tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-354978672024-03-13T18:09:52.700-04:00elise abrams millerthe blogElise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-91932219702753070952011-09-09T22:17:00.003-04:002011-09-09T22:24:38.225-04:00I've moved...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Us_OqOgS3k/TmrJzFTB5XI/AAAAAAAACT0/Luvl1fwIP9I/s1600/IMG_0084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Us_OqOgS3k/TmrJzFTB5XI/AAAAAAAACT0/Luvl1fwIP9I/s320/IMG_0084.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>...to a new URL in cyberspace. A few days back, every time I clicked onto this blog I got a malware virus warning. It scared me. Then it inspired me. I've owned the rights to my name-as-domain for years. It's older than Hamish. So I finally bit the bullet and paid up to actually use it. My new address is <a href="http://elisemiller.com/" target="_blank">elisemiller.com</a>.<br />
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It's been a great six years here at blogspot. Please come on over to my new digs. I'd love to see you!<br />
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Peace out y'all,<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-22367024975149514132011-09-03T05:24:00.014-04:002011-09-04T11:57:34.633-04:00Random smatterings, Insomniac haze<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bryan and I got busy. Busy in the kitchen. Oh yeah. We <a href="http://www.punkdomestics.com/content/lacto-fermented-salsa" target="_blank">lacto-fermented</a> more than we did last summer—zucchini, cucumbers, salsa, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nourishing-Traditions-Challenges-Politically-Dictocrats/dp/0967089735/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1315039884&sr=1-1" target="_blank">gingered beets</a> and carrots with cardamom—used more veg from our garden than last summer, since Bryan grew more, since he got serious (I look forward to participating in the planting more next year), and now we are enjoying the sometimes fizzy fruits of our labor. I've been downing salsa like nobody's business—on eggs, on taco night, and drinking the brine for a <a href="http://www.wildfermentation.com/" target="_blank">digestive boost</a>. I'd like to thank salsa for my poops. <i>Sniff. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GB-DILcErjw/TmHndzBxh_I/AAAAAAAACTA/FgwGQtKoufU/s1600/IMG_1730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GB-DILcErjw/TmHndzBxh_I/AAAAAAAACTA/FgwGQtKoufU/s320/IMG_1730.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I have <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/insomnia-sleep-tips/" target="_blank">insomnia</a>. I think it's from the <a href="http://nasonex.com/nasx/index.jsp?PID=0001153501000000&PID=0001153501000000&MTD=2&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=nasonex%20side%20effects&utm_campaign=Brand+07%2F10" target="_blank">steroids</a> I'm on for the fluid the ENT detected behind my right eardrum, Lord knows how long that's been there.<br />
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I went to the ENT because I have this weird ear thing where my ear pops open and I can hear myself talking inside my head. I can hear my breathing, my heartbeat, my footfalls. According to the world wide web it's called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patulous_Eustachian_tube" target="_blank">Patulous Eustachian Tube</a>, and it's rare and it's barely fixable. Hooray! It doesn't hurt but it's annoying as hell and makes me want to lie down, because when I do it stops. Or when I bend over. It doesn't happen all the time but when it does, oy. Unfortunately losing weight and exercising are prone to worsening symptoms but hell no, I won't sit around and gain weight. Anyway, PET is one of the few things Primal can't fix. In fact, since losing weight and exercising more (and by exercising more I mean <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Barefoot-Book-Great-Reasons-Shoes/dp/0897935543" target="_blank">walking barefoot</a> around my neighborhood until I grow the balls and the funds to try <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKGF-ErsJiI&feature=player_embedded" target="_blank">this</a>), it's been worse. What a buzz-kill. Actually, wait. Scratch the exercising more thing. I am not even <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/case-against-cardio/" target="_blank">exercising more</a>. I am exercising less. But I am <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/health-benefits-moderate-exercise/" target="_blank">moving around more</a> and I am <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/standing-at-work/" target="_blank">sitting less</a>.<br />
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I've had PET for over a decade. It obviously took me a while to get it looked at.<br />
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The fluid may or may not have anything to do with the PET. The PET happens because my eustachian tube doesn't stay closed the way it should. The fluid has me slightly deafer in my right ear.<br />
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The kicker is that the steroids make the PET worse and may have no effect on the fluid. God I love Western medicine!<br />
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I already tapered off the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prednisone" target="_blank">Prednisone</a> thank God but I'm still on the spray. And I'm thinking about kicking it to the curb tomorrow. I can't stand this shit.<br />
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This is what I learned: I hate steroids. They make me mean and unsympathetic. Or maybe it's the kids. Or maybe it's my diet. I'm looking into this since reading <a href="http://theprimalparent.com/" target="_blank">this Primal blogger's</a> account of her <a href="http://theprimalparent.com/2011/07/27/the-carnivores-dilemma-a-diet-of-just-meats-and-fats/" target="_blank">vulcan-like apathy</a>. Could sweets really make you sweeter? Maybe. Still, I'll choose apathy over anxiety any day of the week. The steroids, though. They give me a headache and interrupt my sleep. I <i>love</i> <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/the-definitive-guide-to-sleep/" target="_blank">sleep</a>.<br />
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I've wanted to blog for a while but haven't had the chance. This seems like the perfect time, five AM. Is insomniac blogging the same as drunk blogging?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UXGrWFDo0hA/TmHncK7nlHI/AAAAAAAACS0/jomlIO34K58/s1600/IMG_1378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UXGrWFDo0hA/TmHncK7nlHI/AAAAAAAACS0/jomlIO34K58/s320/IMG_1378.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Summer is done. My tan is fading. But I look forward to dropping my kids off at school. Oh I do. This week has been rough, ladies. Men. Puppies... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QeOb2c0CykQ/TmHnbXXZ-II/AAAAAAAACSw/SP7eteHocAs/s1600/IMG_1371.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QeOb2c0CykQ/TmHnbXXZ-II/AAAAAAAACSw/SP7eteHocAs/s320/IMG_1371.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Okay these pics are Stella-heavy but these are my flagged shots so here we go. Above, a rare shot of Stells with her hair neatly kept. Below, looking scarily grown up. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DXKuXMieWmM/TmHnc4omSxI/AAAAAAAACS4/eyefySneZNo/s1600/IMG_1697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DXKuXMieWmM/TmHnc4omSxI/AAAAAAAACS4/eyefySneZNo/s320/IMG_1697.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Below, twirling. It reminds me of the cure's <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XUkbUUhFf9s/TexjT0G9B-I/AAAAAAAAA-g/BKlnDVQvZig/s400/headonthedoor.jpg" target="_blank">The Head on The Door</a> album cover. But it's just a five year-old girl showing off the twirl power of a new, already beloved dress. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ts8r7VRd_5M/TmHndPjZcaI/AAAAAAAACS8/_004SljNMLo/s1600/IMG_1699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ts8r7VRd_5M/TmHndPjZcaI/AAAAAAAACS8/_004SljNMLo/s320/IMG_1699.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sweet dreams, y'all. And happy last summer weekend.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-48826731449323238772011-08-25T17:47:00.019-04:002011-08-25T20:18:45.080-04:00Growing up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JTjcQOzuKJ8/TlarlcM-5uI/AAAAAAAACSk/9k8OXM2Y9O0/s1600/IMG_1463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JTjcQOzuKJ8/TlarlcM-5uI/AAAAAAAACSk/9k8OXM2Y9O0/s320/IMG_1463.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I've heard throughout my forty-two years on this planet that it's not a good idea to give too much thought to critics and naysayers, flamers and assholes.<br />
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And yet. Isn't that exactly what we do sometimes? Cling to that one little negative thing someone said, turn it over and over in our minds until it morphs into something completely different—bigger, more offensive, infuriating even. You shake your fists and foam at the mouth—<i>Ooh why I oughta!</i><br />
