don't have that kind of cash.

So I'm trying to figure out what to wear for the two first-blind-dates I have this week (one of which will take place with the Man of My Dreams. Pardon me while I run around the apartment shrieking at the top of my lungs for a moment. Okay. I'm better, now). I want to look like I tried, but not like I tried too hard.

Complicating matters is Houston's weather: it was in the 50s a few days ago, and now it's in the 80s... during the day. The temperature drops to borderline-chilliness in the evenings. Do I wear winter/fall clothes, or do I chuck the Southern Lady conventions and wear whatever the heck the outside temperature suggests?

I DON'T KNOW!!!!!

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a panic attack in my closet, for the next 3 hours.

All Quiet on the Southeastern Front... and Etymology

It's been a while. It's been at least a month.

This grad school thing is totally interfering with my literary life.

No, really. I can hardly indulge my creative writing proclivities, these days, be they blog-geared or otherwise.

Heck, even my interior design magazines are on the back-burner, mostly flipped through hastily while I wait for the shower water to heat up, or while I scarf down some Whole Foods rotisserie chicken - because like heck I have time to cook!

So between school work and migraines - because, yes, those are back in full swing - it's been difficult to get to the ole blog for some writing.

Part of what's made my recent life so hectic is the nature of the projects we have in design studio. They've been 2 week charettes - I'll explain what a charette is, in a bit - that have required all the graphical and model-building dexterity of the more usual 6-8 week project, and they've been killers. A pavilion for a site near downtown Houston, a hikers' refuge in Death Valley, and then a film center, built for the director/video artist of my choice (I chose Tom Twyker and Run Lola Run for the film center. The exterior involved lots of red splashes).



A charette, for those not in the know, is what a short, flurried burst of design activity is called. The term comes from the French word for "cart."

"Huh," you say. "That makes no sense at all."

Oh, Dear Reader, but it does, if you know your architectural history.

The term originated with the Ecole des Beaux Arts in France. In those days, the school had projects due all at once: and when it was due, it was due. Every bit of it. The instructors sent a cart through the corridors of the school, and students put their projects on the cart. Occasionally, a student wouldn't be finished, and so they would put their project on the cart, and put themselves on the cart, as well, so they could finish their assignment while it rolled down the hall.

Seriously. How gutsy was that?

So, if you are working feverishly in the last few hours before your project is due in architecture school, you are en charette, or as we now say, "on charette."

You learn something new every day, don't you?

Braving the Elements

The elements, in this case, are not the those typically discussed by mystical New Agers: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water. No, the elements I reference are these: the Great Outdoors and the Not-So-Great Indoors.

Ever since I moved to Houston, I have noticed the large quantity of mosquitoes that inhabit the place. They mostly seem to reside in my apartment.

Although their numbers are dwindling, I often find rogue members of the insect kingdom hovering hungrily around my bathroom (while I'm in the bath) or circling my bed, waiting for me to go to sleep so they can gorge on my blood.

I'm very fond of my blood. I've been through a lot, just so I can continue making it: 2.5 years of almost-daily chemotherapy, to be exact on what "a lot" is.

If I was still on chemotherapy, I'd have the joy of knowing that the mosquitoes wouldn't live long, as they used to bite me (yes, I let them), fly about three feet from me, and then drop out of the air.

At the time, I took a certain macabre joy in being a walking talking vessel of poison. I was something of a super-villainess to biting insects, complete with shiny bald head and everything.

A female Lex Luthor of mosquitoes, if you will.

But these days, my body doesn't kill the skeeters like it used to do, so I'm left frantically trying to get them before they get me.

There are a lot of tiny bloodstains on the walls of my apartment from mashed mosquitoes.

So that covers the Not-So-Great Indoors.

The Great Outdoors weren't all that great, either, in truth.

