How The Internet Damn Near Killed Me Today

I love exotic fruits and vegetables. 

The first time I tried "Dragon Fruit" I was sold on this weird looking cactus family thing with the hot pink flesh. 

When I was at the store last weekend, I saw something very interesting called "Cherimoya".  The sign said to slice the fruit and remove the seed and "enjoy".

I stuck the weird looking fruit in the bowl with bananas and waited until it had softened a bit.  I don't usually eat breakfast, but decided this exotic fruit would be a perfect choice for my lunch.  I carved it in half and then proceeded to eat it with a spoon, after clearing out the obvious seeds. 

It tasted like a vanilla custard and I was delighted.  I was forced to sort of spit out some of the seeds as they were spread willy nilly all through the fruit.  I may have even missed one or two.  No big deal I figured.

I looked up the cherimoya fruit and read about the taste and the origins (the Andes, I think), and thought to myself, "Dang!  I wonder why this isn't more popular!  It's delicious!

I saw a heading called "Cherimoya seeds" and decided to read the article.  I was expecting some quirky little recipe that would turn these seeds into a tasty treat!  I was sort of stunned when the article discussed how DEADLY POISON the seeds were.  In fact, these black seeds are used to make an insecticide.  About that time, I began to perspire and my stomach felt very weird.  I had hot and cold flashes as my kidneys began to fail and my hair and teeth started falling out.  (Okay, I'm lying, but I really was having a hissy fit!)

Now don't get me wrong, I didn't "eat" the seeds.  But a small one might have slipped down my gullet.  I just wasn't sure.  I thought about going to the ER but then realized that it would probably be too late by the time I got there, and they would charge me a $250 co-pay.  Screw that.

I thought long and hard about it and decided to call the "poison control" people and ask them what to do.  I called the number with shaking hands and spoke to a really nice woman who had never heard of Cherimoya.  But she was nice and calm and said, "Let me just look it up and see what's what."  Very calmly, she said, "I think you are okay though." 

She said to me "The good news is that you didn't crush the seeds and eat them."  (Of course, I didn't crush the seeds and eat them!  Who does that?)  She said since the seed or seeds were swallowed intact, they would just work there way through my system.  No problem.

I did feel a lot better though.  I quit sweating and my hands quit shaking and my kidney failure seemed to stop.  My teeth and hair aren't falling out either.

Life is good.  Ignorance is bliss.

Secret Passion

It all started about 40 years ago.  I saw some antique table linens in a store and I fell in love with them.

The lace, the embroidery, the linen quality just inflamed me.  I had to have these napkin!  Some of them were very fragile and almost looked like they would fall apart in my hand.  Oddly, they were stronger than they looked and I still have them to this day.

I not only have them, I use them.  And, I hand launder them and wrap them in special paper to keep them safe.

I had a dinner party several weeks ago that included my 20 year old grandson, Cyrus, and his lovely girlfriend, Alex.  Alex commented on how wonderful the table looked and I pointed out the 100 year old napkins to her.

She said "I'm afraid to use them!" and I told her that was nonsense.  As long as you launder them carefully, they should be fine, I assured her.  Further I told her if she should marry Cyrus, I would give her these precious napkins.  Both Alex and Cyrus choked when I made that comment.  Oh well, she's a nice girl.  He could do a lot worse!

My daughter Sheila, Cyrus's Mother, raised a napkin to her red lipsticked lips and patted gently while grinning her evil grin at me.  I considered putting arsenic in her soup, but thought better of it.  She is my only daughter, so I guess I'm obligated to keep her.

Now, I know that none of you think of me as Hannah Homemaker, and in most cases I'm not.  But there is something about these wonderful old linens that just thrills me.  I think I have about 100 napkins at this point and about 10 tablecloths, all of which are very old.

I find romance in thinking these things adorned the table of other people from a bygone era.  I can't help but daydream about what the people talked about while sitting at the dinner table in the old days.  What did they eat?  Did they take care to rid the fabric of stains?  Did some woman wrap a linen tablecloth with lace on it around her nude body and wander out into the field to meet her lover?  (Well, it's an idea, isn't it?  I can think of worse uses for a tablecloth!)