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I used to do that. Before I went <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/" target="_blank">Primal</a>. (Yes, two months into my experiment and I'm still reaping <a href="http://freetheanimal.com/real-results" target="_blank">rewards</a>. Pooping regularly, thank you, wee! Getting <a href="http://www.stumptuous.com/ancestral-health-symposium-roundup" target="_blank">nuttier</a> over it too, but that's a post for a different day. It involves <a href="http://www.nycbarefootrun.com/" target="_blank">bare feet</a>. And <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/sitting-unhealthy/" target="_blank">chairlessness</a>. I guess you could say it's the <a href="http://nourishedmeadow.com/about-2/" target="_blank">rabbit hole</a> that keeps on giving. Bryan's still waiting for me to implode before he takes any of this seriously. He's given me till December, the six-month mark. Um, that's my disclaimer. He's an uber-rational guy, see.)<br />
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Okay. Back to the assholes. I received a nasty comment on my previous post. I hadn't gotten any negative comments in the six years since I started this blog—well there was that one a few months back when some anonymous poster told me to get a job. I cursed at the screen, deleted their comment, took their advice and wrote a novel.<br />
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Silver linings everywhere, right?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So this recent anonymous poster wrote, "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">You are a really crazy woman. Don't know you but maybe there was a point to that experience especially draining that animal looks like great fun for your kids."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Since I am filled with <a href="http://nourishedkitchen.com/10-reasons-red-meat/" target="_blank">EPA and B vitamins</a>, I didn't get too bent out of shape about it. I feel <a href="http://www.slideshare.net/ancestralhealth/ahs-slidesnora-gedgaudas" target="_blank">sane</a> to the point of rejoicing each night as I lay myself to sleep, which makes plenty of other people seem WACKO, even though I'm the one thanking my clasped hands in the dark. I simply replied, "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">anonymous—grow some balls and reveal your identity. It's the least you can do, coming to my blog to bash me, you ignorant tool."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">It felt so good!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">But then I thought some more about it. I didn't receive too many comments on my last post and I wondered if maybe those photos of my daughter watching a deer getting skinned grossed people out. Maybe they were offended and thought I was crazy too, but since we're friends they didn't want to ruffle my meat-eating feathers.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Maybe Anonymous has a point, albeit a cowardly, disrespectfully presented point, with little care given to punctuation...</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><i>So what is the story with my five year-old daughter and the deer carcass anyway?</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">The story is simple: she wanted to watch. Bryan and I asked her repeatedly if she was sure she wanted to watch and she said yes every time, blowing not only our minds but the minds of the farmers too. She remained rooted to the ground and stared as the deer was skinned and sliced, beheaded and butchered. At one point, illustrated above, she stomped over to me and said, "It's sad but I can't stop watching." You know, car crash style. I offered to take her away. She said no. The next day when we dined on <a href="http://www.best-venison.com/venison-cut-charts.html" target="_blank">backstrap</a> she politely declined as she had planned to do. She did eat the venison burger however.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">And seven year-old Hamish? He opted out of the viewing but relished the steak. He wants no part of death, sensitive soul that he is, aside from consuming its spoils. We respect his wishes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I have no problem with my daughter witnessing the butchering of an animal that is to be consumed if that is her wish. I am in good <a href="http://www.npr.org/2010/11/15/131268939/-the-dirty-life-from-city-girl-to-hog-butcher" target="_blank">company</a>, too. Anyone read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dirty-Life-Memoir-Farming-Food/dp/1416551611/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1314307922&sr=1-1" target="_blank">The Dirty Life</a>? Kristin and Mark Kimball are modern agricultural heroes and it makes me proud to have a tiny something in common with them. How do people think meat makes its way to their plates anyway? It's not elfin magic. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Death is a part of life and in my omnivorous view, it's childish to pretend it's not. Better yet, demystify death and familiarize kids with the reality of it early on. (Now if only I could use this truth-logic to tackle Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy...) Anyway, a whole lot of <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/story?id=97836&page=1" target="_blank">animals die</a> to grow vegetarian delights like lettuce and soy, corn and wheat. <a href="http://ecosalon.com/the-10-biggest-issues-with-the-global-food-system-part-2-of-2/" target="_blank">Entire ecosystems are wiped out to plant and sustain monocrops</a>. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I used to have a huge problem with the eating of animals which is why I was a vegetarian for a dozen years. I could have been that anonymous a-hole back when my main source for nutritional information came from <a href="http://www.johnrobbins.info/" target="_blank">John Robbins</a>. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
Growing up beats pretending you can outwit death at the table. But the news is good. It's called <a href="http://www.motherearthnews.com/nature-community/the-truth-about-vegetarianism.aspx?page=4" target="_blank">mutual indebtedness</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, and it's one of the reasons I am so thankful every night. For my food, my health, and for you, Kind Reader.<br />
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Thanks for tuning in,<br />
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-63093393781246541482011-08-19T23:47:00.002-04:002011-08-28T19:39:58.030-04:00wwoofing it<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Call it overkill. 51 photos. I could split them into multiple posts. Edit them down to a paltry sum. Add a ton of text. Instead I'll serve them raw and unadulterated like the goat milk we helped to procure during the few days we stayed on a farm that was kind enough to share itself with us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bTkmzl8oexs/Tk8jeKrejWI/AAAAAAAACPI/yoGx4gVmBk4/s1600/IMG_1418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bTkmzl8oexs/Tk8jeKrejWI/AAAAAAAACPI/yoGx4gVmBk4/s320/IMG_1418.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-45693470410774648952011-08-06T22:09:00.015-04:002011-08-06T22:53:56.209-04:00happy ending<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qnum6Vk6Fc/Tj30TSQLMlI/AAAAAAAACPA/j-S33kGwcVc/s1600/IMG_1325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qnum6Vk6Fc/Tj30TSQLMlI/AAAAAAAACPA/j-S33kGwcVc/s320/IMG_1325.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
While Bryan and the kids are camping I am supposed to be revising. Instead I am playing hooky. I napped for three thousand hours today. Two thousand yesterday. I will be up forever this evening surfing Netflix Instantplay. But it is so worth it. Naps are my new favorite pastime, especially when my insides are on strike.<br />
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Last night, filled with collards, freedom (and other, ahem, <i>things</i>) I drove to Whole Foods and confessed in hushed tones to the silver-haired vitamin guy, the one with the buzz-cut and the <a href="http://www.pollsb.com/polls/p1905-architect_best_eyewear" target="_blank">architectural glasses</a>, that I am constipated.<br />
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Dear Reader, it's come to that. Desperate times call for desperate measures.<br />
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I told Dr. Whole Foods that a friend recommended liquid magnesium but we both decided it was too expensive at $24.99, too much of a gamble, even though my friend has much <a href="http://www.yolkskefirandgristle.com/" target="_blank">expertise</a>. The box, for some reason, looked <a href="http://i7.goodness-direct.co.uk/d/933087b.jpg" target="_blank">menacing</a>. I couldn't do it.<br />