Today I visited the campus of the University at which I begin my Master of Architecture degree. I attempted to go, yesterday, but Google Maps was on crack, and so its directions sent me... not to the University. I ended up in north Houston - in a not so great part of town where I was too frightened to exit - and drove for about twenty minutes after I realized my (or, rather Google's) error just so I could find somewhere "decent" to pull a U-Turn.

I'd been on the road for about 60 minutes, by this time, what with the wreck that blocked the right lane on I-45 and all.

I decided to try again, and to go back to my neighborhood to start all over.

Easier said than done, as the entire freeway was shut down in the southbound direction due to a massive wreck involving an 18-wheeler.

Three hours after I first left home to visit the University, I arrived back at my home without having so much as glimpsed it.

Attempt #2 took place, today, and it was successful. I reached the University in about 15 minutes, found a parking spot, and got out of the car.

I immediately wished I had not done so.

Fortunately, there are trees where I was walking at first, so I had the benefit of a bit of shade. Unfortunately, I had to cross into an area of ineffective brise soleil, no trees, and no other vegetation to reduce the heat of the microclimate.

The University has an architecture school. They have no excuse for environmentally ignorant buildings.

Anywho, I finally found the Student ID office, and had my ID made (not too terrible, but not nearly so flattering as my drivers license picture. Yes, I am serious: I want 8x10 glossies of that DL picture). I went to the book store and discovered that 1) only one of my classes requires textbooks; and 2) I would have to special order the "clicker" to be used in one of my classes, and I'd be emailed when it arrived.

The clicker is used for attendance (it's a little electronic device, similar to a remote control) and to show that I'm paying attention in class. I have a feeling that my professor might be, erm, a bit obsessive-compulsive.

As I walked around the campus, finding my way back to my car, I remembered the Asian women at my alma mater who carried parasols to shield themselves from the blazing sun. After the amount of exposure I gained to the sun, today, I'm thinking it might be a good idea.

Thoughts?

Buzz Buzz

I'm still in busy busy bee mode. I'm beginning to think it's the new norm, as opposed to the old norm, which was having plenty of time to do everything, plus hours to lie around in bed and read.

On Saturday, I had my hair cut - which took forever - while my mom waited for me at my apartment.

She got bored.

When I get bored, I surf the internet and fantasize about all the Elizabeth and James or J. Crew clothes I could buy.

When my mom gets bored - at my apartment, at any rate - she cleans house.

Ahem.

I returned home to a kitchen sink devoid of greasy pans, the relics of my self-inflicted burn-wound-thingy. Also, my TV console was dusted and my bathtub sparkled like a herd of Scrubbing Bubbles just had a party in there.

Afterwards, we took Major Tom Shadowmaker's (Ret.) Official State Portrait to be framed. Of course, the only frame that looked good with his portrait happened to be one of the priciest ones in the framer's shop.

Nothing but the best for the distinguished World War I flying ace.

Afterwards, my mother helped me to hang a few pictures I had lying around, so there's now a lovely salon-style wall of pictures in my living room with a set of antlers thrown in for good measure.

It's Texas, okay?

After a week of dinners with friends, and baseball games with friends, and running hither and thither to see various doctors, my apartment is now, alas, back to its state of normalcy: a bedroom littered with clothes waiting to be sorted and laundered; the remains of this evening's dinner languishing on the kitchen counter, awaiting their journey to their final resting place (a.k.a. the trash can).

I've filed my most recent medical receipts and have checked the usual web-comics. It is now, I suppose, time to attend to those languishing pots and pans.

Fear not, mashed sweet potatoes and post-buffalo-steak skillet! Here I come!

Staying On the Wagon

I fell off the wagon, this week, insofar as my Paleo-Dieting goes.

It all started on Wednesday when I burnt the bazookas out of my right hand, or, as someone called it, my "money hand," called as such because it's the hand that controls the computer mouse I use for drafting, and thus earns me my paycheck.