After use, I carefully soak the linens in very hot water and Restoration (a product to clean antique fabrics) leaving them to soak overnight.   I rinse the cloth in white vinegar and hot water using a wooden spoon to swish the material around.  I only launder the linens when it's nice weather and I can dry them on a table in the back yard, keeping them shaded to keep from over-bleaching the material.

I sprinkle them with distilled water and use a little "sizing" before I iron them.  Ironing these 12" X 12" or 13" X 13" squares of cloth is oddly relaxing to me.  I get in a rhythm and spend hours on the task generally while I watch something really fascinating on television (like "Jersey Shore", or "The Real Housewives").  There is something almost hypnotic about the experience.

The 60" by 120" or 130" tablecloths are another story.  Those big pieces of fabric are torture to iron, particularly when I have to iron the linen with a hot iron and the lace with a cool iron.  But I figure it's punishment for my many sins. It's sort of the Pagan's idea of confession and forgiveness.

And, as you all know, I can be a bad, bad girl.

Remains of the Day

It's been almost a month since my last post.  I've been asking myself "why?". 

The only answer I have is a goofy one.  I've had a sense of foreboding.  Isn't "foreboding" and fabulous and underused word.  It would be simpler to say I've been in a state of anxiety that I may have brought on myself.

I've been worried about North Korea.  I've been worried about this new Asiatic flu that kills everything and everyone it touches and has no cure.  I've been worried about my son going to the Boston Marathon and running.  I've been worried about going to the dentist.   I've been worried about Alex turning 50.  I've been worried about his birthday party and if I could make it wonderful.  I've been worried about climate change.  I've been worried about gun violence.  I've been in a state of "foreboding".

I've made the horrible decision to watch the news in a compulsive and detrimental to my mental health way.  Train wreck after train wreck and I could not look away.  I got hooked on this stuff and it left me speechless, (or at least wordless).

It's over now.

My son ran in the Boston Marathon.  He reached the finish line about 40 minutes before the bombs went off.  I'm glad he's fast.  I'm glad he and his wife Kate were in transit back to their hotel when the explosions went off.  Finally, I'm glad the investigation of this event has been fruitful and that there is one perpetrator  dead and one who will face charges.

The new flu is really nothing for me to worry about.  The press leaves me in a state of anxiety.  If it's not killer bees, it's killer sink holes.  If it's not raging terrorists, it's raging lunatics.  If it's not deadly tsunami's, it's deadly earthquakes or avalanches.

My husband's birthday party went beautifully.  We entertained family and friends and it was a beautiful day!  We had a gorgeous array of Persian food catered and plenty of flowers, beer and wine!  Alex got some lovely cards and gifts from our family and friends.  He was delighted!  Everyone seemed to have a wonderful time.


I will try to remember that the life we have is the only one that we can control.  And I will try to post about the life I have and stop being such a news junkie!

Sick, Faking It, Or Just Lazy? You Be The Judge

Night before last, I awoke at 3 AM with a scratchy throat.

Immediately, I realized that my legs and arms were aching too.  I seemed to feel hot and cold at the same time.  Oh dear! Is this the dreaded flu?

About 5 AM, I drifted back into sleep, but knew I was probably done for.  My friend had the flu recently and it turned into double pneumonia.  I had assumed I was pretty safe because I heard the flu season was over.  Damn! 

I dreamed of a lovely funeral for me and saw all my family and friends crying and saying how sad it was that I was cut down so cruelly, and only slightly past my prime.

I was sort of happy that Alex had gotten me Casablanca lilies in full bloom.  He can be so thoughtful about things like that.

It was really a pretty nice funeral as funerals go.  And the "reception" after was very elegant, thanks to my daughter-in-law's assistance, and my husband's wallet and generosity.

I climbed out of slumber to find that it was almost 9 AM and that I was actually still alive (much to my surprise).  I swallowed a couple of times and my throat was less scratchy than it had been.  Hmm.  All of my parts that are supposed to move seemed to be working so I got out of bed.  I wrapped myself in a pink blanket (pink is a good color if you are sick), and carefully came downstairs.

Alex was working from home yesterday and he was on a conference call.  I went to the kitchen to get my first cup of coffee for the day.  Alex got off the phone and I told him, "I'm sick."  He responded with an appropriate platitude "Poor baby!" and I toddled off to lie down in the next room and turned on television. I also telephoned my friend, Nelson, to tell him that I needed to cancel our lunch date because I was sick.  He was sympathetic and solicitous in equal measures.  I like that in a guy.