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Dr. Whole Foods mildly criticized the bacon in my basket so I knew he wasn't down with <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/" target="_blank">traditional foods</a> or <a href="http://tierneylab.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/07/21/good-news-on-saturated-fat/" target="_blank">saturated fat</a>. He asked me what kind of cooking oil I use and I tried to look proud and self-assured when I mentioned pastured lard. I wanted to explain the benefits of grainlessness and animal fat but I get mealy mouthed when trying to convince the unconvinceable, especially when they're in a position of relative authority and I poop once every five days. Something is obviously wrong. I was not in a position to be touting my ways.<br />
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In the end, his eyebrows escaped the edges of his slick specs in uncharacteristic excitement. He told me to eat not one but <i>two</i> apples, that the pectin would help me, and ooh, ooh, he'd just read this study, it would help me avoid coronary heart disease too. And also, I should use flaxseed oil. I bought a bottle of that for $6.99, a stultified sheep in the Whole Foods headlights.<br />
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Back at home, I ate a spoonful of the oil and wanted to die. It was almost as bad as the <a href="http://www.cheeseslave.com/2008/10/10/why-fermented-cod-liver-oil/" target="_blank">cod liver oil</a> I have tried and failed to integrate into my eating habits. Then I ate an apple, peeled, sliced and sprinkled with cinnamon, my favorite way to indulge. I topped each slice with slather of almond butter, the kind that comes with <a href="http://www.thekitchn.com/thekitchn/daily-find/almond-butter-with-roasted-flax-seeds-from-trader-joes-daily-find-152056" target="_blank">roasted flax seeds</a>. I figured it would help. In a delicious way.<br />
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After I munched (not before, God forbid) I Googled Dr. Whole Foods's advice and found that <a href="http://www.westonaprice.org/digestive-disorders/the-long-hollow-tube-a-primer-on-the-digestive-system" target="_blank">raw apples</a> have been found to negatively affect the innards of lab rats, but cooked apples are our friends, that the pectin can indeed aid constipation sufferers. Great. For insurance I drank a mug of <a href="http://www.traditionalmedicinals.com/smoothmove/" target="_blank">Smooth Move</a> tea, which has senna leaf in it to stimulate the bowel. You're not supposed to use it regularly because you can become dependent on it. But I was on a mission. A poopy mission.<br />
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I awoke at one-something AM in the blooming insomniac night to my abdomen dancing a raging hula, all to little effect. Groggy and hopeful I visited the bathroom. Once, twice, thrice, and struck out. Damn you laxative tea! I shook my fist at the indifferent ceiling.<br />
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I lay in bed tracing the undulation of my abdomen with my fingers, wishing for sleep but also noting the still curious absence of anxiety. This would have been a fantastic time to worry—to regret blogging about how much I love Primal, to become as filled with angst as I was with poop. This would have been the time for my heart to race with desperation, cringing and wondering, is this grain-free diet worth the aggravation?<br />
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The answer came sure and simple and clean. YES. It is worth it. My mind, unlike my intestines, remained calm and untangled. All the reason I needed to soldier on.<br />
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In the quiet dark, instead of berating myself for being a damn fool, I decided it all makes sense. I was bottle-fed as an infant. My high school diet consisted of Reese's peanut butter cups and bong hits. Before that it was Pop-Tarts and Cap'n Crunch. Throughout my twenties and thirties it was soy, rice and pasta. I'd taken my fair share of anti-biotics for myriad ailments. My guts were simply not accustomed to the new regime, not without the <a href="http://nourishedkitchen.com/against-the-grain-10-reasons-to-give-up-grains/" target="_blank">scouring agent</a> they'd been trained to depend upon over their forty-two years. Constipation among Primal and Paleo eaters is <a href="http://paleohacks.com/questions/14296/recurrent-constipation#axzz1UGLcH948" target="_blank">typical</a> but it has to be fixable, I thought. Then I fell asleep.<br />
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In the morning I tried yet again to ingest the flaxseed oil, this time mixed in a mug with hot <a href="http://www.foodrenegade.com/study-shows-anxiety-may-be-caused-by-gut/" target="_blank">filtered water</a>, <a href="http://www.yolkskefirandgristle.com/2011/07/22/sht-happens-or-it-doesn%E2%80%99t/" target="_blank">lemon juice</a>, <a href="http://www.yourreturn.org/1_Hydration/index.htm" target="_blank">Celtic Sea Salt</a>, Bragg's <a href="http://bragg.com/products/bragg-organic-apple-cider-vinegar.html" target="_blank">raw apple cider vinegar</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Coconut-Miracle-Previously-published-Healing/dp/1583332049" target="_blank">coconut oil</a>. It was a hot mess, a foul tribute to all the natural remedy ideas I'd picked up on. Flaxseed oil, God bless if you love it, but ew, Jesus. Eating it felt like punishment, and I have little patience for disguising disgusting-tasting foods, no matter how nutritious.<br />
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Eyeing my receipt I remembered Malibu Mark Sisson recommending a <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/poop-health/" target="_blank">couple extra fish oil pills</a> in the case of a sluggish bowel, and I already had a bottle of those on-hand. $6.99, a voice whispered. <i>Six ninety-nine.</i><br />
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I opened my laptop again. Still groggy, still determined, I learned that a number of Primal/Paleo eaters found <a href="http://paleohacks.com/questions/14296/recurrent-constipation#axzz1UGLcH948" target="_blank">relief</a> with a product called <a href="http://www.calmnatural.com/constipation-relief" target="_blank">Natural Calm</a>, which is a powdered magnesium supplement. They spoke my language, suffered what I suffered, and found a way to poop. I felt calm just looking at the <a href="http://www.alivehealthblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/natural-calm.jpg" target="_blank">container</a>.<br />
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I grabbed the flaxseed oil, receipt and car keys. I flew out of the house.<br />
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The Natural Calm was there on the bottom shelf. It was $21.99. I was at a crossroads. I didn't want to spend that much on a constipation remedy. Bryan already breaks out in hives whenever I bring home some new <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_XCl4KqB43KY/TUsLrDoplgI/AAAAAAAAACE/vJj2GpddzXg/s320/TJs%2BAlmond%2BButter.jpg" target="_blank">superfood</a>. But spend I did. At home I mixed it up and drank it down. Not bad at all. Chalky and tart like a children's aspirin. Totally do-able. Then I sauteed some apple slices in <a href="http://www.primalbody-primalmind.com/?s=kerrygold" target="_blank">cultured butter</a>, chewed them thoughtfully, took a probiotic capsule, a couple fish oil pills, and mowed the lawn.<br />
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Eventually, Reader, things began to move. And move. And move like they haven't moved in days.<br />
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The clouds parted. The angels sang. And I sat reverently giving thanks.<br />
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My insides and my outside met. They shook hands, smiled at each other, and promised to see each other again real soon.<br />
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</div></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-44612290624886108622011-08-04T13:10:00.004-04:002011-08-06T22:55:13.068-04:00kitty litter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0MbpMbLs9NY/TjrReMVJv7I/AAAAAAAACOc/tT_n9Wm2HFo/s1600/IMG_1359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0MbpMbLs9NY/TjrReMVJv7I/AAAAAAAACOc/tT_n9Wm2HFo/s320/IMG_1359.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I woke up this morning feeling anti-blog, feeling like, why why why do I share myself in cyberspace, what kind of masochistic narcissistic nut am I? Maybe it's time to delete the whole damn thing.<br />
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But then another part of me, my Inner Wise One, I call her, new agey, I know, I am sheepish about it...But she says not so fast. Don't do anything hasty. This is who you are, go with it, accept it, and write it the fuck down. Bitch. And I was like. All right, all <i>right</i>.<br />
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No, that's not true. She talks really nicely to me.<br />
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Um.<br />
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Well, she does. It's just embarrassing to admit I talk to myself. But if I'm going to admit it anywhere, it may as well be on the world wide web.<br />