Thursday, my hand was still smarting a bit, though it felt much better than it did immediately after the burn-incident. When I arrived at the office, I was faced with two temptations: a box of Spongebob Squarepants cupcakes, courtesy of my coworker's seven-year-old son's birthday, and a box of cupcakes from Dallas' Cupcakery, which put Sprinkles cupcakes to shame, in my humble opinion.

I had a Cupcakery cupcake around 10:00 a.m. It was a "recuperative cupcake," I told myself; it would help me feel better about my mangled hand.

I regretted it around 10:15 a.m.

I had a tuna nicoise salad for lunch, and got the munchies around 4:00 p.m.

I had obviously not learned my lesson at 10:15.

I had a Spongebob cupcake.

I regretted it by 4:30.

This tells me that enormous bursts of sugar are BAD, and that I should lay off of them. And so I will, because the cupcakes are all gone, now, partly through my selfless intervention, attempting to rid the office of the sugary menace.

Yeah, that's it! I did it for my coworkers' health, not my own enjoyment.

Sure...

Meat and Veggie Tales

Here I thought my fancy-schmancy new Paleo-Diet would make me super tiptop healthy. What do I do almost immediately?

I come down with strep throat, because life saw me feeling better and yelled "Aw, hell no!" and did a 1990s Jerry Springer hand motion before slapping me across the face.

So today, I missed a day of work - for which I'm paid hourly - because the doctor warned me that I'm contagious for the first 18-24 hours after I start antibiotics.

I went into the doc-in-a-box in the hopes that the nurse-practitioner would tell me it was just allergies. I even told her that I thought it might be allergies, but that I wanted to make sure since I didn't want to get everyone at work sick, too.

The nurse-practitioner looked at my throat, frowned, asked me about other symptoms (I ran a fever Tuesday, which I chalked up to a burgeoning migraine combined with allergies), swabbed my throat, and then declared me unfit to go to work until Thursday.

Neat.

So I spent the day reading a biography of The Queen Mother, who was, by all accounts, an absolute scream. She was patroness of a secret club devoted exclusively to drinking called The Windsor Wets. One of their requirements as a club was to salute each other whenever possible in public without attracting the notice of non-Wets. A portrait of The Wets hangs in Windsor Castle to this day.

Seriously, do you see the current Queen Elizabeth pulling those shenanigans? Heck no!

Another story tells about a reception she attended during her tour of Australasia with Prince Albert. She had shaken hands with all the attendees when a stray dog wandered into the ballroom and presented itself to her. What does she do, dressed in her diamonds and silks? She leaned over, shook the dog's paw, patted it on its head, and it walked away, contented with having met the Duchess of York.

You don't get much cooler than that. Except for the drinking club. That was cooler.

In a Paleo-Diet update, I'm finally getting all the fruits and veggies I should be eating, and a pretty good variety of them, too. I'm taking my vitamins at night with my dinner, since I have to cook for myself or risk being tempted by the siren song of bread and chocolate milkshakes.

This week, I've eaten an "Oven-Finished Pork Chop" with a slaw of Belgian endive and celery, a steak with broiled asparagus and pear tomatoes, and a taco salad, made with a yummy taco seasoning from Cocina Nueva (sold at Whole Foods) and buffalo meat. Yummy yummy buffalo meat.

So I'm finally getting veggies, I'm supplementing my diet with fish oil (so my post-dose burps taste like fried haddock), a calcium-magnesium blend, Vitamin D, and Vitamin C. I think the high doses of C I'm taking are probably part of the reason I'm not more ill than I am (which isn't very; honestly, I could have worked through the day just fine, if I didn't care about infecting my coworkers), but that could be just my wanting the vitamins to be helping.

I do miss my Dr. Pepper, though. And at the pharmacy today, I had to stand right next to a display of Swedish fish while I picked up my antibiotics, and I have never wanted Swedish fish so badly in my whole life.

Once again, the constant vigilance I apply to my skincare will have to be applied to my eating habits as well.

I Am Woman*, Hear Me Roar!

*Cavewoman.

Stone age.

Paleolithic.

And full.