Alex came in as I was dozing and watching CNN.  "What do you want to do for lunch?", he asked.  "I don't know, Alex.  I'm sick." He wandered back into the office to get on another conference call.  Zoe jumped up on the bed to cuddle up next to me.  We turned on Dr. Phil.  Neither one of us likes Dr. Phil, but he's great to sleep to.

Alex ran to a local bistro to pick up sandwiches for our lunch.  I did get up eat in the kitchen and then I went back to lie down.  There seemed to be nothing wrong with my appetite.  I wondered when the high fever and chills would start.  Actually, I felt pretty comfortable.  Weird.  This was the least distressing flu I've ever had.

I lay in bed watching one fun show after another all day.  I did get up around dinner time and go into the kitchen.  Alex asked me, "What do you want for dinner?" and I told him, "I don't know.  I'm sick."  He ordered kabobs and a salad from the Afghani place in town that delivers. When dinner arrived, it was quite good!  Alex asked me, "What do you want to drink?".

I asked him to give me a beer.  He looked at me kind of funny and brought me one.  "Should you be drinking beer while you are sick?", he asked.

"I'm better now." I told him.

Mick and Me

Mick and I have a long and complicated history.

In 1970, I adored him.  I saw him in "Performance" (a very strange film) at the San Francisco film festival.  His androgyny thrilled me to my core.  I had liked the Stones, but found that Mick was the most spectacular performer I had ever seen.

Now the truth is, I didn't see all of the movie.  I was dating a young man who was a labor lawyer and we started sort of making out about half way through the film.  I think I closed my eyes and thought of Mick.  Know what I mean?

At some point, Mick married Bianca and I realized he and I would get together one day, but not until he and the gorgeous Latina woman broke up.

In the meantime, I listened to "Some Girls" and waited patiently.  Oh I had husbands and lovers during those years I waited, but I knew for sure, one day it would be up close and personal for Mick and me.  I wasn't wrong.

In 2005, the Rolling Stones came to perform in the San Francisco Bay Area.  My husband got tickets but I dislike crowds so I encouraged him to go with a friend. At the last possible moment, I changed my mind and got two tickets, inviting my friend Andre to join me.  It turned out these last moment tickets were in a just opened area right in front of the stage.

I clutched Andre's arm as we stood in the cool evening fog waiting for the Stones to come on stage.  Andre had thoughtfully brought along a silver flask filled with good scotch for us to sip while we waited.  My heart was pounding in my chest as I waited for Mick to appear.

A roar came up from the sold out crowd and there they were!  The Rolling Stones!  Right in front of me!  It took a moment for me to realize that Mick and changed somewhat drastically since 1970.  It wasn't that he was older.  I had expected that.  Something else nearly knocked me over.

Mick was tiny.  He was about half my size.  He was skinny as a super model.  (Actually, all of the Rolling Stones were tiny men.)  For just a second, our eyes met.  For just a second, I thought "There he is!"

And then I started laughing.  Uh, no way.

The Bane Of My Life

At  almost 13, I could not wait to get my first one.  I pestered my mother until she took me to the Emporium "Foundations Department" and had a sales lady help select my first bra.

I tried on the slightly padded 28 triple A cup and felt like a bona fide sex bomb!  Okay, the bra was cotton and had a tiny bow between the cups, no lace or sexy stuff at all, but it was a bra!  I really couldn't wait to get to gym class to show it off.  (Sadly, I've always felt that way about my underwear.  I know, that's not ladylike, but it is what it is.)

Fast forward 30 years.  Walking in the house after work the only thing on my mind was to get that mutha fugga off of me as soon as the front door closed behind me.  Bras had become my worst enemy.

I wear a 38 D bra.  In other words, I need an underwire to give me support.  While I'm all about the support, is it necessary to have a steel wire to hold me in place?  Bras have to be the most uncomfortable clothing item every made.  The bands are constrictive and they impair my ability to breathe.  The wires dig into my flesh.

I've tried different styles of bras over the years, including some without the underwire.  Unfortunately, my boobs will slip right past the place the underwire should be and be effectively cut in half.  That seriously is not my best look.