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I chided myself only in the nicest way of course. It wasn't an anxiety attack. I wasn't foaming at the mouth with guilt, regret, self-hatred. I could see it shimmering on the horizon though, could almost taste its metal shine. I would confess to you if it were an anxiety attack. Instead I'll be honest: it was a consti-<i>fucking</i>-pation attack.<br />
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I stand by this grain-free nonsense because if I had to choose between mental sanity and flowing bowels I'd choose sanity every time. I'll let the poop drain from my ears if I need to. I don't want to go back to that hell-hole of suicidal despair, of mood-swings that hold me captive and practically drooling in desperation. And because I refuse to go back, I know I can tweak my diet, make small changes that will yield brown log-like results. I have confidence in that. My sanity depends on it. And anyway, <a href="http://www.google.com/search?sclient=psy&hl=en&site=&source=hp&q=constipation+natural+remedy&btnK=Google+Search" target="_blank">isn't that what the internet is for?</a><br />
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I am dramatic. But it really feels awful in the throes of it. The mental anguish part that is. If you suffer, then you know. <br />
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So the blogging ambivilence. It comes and goes. Ebbs and flows like the muscle definition line on the outer edge of my thigh, the way it appears sometimes when I cross my legs at the knee. I love that goddamned line.<br />
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In other news, I shared a cozy snuggle with Stella this morning. She crawled into my bed. I told her I wanted to stay in bed all day until I poop, that if my colon can go on strike then I can too, go make yourself breakfast, you know where the kitchen is. She thought that was ludicrous.<br />
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I am reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tender-Bar-J-R-Moehringer/dp/1401300642" target="_blank">The Tender Bar</a>. It was recommended to me twice this week. I read aloud to her in between stealing envious glances at her tanned legs. She asked what dawn is. She asked what aristocrat means. Then she said, "Mommy, you smell like kitty litter," and I thought, how the hell does she know what kitty litter smells like? So I asked her, "Fresh kitty litter or dirty kitty litter?" And she asked what fresh means and I told her it means clean and she said I smell like clean kitty litter and <i>that</i>, dear Reader, is why I can share that story with you here.<br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-71672139237956292012011-07-28T19:07:00.006-04:002011-08-06T22:53:24.895-04:00temper my temper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XZ4PFmJpMls/TjHZuXin1LI/AAAAAAAACOQ/K1GO3baAS4c/s1600/IMG_0959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XZ4PFmJpMls/TjHZuXin1LI/AAAAAAAACOQ/K1GO3baAS4c/s320/IMG_0959.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This week the kids are in sports camp. They'll be going camping soon, at that place called Crap Creek where I no longer venture. And then the whole lot of us are off to a farm vacation. Have you heard of <a href="http://www.wwoof.org/" target="_blank">WWOOF</a>? I should put the word <i>vacation</i> in quotes. We will be earning our keep after all, working on the farm. I hope the kids like it. Bryan hopes<i> I</i> like it.<br />
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This is week four of my Primal experiment. The program I am following is <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com//welcome-to-marks-daily-apple/" target="_blank">here</a>. If anyone's interested, I'd love a partner in Prime. Haha! That is a bad joke. Has it really been a month since I <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrNUwGyuuk8&feature=player_embedded" target="_blank">cut out grains and sugar</a>? Aside from my intermittently sluggish bowel (you heard it here first) it's going <i>well</i>. I italicize that in order to illustrate how I want to say more about how well it's going, jump up and down maybe, but I am loathe to do any of that.<br />
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See, when I first started paying attention to what I eat last Spring, my mood improved so much I thought I'd found a new religion. I learned about <a href="http://www.moodcure.com/safe_alternatives_to_antidepressants.html" target="_blank">serotonin</a> and <a href="http://www.primalbody-primalmind.com/?p=428" target="_blank">L-tryptophan</a>. Then my mood began to tank and I felt like a fool for sharing the highs, only to feel compelled to share the lowly lows. Then I cut wheat from my diet and my mood elevated again. And tanked again.<br />
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From this latest vantage point I wonder if grain and sugar were the culprits all along. Without processed foods I loaded up on sourdough bread and homemade ice cream. Without wheat, I started eating more rice and corn. A lot more.<br />
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So these days my mood is stable and mostly positive and calm. The kids haven't driven me bat-shit, so subsequently I haven't spun into a tizzy of guilt-soaked self-hatred, which I am profoundly grateful for and amazed by—amazed that FOOD can temper my, uh, temper.<br />
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That is my main reason for eating this way. Being anxious and depressed just sucks big ass wads, so whatever I can do to combat that naturally, I will. <br />
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My energy remains mostly high, I'm feeling lean and <i>trying</i> not to be smug around Bryan, who as usual, thinks I'm a nut job, but a decent enough nut job to keep around. He says he'll think about joining me in five months if I'm still reaping rewards. <br />
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I hope so. <br />
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Peace out y'all.<br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-22944570690160130372011-07-06T08:54:00.008-04:002011-08-06T22:53:02.326-04:00new development<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bm3iLjMVGk8/ThRW2VU2k4I/AAAAAAAACNw/fMoDyU6yT50/s1600/IMG_0971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bm3iLjMVGk8/ThRW2VU2k4I/AAAAAAAACNw/fMoDyU6yT50/s320/IMG_0971.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My drive to write usually comes from a need to be understood, to be heard, a need that for me is almost primal, as it feels ancient, and stems (you guessed it) from my childhood. This is probably why I feel so comfortable sharing my deepest darkest.<br />
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I've tried lately to share the more upbeat aspects of my life, but that shit wears thin for me. I like to keep it real yo. (Can you guess I've been watching The Wire? Mos def.)<br />
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Speaking of Primal, in the midst of a death in the family (another one, yes, I know. It's fucked up but I don't want to get into it) I was reading a book, <a href="http://www.garytaubes.com/" target="_blank">Why We Get Fat, And What To Do About It</a>, not only because I am interested in shedding the couple extra inches of fat on my butt, but because I love Gary Taubes and what he has to say about diet and nutrition. I read his <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Good-Calories-Bad-Controversial-Science/dp/1400033462/ref=bxgy_cc_b_img_b" target="_blank">previous book</a> and loved that too. <br />
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If you know me, you know I have a tendency to embrace various inspiring methods toward healing with gusto, only to abandon them later. I've done this with yoga, vegetarianism and chanting <a href="http://www.sgi-usa.org/buddhism/nam-myoho-renge-kyo.php" target="_blank">Nam Myoho Renge Kyo</a>. The same could happen with my most recent blast of good feelings and hope, based on what I read in Gary's book. <br />
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Basically, I've gone Primal. I already knew that my emotional state was tied closely to my diet. Last March when I read The Vegetarian Myth by Lierre Kieth, I stopped being vegetarian and sought out local farms from which I could buy grass-fed beef and raw milk, pastured pork, poultry and eggs. It changed me drastically. I gave up soy, nonorganic corn, got rid of anything processed. I still believe in it. <br />
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But I started slipping into my black holes again, growing depressed and hating myself like old times, wracked with guilt that I was All Wrong. <br />
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Primal is basically Atkins with an emphasis on the unprocessed. Real food, minus grains, starches, sugar. I'd already given up wheat and liked the effects, but I'd been eating more rice, beans and corn. And chocolate and ice cream. Plus a ton of yogurt.<br />