My sister and her husband are on something called "The Paleo-Diet." It goes something like this:

Our prehistoric ancestors ate meat and vegetables and nuts. Only after the advent of cultivation (c. 10,000 years ago, give or take) did they begin eating grains and dairy products. 10,000 years is not a heck of a long time in which to evolve a digestive system capable of processing grains and dairy products. Ergo, modern man should eat only very limited quantities of these things.

My mom came home from a visit to see my niece (her grand-daughter) espousing the virtues of the Paleo-Diet.

One of its benefits is the potential to eradicate skin conditions, such as eczema.

A little secret: I have eczema all over my face. And my scalp. And sometimes on the palm of my hand. It is only controlled through constant vigilance! of the type that would make our border patrol proud. Twice daily, I apply one of two creams (one is for daily use, the other is for ohdearGodit'sgettingsplotchy! use), and I also use the lovely Olay Pro blah blah blah: it's a powertool for your face.

In other words, yes, I have glowing skin, but that's only because I have to fight a daily battle with it (and avoid drinking alcohol on a daily basis, or all hell breaks loose... and take Benadryl every night to stave off the allergic reactions that trigger eczema... and only burn scented candles in my apartment when something is really funky, or the airborne odor particles make me break out... etc...).

The possibility of having glowing skin with significantly less worry and hassle is the carrot that has caused me to rid my refrigerator of yummy yummy yogurt, my pantry of macaroni and cheese, and my countertop of cereal boxes. I will trade these delights for a life of buffalo steaks, lean chicken, lots and lots of fish, and more vegetables than you can shake a stick at.

Unless that stick has a hoe or a rake attached to the end of it...

I even read a book about the nutritional wave that's sweeping my family, so once my current supply of Dr. Pepper runs out, I'll be ready to jump in head first.

Right now, I'm wading in the kiddie section.

Granted, I don't have to give up every type of dairy: supposedly, cottage cheese and hard cheeses are okay (parmigiana, manchego, etc...), so my breakfast will most likely be cottage cheese and fruit for a while. And for Level III of the diet, I'm allowed 3 "open" meals per 14-day period (open = grains and/or chocolate milkshakes... er, dairy).

I'm not quite ready to get on board with the book author's suggestion of salmon for breakfast, just yet.

I have my limits, after all, and they stop at leftover fish for breakfast.

Things I Now Know

A few things I've figured out during the course of the week (which has only run its course halfway):

1) The muscle relaxers don't do anything except knock me out for a couple hours so I can get some sleep.

2) If you call your doctor's receptionist in tears, you don't get to speak to the nurse, you get to speak to the doctor.

I also know that I have a CAT scan Thursday morning at 9 am, which means I have to arrive at the hospital at 7:45 am (an ungodly hour) so I can drink some contrast, let it seep its way through my system, and then go lie in a tube while a herd of Siamese roams around sniffing for maladies. I'd rather have lab work done, but that's just because I'm partial to the canines.

My incredibly devoted mother - who has the patience of Job, and a name that is probably mispronounced every bit as often despite its brevity - is driving me to the hospital, just as she drove me to my doctor's appointment this past Friday. And just as she took me to dinner last night and to lunch today.

I do have a bit of relaxation to look forward to at the end of the week, though. A while back, my father was given a gift card to Nordstrom to partake of their spa services (in particular, a massage and pedicure), but he never scheduled his spa day. In fact, he forgot about his spa day, until my mother reminded him. She then gently suggested that, seeing as all of my vacation days are going towards doctor's visits and to my sister's upcoming delivery of a niece for Ms. Strainedconsciousness to spoil rotten, it would be nice to give me a mini-vacation by donating the aforementioned spa day to a worthy cause, namely: myself.

So this Saturday, I will be receiving a one-hour massage, followed by a one-hour facial, and then will stagger back to my apartment to rest, hopefully knowing a bit more about my innards following the feline scans to take place Thursday morning.

Hopefully. The suspense is killing me.