I can walk for miles in stiletto shoes and never complain.  I can sit for hours at the salon letting people put weird chemicals on my hair to give me that perfect natural champagne moonlit platinum blond color and never complain.  But I hate bras the same way some people hate spiders or rattlesnakes.  (Actually, I have no real problem with spiders or rattlesnakes.)  I have more hatred for bras than I have for serial killers and that i guess is saying something.

If it was acceptable to do so, I would walk around with my hands securely cupping my bosoms to hold them in place but I'm afraid that might give me the wrong kind of reputation not to mention attention.  I do see some women jiggling along the street untethered by a bra, but it's not really a great look for women in their 60's. 

So be forewarned.  If you come to my house and I expect you, I will put on a bra for your visit.  If you do not tell me you are coming, all bets (and bras) are off.

So Three Ladies Walk Into A Bar - Version 3

I really had no idea what to expect.

Hell, I'd been on the road since 10:00 AM, and didn't arrive in Phoenix until nearly 4 PM.  (Traveling with Zoe our pit bull proved to be a bit challenging.)

Harry was cool.  He lay in the cargo area on his mattress and slept most of the trip.  Zoe walked back and forth on the back seat panting and squealing at the top of her lungs.

"Do you think she needs to pee?", "Do you think she needs to poo?", "Do you think she needs water?".  It seemed we needed to stop at every rest stop area between Indio and Phoenix.  I felt dirty with grime from the road, and we really had not eaten since leaving our hotel in Indio.  I don't "do" breakfast, but Alex does.  Oh wait, I didn't eat the night before either.  We drove from Alameda to Indio in about 7 hours.  By the time we got to Indio, nerves were frayed and restaurants were closed.  Bummer.

We pulled into the Phoenix Biltmore Embassy Suites and it felt like a true oasis in the desert.  Lovely lobby, great suite of rooms, even a little private patio.  Although I was scheduled to meet sister-bloggers, Barbara Schuster and Ann Curry for dinner shortly, I was ravenous.  I sent Alex out asking that he bring back something to eat as quickly as possible.  I jumped in the shower (badly needed), and then applied cute make up, and finger combed my long curly locks of hair.  Okay, that was a lie.  I pushed my hands through my crew cut.  I was goofy tired and starved but at least I looked clean and smelled better than I had before.  Still, I was a bit stressed and dehydrated and hungry.  Did I already mention hungry? I threw on some clothes and my trademark Prada stilettos and a tiny spray of Coco by Chanel, and I was ready for action.

I was just shoving a bite of a turkey sandwich into my mouth when Barbara called from the lobby letting me know she had arrived.

Barbara is a bubbly, beautiful, high energy gal.  She is warm, funny, adventurous and has a 1,000 megawatt smile.  I loved her at first sight.  We went back to our suite and I introduced her to Alex and Zoe and Harry.  Alex was polite, Zoe not so much.  I continued to try and shove more turkey sandwich in my mouth realizing how crude I was being but I couldn't help it.  Barbara pretended not to notice.  (I told you she's adorable.)

Ann telephoned and gave Barbara directions to the bar where we would rendezvous with her.  It was a short ride away.  I left Alex and the pups to their own devices and we took off.

At first glance, I knew Ann was landed gentry.  She was perfect!  Her stylish rich girl hair and diamond studs wowed me!  Never mind that, the woman looked to be made from crushed pearls.  Prettiest darned skin I've ever seen on anybody over the age of 3 months.  (Yes, at one point, I did fondle her ankle.  It was just as smooth and perfect as it looked.)  When Ann speaks, it conjures up visions of mint juleps and manicured lawns on plantations.  She is a magnificent example of pure Southern womanhood.  She bowled me over!

I drank two margaritas in rapid succession.  Damn that tasted good!  Further, we drank some wine with our dinner, and then followed it up with a brandy later.  We talked and laughed for what seemed like hours!  I loved these girls!

When it came time to go back to my hotel, I realized I had never checked to see what our room number was.  (Did I mention I was tipsy by then?  Okay, maybe I was pretty tipsy.)  The lobby would not give me Alex's room number since my last name and his are not the same, but I finally figured our I could call Alex and ask him to let his drunk-assed wife into the room.

The next night, Alex and I had dinner with Barbara and Ann.  It was another fun and lovely evening.

I wish Barbara and Ann lived in my neighborhood!