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I'm calling it an experiment. That way if it doesn't work I don't have to feel like I failed. I can say that the diet failed, that it was unsustainable. <br />
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It is hard to cut so many things from one's diet, easier if I don't go out to eat, which I rarely do, since it's not so good for our financial sitch. <br />
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For the past five days I've gone without rice, beans, corn, wheat, sugar (including fruit, save a few strawberries), dairy (except heavy cream) and starchy vegetables. <br />
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I have eaten coconut milk, nuts, steak, chicken, sausage, bacon, green beans, collards, kale, salad, eggs and avocado. And cheese. And homemade deer jerky courtesy of one of the Miller cousins.<br />
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The first two days of my experiment I had an awful headache. It was an awful day as my body withdrew from carbs like it was withdrawing from caffeine (which I don't normally drink) or some other drug. I was exhausted and so irritable and emotional. The recent death certainly helped with that. <br />
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After a teary morning walk I went to see Tree of Life and felt like a prisoner of war, watching Brad Pitt quasi-abuse his kids, and endless beautiful shots of nature and architecture and his crying wife who looked eighteen when she was supposed to be in her forties. She also looked like the director wanted Bryce Dallas Howard but couldn't get her for the project. I would post links but don't feel like doing all that HTML. <br />
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It was too poetic, too heavy, too fucking meaningful, for me on that day anyway. Maybe another day I would have lapped it up. After an hour and half I walked out, up the aisle from the front row past a packed house. I wondered how on earth I could be the only one storming out of that masturbatory piece of shit. I asked the teenagers at the concession stand if I could have my money back. They said no and tittered at the crazy lady. I'd become her, the lunatic with the frizzy hair. They probably imagined I lived in a smelly apartment with fourteen cats.<br />
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Walking out, I smacked a velvet rope stand. I wanted to pick it up and hurl it through the plate glass window. I pushed the doors open as hard as I could to show those hairy mother fuckers that I was a tough guy and when I got to the parking lot, burst into tears. What was happening to me? I cried all the way home, called my mom, tore into her about various things, including my childhood. Nice. She was, in a word, awesome. She listened, she didn't deny, she cried along with me. We bonded, and that was when she told me she is sure that Meg Ryan was on As The World Turns in 1962.<br />
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Afterwards I felt calm. <br />
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The next morning my headache was gone. <br />
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The next morning energy returned. <br />
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Maybe it's a combination of things. Emotional catharsis, Dietary catharsis. <br />
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My body is no longer running on carbs (if I am doing this correctly). Food cravings are gone. My mood is steady and bright the way it was when I first cut out processed foods and upped my animal fat and protein intake. My body is in ketosis, the state of burning fat for fuel. I'm exercising less, but feeling slimmer already. Feeling kind of like a big carnivorous cat. Thinking about starting a pull-up routine. Old school. Push-ups. Dips. Squats. Sprints. I read about it <a href="http://www.marksdailyapple.com/welcome-to-marks-daily-apple/" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
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We'll see if it sticks. <br />
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Thanks for reading.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-31702412234447886642011-06-28T15:34:00.002-04:002011-06-28T15:37:29.203-04:00giddy up gato<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxk32xYxqCpu7HzpjRkUkoPrvBo7KGUx-InGRtbl0lydXMwg38qbyNrhZABPgVX3fT_pYMtx7DHTIM' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
For her last day of horse camp Bryan and I finally got to see Stella ride. Her horse's name is Gato. He is big and brown.<br />
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I "filmed" her circuit with my new super 8mm app. The "filmstock" is "Sakura," chosen by Stella because Stella likes pink. </div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="border: 0 !important; background: transparent;"/></a>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-80331306892936510392011-06-24T17:31:00.001-04:002011-08-06T22:54:23.940-04:00The boy who read<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qkoRBE2nxlw/TgSsfympZWI/AAAAAAAACNQ/77xbxlD5CNA/s1600/IMG_0486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qkoRBE2nxlw/TgSsfympZWI/AAAAAAAACNQ/77xbxlD5CNA/s320/IMG_0486.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I reserve the right to kvell. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Is it weird that I feel guilty for singing my kid's praises? And why does it come so naturally to me to kvetch? I do it well to be sure. Is that a double negative? I brag about my kvetching skills. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My usual stance in life is to be self-deprecating and thereby kid-deprecating, which might not be the best mode, but, well. I don't beat myself up anymore. It's my new thing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I reassure myself that I'm not a hyper-critical monster with the concept that yeah, kids are great and all but not every one of them is Picasso or Einstein. In fact, few are, my kids notwithstanding. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have found a lot of connection in my life sharing the scary hairy bits. It's how I bond, how I roll, and many have gone by the wayside who don't speak this language. The braggers give me hives. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Have I made friends over shared inflated senses of self? Like two balloons trying to hug, it's physically, physiologically impossible, though there are those who compete not to be the best but to be the worst. Cry me a fucking river. Two popped balloons just lay there in the gutter. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Boo hoo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm not saying don't shine. Shine away. But with humility. I hear humility is all the rage. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Hey Mom!" Hamish just called, "I got to the Dumbledore part!" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My heart swelled. I took his picture. My boy is reading Harry Potter! On his own! But just as quickly as he picked it up, he put it down and kvetched, "I'm boooooored. What can I dooooo?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It ain't all pickles and roses. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-16304481142276379702011-06-22T21:25:00.006-04:002011-08-06T22:54:48.384-04:00backyard bounty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LvP1RgfXhSg/TgKU_NbJNjI/AAAAAAAACM4/h_q_uBcOSyY/s1600/IMG_0421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LvP1RgfXhSg/TgKU_NbJNjI/AAAAAAAACM4/h_q_uBcOSyY/s320/IMG_0421.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Now that I've lived in this house for three years, and maybe now that I'm um, into my forties, ahem, I can feel the cyclical nature of things. Things like pre-menstrualness, holiday shoppingness, and seasonal fare. <br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
Those raspberries? From the back yard. Just like they were last year and the year before. <br />
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Even though I've come to expect it, I don't take it for granted, not yet anyway. It still thrills me—plucking, rinsing, devouring, repeating.<br />
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Maybe one day the kids will actually try them. Yes, I have berry-fearful kids. Those scary seeds! Not even the fingertip hat trick can inspire Hamish or Stella to take a bite. And Stella eats onion grass. Raw collards. Pickles. Kale flakes. I don't get it. Oh wait I do. I never ate berries as a kid either. I much preferred the Lik-A-Stik berry-flavored powder. <br />
<br />
Every day I offer, and every day they bellow, "Of course not, Mom!" with all the indignation they can muster in their twelve combined years. <br />
<br />
Well.<br />
<br />
Until they come to their senses, more for me. <br />
<br />