Seriously?

I slept well, last night; it was the second good night's sleep I've had in about three weeks.

I ended up skipping Radio's birthday party because I wasn't well enough to go. Sure, I guess I could have gone, if I'd loaded up on oral muscle relaxers and injected myself full of the other ones, and I did have someone who offered to drive me there and back, but I knew I'd still be in pain, and that my would-be-driver - who we'll refer to as Jonah - would have been forced to dance attendance on me all evening. And by "all evening" I mean "for the one hour I probably would have lasted before either 1) falling asleep curled up in a corner or; B) demanding I be taken home because the pain had grown unbearable."

I have a hunch Jonah wouldn't have minded his role as attendance-dancer-on-er, seeing as he offered to skip the party altogether to come entertain me at my apartment, but my emotional state is somewhat volatile, right now, what with all the trauma/drama/ramalamadingdong going on, and I think the last thing I need is another potential upset, or the guilt from potentially upsetting someone else.

So after skipping last night's soiree, I arose at 8:30 am Sunday - which is a miracle, and I think I should be canonized for it - dressed, and was at La Madeleine by 9:15 for breakfast. I decided I should eat something healthy involving a jam-slathered-croissant before I took my oral muscle relaxer, and La Madeleine is usually a nice quiet place to eat breakfast.

USUALLY being the key word, here. Because on this particular Sunday, it was full of loud blowhard men (I will not call them gentlemen, judging by their coarse language in the presence of ladies) who had no concept of the sanctity of others' solitude or their potential need for quietness. It's a very small La.M., so sound travels very easily. I tried shooting a couple of dirty looks at one of the tables, but that apparently led the corpulent 60-something leading the hard-blowing charge to think I was enamored of him as he just winked at me. I sneered and went back to (vainly attempting to) read my Economist. A few minutes passed and he walked by my table en route to refill his coffee cup.

"Watcha reading?" he inquired.

"I'm trying to read The Economist," I replied.

"Yeah, it's a difficult magazine."

I lowered said magazine. "It's not the magazine that's difficult, it's the loudness of the other patrons and their interruptions that makes the reading slow going." I raised said magazine. He walked off to refill his coffee. He didn't stop by again on the way to the table. In fact, he took a decidedly circuitous route to avoid passing near my table, and I can't imagine why. I'll chalk it up to the dark circles under my eyes and my Seek and Destroy Metallica shirt. The winged skull with fangs is fairly intimidating to the uninitiated.

By the time I left, just a few minutes after my encounter with the corpulent interloper, I was starting to feel weak again - the opposite effect desired after a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomato, croissant, and a potato galette. I drove home, took the elevator upstairs, grabbed a glass of iced tea, and fell into bed. The pain was staggering and so was I, despite the fact that I'd given myself an injection before I left for breakfast, hoping to stave off the pain long enough until I got back from eating. I took the oral muscle relaxers, and settled down to read some more of my Economist.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to follow the stories in The Economist when you are half stoned out of your mind? Incredibly difficult. I know who Nicholas Sarkozy is. He's the president of France. No. Wait. He's the prime minister. Damn it. Which one is it? Which one is more important in French government? I should know this. But at present, the only thing I know is that his wife is gorgeous, he's short, and his name is involved in a scandal surrounding the L'Oreal heiress' fortune, but I'd still accept a date from him if he offered it. You know, once he's tired of being married to a supermodel/renowned singer, 'cause I'm next in line.

What am I going to do this next week when I return to work? I can't take the oral muscle relaxers before I leave for the office, since I can't drive for 6-8 hours after ingesting them (neat!), so after taking them at work, that should give me a good solid 30 minutes of work at the office before my level of concentration drops to nil and I start twiddling my thumbs and singing Frere Jacques to myself.

I also have no idea what will happen if I'm on the muscle relaxers and I have to sit up all day. Will they be as effective as they are currently, when I take them and then lie in bed, reading biographies of aristocratic women and trying to focus my eyes on pictures in the shelter magazines that constantly arrive at my house? Would it be unprofessional to set up a cot in my cubicle and move my computer to a cardboard box next to it? Or could I just talk to Oldsmosbile and Radio and see if I can work from home for a couple of days?

And most importantly, will I have to wear pants? I'm pretty sure part of my comfort level at home is the lack of pants involved - I'm taking my cues from the likes of Wonder Woman and Lady Gaga on this one - and I'm afraid wearing pants will interfere with the healing process.

I think the pants might definitely interfere. Think a more Gaga wardrobe could pass muster?

Oh, What Fools These Mortals Be

It's been a couple of week since I've written. I've been undergoing some personal trauma - a little bit of emotional, a little bit of physical - and I've been exhausted. At this point, I've taken a "to hell with 'em" attitude to the emotional bits of flotsam, but it's the damned physical trauma that I can't seem to shake.

Over a year ago, I had some surgery to try to rectify a medical situation that wasn't healing itself. All the lotions and potions and notions my doctor tried failed, so snip snip, and I was a new girl.

Or so it was supposed to be.

Turns out, my body is pretty stubborn, and it didn't feel like being healed up quite so easily. Sure, that bit healed the way it was supposed to, but other bits decided to take up the slack. In the past two weeks, I've spent my non-working hours in bed. And some of the hours I should have been in the office were also spent in bed, albeit "telecommuting" in a way from home. Let's face it, when you're writing project specifications, you don't really need to be in the office.

A roll of plans, a word processor, and thou.

Anyway, After 11 days of pure unmitigated physical hell, I went to the doctor yesterday, described to her exactly how severe my symptoms were, how terrible of an impact they were having on my life, exactly what I was doing to try to relieve them (everything she's told me to do, and more!) and asked what she proposed as a solution.

She gave me muscle relaxers, because the ones I've been using weren't strong enough.

I've had experience with oral muscle relaxers before, back in middle school, and again after a car wreck in college. They're okay. They make you kind of loopy and allow you to get a full 12-hour sleep without once waking up, and your dreams are vastly more interesting, to boot. She also gave me some that I have the please of injecting into myself 2-4 times daily, which is, actually, decidedly unpleasant.

They also tend to instill a false sense of confidence the day after you start them when you feel so much better!

I decided, this morning - er - afternoon, when I got out of bed, that I was well enough to go to the grocery store. It's something I haven't done in two weeks, and the staples of my diet - hummus, whole wheat pita bread, apples, carrots, yogurt - were gone. So off I went to the Whole Paycheck to restock my larder.

I am an idiot.

Halfway across the parking lot - going into the grocery store - I regretted the decision. But did I turn around? Did I give up? Heck no! I went right along with my plan. There was hummus and all-natural root beer to be purchased! (Thanks, Dad, for the voicemail that gave me that little craving).

I did use a cart, though, because I didn't want to tax myself too much.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted, feeling slightly light-headed, and weak. I unpacked my goods and retreated to my bed, once again.

I think, at this point, the only option for me is to start wearing Empire-waist gowns and have my parents arrange a marriage for me with someone who has an absolutely Dickensian last name, something like Bottlesnoot or Bandershoot or something. I could be an object of curiosity for the landed gentry all around and could hold court from a fustian upholstered divan in the picture gallery.

Eh. With my luck, I'd probably end up with the gout.

Hestia, I Am Not

I am not exactly what you might call a domestic goddess. Oh, sure, I go on and on (and on and on) about interior decor, and drapes, and clothes, but it's all style and not a lot of substance, domestically speaking.

I rarely crack a cookbook, and when I do, it often end with borderline disastrous consequences (Ref: pancakes). So my decision to host a friend for dinner Tuesday night might seem a bit ill-chosen.