In your face, kids. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-15452480816692742592011-06-20T08:52:00.006-04:002011-08-06T22:55:37.846-04:00It's just a milkshake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mbCCi25BxRc/Tf9BjKEvGXI/AAAAAAAACMo/-3G9jlQQE2k/s1600/IMG_0265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mbCCi25BxRc/Tf9BjKEvGXI/AAAAAAAACMo/-3G9jlQQE2k/s320/IMG_0265.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>The scene is only twelve seconds long but it has gotten under my skin to the point where I'm quoting it to the children. <br />
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<i>It's just a milkshake.</i><br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
I said it last night at dinner when Stella spilled ketchup all over her skirt and the carpeted floor. She cried and said, "It's not a milkshake, Mommy!" but she knew what I meant. I'd explained it the day before when her cup of root beer got knocked over at my niece's graduation party. <br />
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"It's just a milkshake." <br />
<br />
"No Mommy! It's root beer!" <br />
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I've said it to Hamish too. <br />
<br />
The scene is <a href="http://www.amctv.com/mad-men/videos/mad-men-highlights-ep-413-tomorrowland" target="_blank">here</a>, two minutes, eighteen seconds in. You have to wait for the thirteen-second Breaking Bad trailer to end but now I've watched it enough that I'm intrigued to watch that show too. Maybe I'll add it to my queue.<br />
<br />
It takes us a while to catch up on quality TV since we don't have cable, and yes I am shamelessly proud of that fact. It keeps me and the kids out of a whole lot of trouble. But we have Netflix, and that's how we manage to not live completely under a rock. <br />
<br />
I told the kids about the origins of my new milkshake line—<br />
<br />
"Daddy and I were watching TV and there was this scene. A dad and his kids were at a diner, and they were with the dad's girlfriend. The kids, a boy and a girl, started fighting and there were these two gigantic strawberry milkshakes on the table. One of the milkshakes got knocked over and the dad got really angry, shot up from the table in a huff, but the girlfriend, she was so calm, grabbed some napkins and said, "Don't be upset. It's just a milkshake," and the dad was so surprised at her response, he looked at her like she was from a different planet. It was like he was thinking, really? I don't need to lose my temper? And he sat back down and no one yelled and no one got upset and they just cleaned it up and the dad sat there, stunned by this whole new universe that opened up before him."<br />
<br />
They understood. Well, Hamish got it right away, I could tell by the look in his eye. Stella still cried when she dumped ketchup all over herself. <br />
<br />
She cried, I think, because I've mostly responded by losing it when things spill. I've tried not to, but after a long week, a long day, after everyone's finally seated and finally ready to begin eating dinner the ketchup spills, well, <i>Dammit! Now look what you've done!</i> It's a knee-jerk reaction. <br />
<br />
It might not have become my default response if I hadn't grown up with a parent who lost his cool when drinks spilled, or when I drew a few faint lines of pencil on his bedroom wall, or made a tidy mountain of Love's Baby Soft bath powder on my plastic vanity top, or failed to finish my hamburger at dinner. My life was a series of blistering<i> God Dammits!</i> And subsequent running from the belt. <br />
<br />
But that's the way it went and then I became a mom, the kind who swore she'd do it differently and then failed. Okay I don't chase my kids with a belt. But I do lose it. And I apologize. Because I know better. The kids are just being kids, acting age-appropriately and so forth, and I know how they feel because I was once in their shoes.<br />
<br />
So this scene with Megan and Don, it hit me hard, and since then, I've adopted Megan's cucumber attitude in times of spillage, and Reader, I tell you, it worked. My first response to that ketchup? I saw red. But then I went into Megan mode and the anger flowed like so much pureed tomato. <br />
<br />
That Megan, she's a keeper. <br />
<br />
And she speaks French too. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-65087414366499153092011-06-11T18:40:00.004-04:002011-08-06T22:56:01.895-04:00Nature<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j4qOB0kMsoo/TfPwl-IbyEI/AAAAAAAACMQ/FYzF4ud_oPA/s1600/IMG_0128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j4qOB0kMsoo/TfPwl-IbyEI/AAAAAAAACMQ/FYzF4ud_oPA/s320/IMG_0128.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Starring Danielle McGurran as herself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jhR_E2tDAhc/TfPtoR2fA6I/AAAAAAAACL4/1lPI9hOH5SY/s1600/IMG_0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jhR_E2tDAhc/TfPtoR2fA6I/AAAAAAAACL4/1lPI9hOH5SY/s320/IMG_0137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckgcqwpWuCI/TfPtpFYRPNI/AAAAAAAACL8/Xz01akVK1vM/s1600/IMG_0148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckgcqwpWuCI/TfPtpFYRPNI/AAAAAAAACL8/Xz01akVK1vM/s320/IMG_0148.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Gnome. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsACTQeOn3U/TfPtqHgNR5I/AAAAAAAACMA/v6Os8BFGep4/s1600/IMG_0123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsACTQeOn3U/TfPtqHgNR5I/AAAAAAAACMA/v6Os8BFGep4/s320/IMG_0123.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Ghost. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJZJYu_j7rw/TfPtqxpedTI/AAAAAAAACME/6fpKdLm8FOw/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RJZJYu_j7rw/TfPtqxpedTI/AAAAAAAACME/6fpKdLm8FOw/s320/IMG_0124.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wardrobe by Ray Ban. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pn5VYNuG_I4/TfPtrRy3mXI/AAAAAAAACMI/xJ-W2JzAa6o/s1600/IMG_0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pn5VYNuG_I4/TfPtrRy3mXI/AAAAAAAACMI/xJ-W2JzAa6o/s320/IMG_0140.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They hang witches here, don't they?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-8157341631492138422011-06-10T12:40:00.005-04:002011-08-06T22:56:25.147-04:00Fruitful<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68gwpgyRjew/TfI99AtwWHI/AAAAAAAACLs/lX29_l6PnzQ/s1600/IMG_0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68gwpgyRjew/TfI99AtwWHI/AAAAAAAACLs/lX29_l6PnzQ/s320/IMG_0026.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">This is one of my favorite hipsta pics so far. A complete accident. My face looks mean and ragged, not my best angle, but for the composition I will sacrifice my vanity, just this once. I like the depth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Yeah, um. So.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">I began this blog as way to keep myself connected to writing after the publication of my first novel and subsequent birth of my children, thus the original title, "The Pen and the Poop." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Because making the decision to start a family on the heels of my first book deal was, well, let's say...challenging. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">And I've wanted to tell you for some time, that, well, the novel I mentioned starting back in October when I was mooning over <i>Twilight</i>? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">After years of blogging about everything from my son's teal poop to my parenting/lumbar/creative woes, to my (at times) zealous passions for meat, yoga and Byron Katie, my confessionary confection has borne linear, chaptered fruit. I finished my second novel. It's rough and pocky and a little lumpy, but spherical enough to have a chance of being overstocked in a warehouse one day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">And though the news is relevant, it feels a little like I'm jinxing myself, especially as I sit here in the local coffee shop very much not polishing my globular sweetness in order to blog instead.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pznW5SaFCEo/TfJikwJwDqI/AAAAAAAACL0/TGvsUHasS94/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pznW5SaFCEo/TfJikwJwDqI/AAAAAAAACL0/TGvsUHasS94/s320/IMG_0083.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">But who doesn't love irony. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">The point is, I'm feeling celebratory, procastinatory appreciation for all this blog has delivered, no matter the time it took. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">(It took five years. Illustrated in black and white. And clicks and links. And flesh and blood.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BT1t-IxQjK8/TfJDkJKajUI/AAAAAAAACLw/2PDDdK0zuOg/s1600/IMG_0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BT1t-IxQjK8/TfJDkJKajUI/AAAAAAAACLw/2PDDdK0zuOg/s320/IMG_0008.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">So yeah. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Just. Thanks. </div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-color: initial !important; border-left-width: 0px !important; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-style: initial !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; cursor: move;" /></a></div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-29580293923786937332011-06-09T15:19:00.001-04:002011-06-09T15:19:36.737-04:00I have a new hobby...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...and a new toy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LDoEE2XIT6U/TfEcTN3ZCcI/AAAAAAAACLg/Y0HrKmsoAx8/s1600/IMG_0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LDoEE2XIT6U/TfEcTN3ZCcI/AAAAAAAACLg/Y0HrKmsoAx8/s320/IMG_0051.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-65523845381518059762011-06-06T13:18:00.002-04:002011-08-06T22:57:07.647-04:00Hostess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjL_Jcmo5gE/Tez7CaM5pfI/AAAAAAAACK8/rf6djHug398/s1600/braids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjL_Jcmo5gE/Tez7CaM5pfI/AAAAAAAACK8/rf6djHug398/s320/braids.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
A few of us moms from Stella's class are swapping playdate hostessing duties since school let out ridiculously early. Enjoying the weather, sitting on the porch with my laptop while the girls have scooter races in the driveway. Relaxing during their inevitably fleeting bit of cooperative, independent fun before one of them comes running to me breathlessly to tell on one of the others.<br />
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We have new names now, well three of us do. Scout, Scout Barbie, and me, Queen Alexika. Scout named me. Scout Barbie doesn't like it. But Scout Barbie will have to put up with me being Queen Alexika for the week if she doesn't stop being so bossy.<br />
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Girls.<br />
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The Scout Princesses of Sea, Night and Sky are all French braided. Because, guess what? The lice came back. Courtesy of the neighbor boy. The lice don't get new names. Well, maybe Herman.<br />
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As I type a pest control truck backs out of the neighbor's driveway. I clicked the link emblazoned on the truck. They don't handle lice. But they do bedbugs.<br />
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Tonight, I will pray. </div><br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-56108986334482747032011-05-17T17:49:00.006-04:002011-06-06T13:49:14.030-04:00quatrefoil cinq<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We inherited a chair from a neighbor friend. It's a wing chair and ottoman. Now that I have my very own wing chair I daresay I've always wanted one. It looks smart next to the fireplace, especially at night when the antique lamp upon the mantle is lit, the one with the glass drops and the clear tube bulb that reminds me of Frankenstein's laboratory. All I need is a good book to complete the portrait of domestic bliss. Maybe a tawny port. A fire ablaze in the hearth. A golden retriever. And a butler. (Can you tell I've been reading <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1322707/Downton-Abbey-creator-Julian-Fellowes-insists-hes-snob.html" target="_blank">Julian Fellowes</a>?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And there are the children opening Stella's birthday presents the morning she turned five, a few short days ago. That's me in the background considering fabric samples. A quality family moment. Can you see the <a href="http://www.circa50.com/quatrefoilviolet.html" target="_blank">quatrefoil</a> pattern on the left? In the violet colorway? It's $135 a yard. But I can dream. After being lucky enough to score a few yards in <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_5ODCuzKsIkg/SMaNKdxJGZI/AAAAAAAAAwY/-ONqutiR9x8/s1600-h/DSC00899.jpg" target="_blank">silver</a> from a friend who wanted to unload them, I daresay dreams can even come true. And I daresay I can use the word daresay four times in two paragraphs. (Thanks <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snobs-Julian-Fellowes/dp/0312336934/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1305668569&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Jules</a>.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oJAS3OSwqg/TdLeUfCvufI/AAAAAAAACKg/z63Xm0yf1Hc/s1600/55510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LpGQXTPMhpc/TdLeEat78fI/AAAAAAAACJ8/nXMdbdiU05k/s1600/5551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LpGQXTPMhpc/TdLeEat78fI/AAAAAAAACJ8/nXMdbdiU05k/s320/5551.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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This year Stella wanted a merfairy party. That is a combination of a mermaid and a fairy in case you were unaware. I told her it would be trouble for me to make a merfairy shaped cake, that it would look blob-like and confuse the tender children, so we settled on a butterfly, whose wings I gather are an inspiration for fairies far and wide. (Don't tell her that the <i>mer</i> half of the equation was missing from the festivities.) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vRyUDIcIrsk/TdLeHx1dH0I/AAAAAAAACKA/qeH5dH8cjUc/s1600/5552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vRyUDIcIrsk/TdLeHx1dH0I/AAAAAAAACKA/qeH5dH8cjUc/s320/5552.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After the dull thud I struck with the leaden and dry wheat-free gingerbread cupcakes that Stella brought to her disappointed classmates at school the previous day, I tried my hand at a cake called a <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2008/10/pink-lady-cake/" target="_blank">Pink Lady</a>, that I found on the <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/about/" target="_blank">Smitten Kitchen</a>. My <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/AubreyLeaVintage" target="_blank">quite tasteful friend and etsy babe</a> turned me onto that dazzlery. And thank goodness she did. </div><br />
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One round, two squares, a blender and electric hand mixer later, the cake was a hit. It's a strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting. No matter that it broke two kitchen appliances. It was worth it. Dense and strawberry-sweet. Spare no floury, sugary, electrical expense. I even used red food coloring for the detailing. True story.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The birthday princess. That's not blurry. It's merfairy ocean-dust. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A fellow party-goer with her brand new handmade purse. The craft of the day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-neBuQqDQ0S4/TdLoiYa8mDI/AAAAAAAACK0/7rLdYhgeEHU/s1600/555551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-neBuQqDQ0S4/TdLoiYa8mDI/AAAAAAAACK0/7rLdYhgeEHU/s320/555551.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stella got the biggest piece. It weighed about four pounds. She ate it all too. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PN8O4I3WNFs/TdLeREhwPyI/AAAAAAAACKY/m9rE8yGXfdA/s1600/5558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PN8O4I3WNFs/TdLeREhwPyI/AAAAAAAACKY/m9rE8yGXfdA/s320/5558.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mother and father, as viewed from the wing chair. I can feel their hearty personalities oozing from the photo. My mother was feisty that day, as she is wont to be when mixing wine with company. I know, I get that way too. I call it social anxiety.<br />
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My father's favorite flower is the iris. Has been ever since I can remember. He even had a couple snapshots of a glorious yellow specimen in his digital camera to share with me as I ladled various salsas and dips into bowls before the party began. So very bright is the yellow iris. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PN8O4I3WNFs/TdLeREhwPyI/AAAAAAAACKY/m9rE8yGXfdA/s1600/5558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AojMZ8F-hgQ/TdLeSu4Cw4I/AAAAAAAACKc/pXDs8Bo7OoM/s1600/5559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AojMZ8F-hgQ/TdLeSu4Cw4I/AAAAAAAACKc/pXDs8Bo7OoM/s320/5559.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the party was over things returned to normal, complete with the requisite art projects by a newly minted five year-old. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AojMZ8F-hgQ/TdLeSu4Cw4I/AAAAAAAACKc/pXDs8Bo7OoM/s1600/5559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H6Cd9uIL63w/TdLeWY9BfJI/AAAAAAAACKk/KYNb0hDvEUk/s1600/55511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H6Cd9uIL63w/TdLeWY9BfJI/AAAAAAAACKk/KYNb0hDvEUk/s320/55511.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Domestic bliss indeed. </div><br />
</div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-37884392774421424622011-04-25T12:21:00.013-04:002011-05-17T19:05:10.749-04:00a simple lovely world<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xgKldmBg8E4/TbWV-1cY5QI/AAAAAAAACJA/hjGDeLDf_tA/s1600/easter%2B115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xgKldmBg8E4/TbWV-1cY5QI/AAAAAAAACJA/hjGDeLDf_tA/s320/easter%2B115.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I was dreading Spring Break as a sort of precursor to summer stupor madness, mainly because we are too poor to afford those sumptuous full-time day camps. We had no travel plans. We'd just be hanging out.<br />