When I entertain, I typically keep it limited to hors d'oeuvres or desserts with copious amounts of alcohol. Sometimes, I skip the desserts and crudites and just serve booze. But my friend hasn't seen my apartment yet (only a few people have, and most of them are relatives) and so I decided to have her over for dinner. She's also a very close friend and will therefore be, I hope, forgiving.

And, it's me, so I'll also be serving whine - er, ahem - wine.

In an attempt to bring out my inner Martha, I bought flowers, this evening, for the dinner table. I chose hydrangeas, because they were the least intimidating of the flowers on offer at the Whole Paycheck (and the least expensive for the amount of coverage offered).

I underestimated the number of hydrangea stems to buy.

Okay, so I was able to solve that problem by just using a smaller vase, and yes, it still looks pretty, but I should have bought more flowers! I should have known how to do this! Shouldn't I?

Hadn't I, once before, arranged all the flowers for a very low-budget wedding I attended - as the best man's date - in Oklahoma? After the groom, best man, and I picked up the roses from the nearest Wal-Mart, the bride and her relatives proceeded to cram them, untrimmed stems and all, into the nearest vases they could find (in other words, whichever ones were in the church's rec hall). They all seemed a bit stressed, seeing as they were also in the process of trying to set out the fried chicken and mashed 'taters for the rehearsal dinner (also from the Wal-Mart) in something of a logical manner, while simultaneously putting the plastic table cloths out, so I chimed in and suggested I take over the flower arranging.

They all oohed and aahed over my flower arranging skills, and asked how often I did it, and I replied truthfully that I rarely did it - rarely as in never - but that I'd watched my mother and her friends do it, and I guess some of it had rubbed off.

Enough to know that you need to trim off some of the leaves, at least, or your water will smell and the roses will look like far from elegant.

There was a lot at the wedding that was far from elegant. I've never received so many dirty looks in my life because, God forbid, I wore a strapless dress. It was a wee mite conservative, and I didn't realize that going into the deal. Oops. The minister refused to even look at me, assuming, I suppose that my wanton shoulder-baring ways might rub off on him.

No need to fear that, bub. Not with that greasy Elmer Gantry hair.

I'm About to Crash

Why, pray tell, are you about to crash, Ms. Strainedconsciousness?

Dear Reader, I am about to crash because I spent 5 hours on a job site today.

Five freaking hours.

It was fun for the first 15 minutes or so, sure, but after that, concrete gets kind of boring.

Yes, concrete was the reason for my prolonged site visit(s): a 10 a.m. concrete pour this morning, at which I stayed for two hours, with a one hour break for lunch at Freebird's. After a little over an hour in the office, I was back on the site for a meeting with the general contractor and the foreman and the landscape architect and the interior designer, and the owner's representative/son.

The owner's representative/son is a couple of years younger than myself and is fascinated by construction.

He is also incapable of asking me a question.

He will ask anyone a question but me, in fact.

Today, he had a question about the concrete form work, so who did he ask? Naturally, he asked the interior designer, who is old enough to be his mother and who he's known for years. God forbid he should ask me a question. God forbid he should talk to a girl his age.

It's like middle school all over again, complete with the everyone's embarrassed because we're sweaty outdoorsy phys. ed. type atmosphere, but with khakis and work boots instead of Keds and hideous green nylon shorts.

After the site meetings were all over, I returned to the office to sit in the air conditioning for a while in a stupor while I rehydrated my brain. When 6'o'clock rolled around I fled and started driving towards home, at which point I realized I would have to cook, and that I didn't want to cook. I also realized that I didn't want what I thought I wanted (a cherry Slurpee).

No, I wanted a beer.

I briefly considered calling a friend of a friend who had offered to buy me dinner Saturday in a booze-fueled haze to force him into buying me food, but then opted to call my mom, instead (you got off easy this time, friend-of-a-friend). She met me at The Flying Fish, and I indulged in a catfish basket - two fillets, instead of my usual single - and a Pabst Blue Ribbon, for which they charge an ungodly $2.95.

Seriously, who charges $2.95 for PBR? Highway robbery!

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.