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I guess I have this belief that I cannot stand or endure too much time with my children, or somebody will get hurt, or emotionally damaged, or both. And I considered home schooling. Ha.<br />
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</div>But we got through it. Hamish and Stella are suspiciously likable. Maybe because every day they played with the neighbors for long stretches of time. The kids on the block suddenly emerged like tulips, blooming into the street-crossing, socializing category and voila, built-in play-dates.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PoKjDD2Tlvk/TbWV-tkfSMI/AAAAAAAACI4/nfwi46Fdiw0/s1600/easter%2B114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PoKjDD2Tlvk/TbWV-tkfSMI/AAAAAAAACI4/nfwi46Fdiw0/s320/easter%2B114.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I got so much done around the house since I couldn't actually leave. It was like wearing one of those parole cuffs on my ankle. Actually I didn't want to leave, unless I could do so alone. Because the schlep, people. The schlep. That is what my spring break was about. A respite from the schlep.<br />
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So I worked out, vacuumed the house, wiped down grease-covered kitchen shelves, did laundry, shop-vac'd both cars, which yes, I want a medal for since two children who do not belong to me have commented on the state of my vehicle recently. The first one said, lifting her white patent leather shoes off my gunge covered automobile carpet, "Your car is <i>so</i> messy." The second one asked out of his freshly scrubbed mouth, "Mrs. Hamish's mom? Why is your car so dirty?"<br />
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I told them the kids pimped my ride. "What, your cars are clean? Losers."<br />
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I cleaned the kids too, which was no easy feat, considering Stella's spring break was devoted to slovenliness. She shrieked and ran every time I so much as picked up a brush in her presence. She wore the same pajama top for four days in a row. I had to hold her down to brush her teeth, chase her with a washcloth, wait until she was done hissing and spitting to wipe the crusty snot from her nose.<br />
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She's so feisty.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CKXZlhPdPQQ/TbWV-bHtL9I/AAAAAAAACIo/uIduwTkn3V8/s1600/easter%2B112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CKXZlhPdPQQ/TbWV-bHtL9I/AAAAAAAACIo/uIduwTkn3V8/s320/easter%2B112.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div></div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-51549035604409818102011-03-28T17:10:00.006-04:002011-05-17T19:05:33.986-04:00Artist at Work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last night I had a bout of insomnia due in part to the fact that I have been discouraged by my PT from sleeping in my most satisfying position—on my side, top knee hiked up, bottom leg straight—as it "mobilizes my SI joint" or something like that, in a <i>bad</i> way, so that I wake up stiff and feeling ninety. So this afternoon I crabbed at Stella that Mommy would be taking a nap. (Note: I did wake up this morning far suppler than usual, praise be.)<br />
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This is what I get for chasing the dragon of restfulness (yes, with a Sharpie)—<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tWZJahtvyp4/TZDzSnn0M_I/AAAAAAAACIY/PAC0CrO9QSE/s1600/blue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tWZJahtvyp4/TZDzSnn0M_I/AAAAAAAACIY/PAC0CrO9QSE/s320/blue1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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No really, I'm not bitter. I neglect my children even when I'm not tired. For my ART. Bryan wants to get me a hat with blinking lights that declares, "Artist At Work," especially for those nights when I steal out of the house with my laptop to the local bookstore or coffee shop, so that others may know of the Important Work that is being wrought in their midst, because I am that kind of full of myself. But that's, ahem, a blog post for another day. Wait—that was it. It was for this day apparently.<br />
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Anyway.<br />
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Bryan reassures me that I am present in my kids' lives, a positive entity even, and these days anyway, I mostly agree.<br />
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When I first saw Stella all I thought was, I have to take a picture of this. Mildly warped independent creativity touches my heart because I was left to my own devices a lot as a child and I am absolutely convinced that I became an artist (blinking lights) because of this (and other, less savory reasons). If I could, I'd show you the basement walls I slathered with exterior house paint when I was four. I'd take you on a tour of the mountain of Love's Baby Soft powder I created on my spindly antique child's vanity, the floor I stapled sheets to, the capital letter 'E' I scratched into my thigh with a safety pin.<br />
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Oh! Here is one thing I can show you—the time when I'd been left alone in the kitchen with scissors. Behold.<br />
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Artist at Work.<br />
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<a href="http://eliseamiller.tumblr.com/" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-10450643189046783072011-03-12T17:06:00.011-05:002011-05-10T11:44:41.771-04:00furiously and regularly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-HaKdNQgBHeM/TXvurFHRNhI/AAAAAAAACHk/Y4yxVv9aH6E/s1600/march+127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-HaKdNQgBHeM/TXvurFHRNhI/AAAAAAAACHk/Y4yxVv9aH6E/s320/march+127.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I haven't blogged furiously and regularly in a while so I'm grateful for each little red dot that shows up in my Feedjit map. Because I've neglected you. In fact I've pruned you. Did you notice? I've cut large swaths of posts, streamlining my ramblings into a hopefully coherent, essay-ish patchwork.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
Much has changed. I've started drinking coffee again for instance. What a high! Also, the kids are now old enough that, well Hamish can <i>read</i>, and understands that I write about him. The kids show palpable embarrassment (in the form of hissy-fits and arm-yankings) these days when I talk about them in front of their faces. Blogging about them seems like a betrayal. Plus, now that they're older—Hamish just turned seven and Stella will be five in May—they're not as insufferable anymore and therefore, not as meaty with material. Like, I can lose my shit at them and then say, Jeez, sorry I just lost my shit, and they'll say, it's okay Mom, and my shit-loss does not stink up the whole day. Not that they're angels. They annoy me to no end. But on the whole I'd say parenting is getting more enjoyable. I think when they are in their thirties I will say to other moms, <i>Oh I love this age. </i><br />
<br />
I'm sure I just jinxed it.<br />
<br />
The other reason I haven't blogged is because I've been devoting my time to writing other things. Writing novels. Plural. I mentioned working on a novel a few months back and then didn't mention it again for fear of having to let you know that I'd abandoned the project as you are my priest and I am your sinner. But I didn't abandon it. I finished it and sent it out. I am waiting to hear back, my throat poised on the chopping block.<br />
<br />
Waiting for a YES is Grueling and the only remedy for that is to Keep Writing. So I've started another novel, still in its infancy and I have realized a thing or five:<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">1) With my kids so independent and my bank account so scrawny and my dreams still unrealized, I am finally Ready to Work as a Novelist. I may or may not be deluded in saying so but, This is What I Want To Do For a Living. Anyway I suck at everything else and I'm not interested in anything else.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'm sure I just jinxed it.</div><br />
2) I feel most comfortable writing about romance, infatuation, hungry, star-crossed love, and...<br />
<br />
3) That's OKAY. There is no need to reinvent the wheel here, and<br />
<br />
3A) There are many relevant themes that can be woven through a romance, many opportunities to have fun with the written word, and<br />
<br />
3B) It <i>is</i> fun. (Who knew?)<br />
<br />
4) I hoisted so many hopes on my first novel that I lost momentum when it didn't turn into endless opportunities and easy money. Okay I did have a kid or two right around that time, which did shrivel my career motivation for a while...<br />
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4A) I'm forty-freaking-one and I have Big (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6anpCwPT9qA" target="_blank">possibly delusional but according to Will Smith, that's a good thing</a>) Dreams and I'm the only one who can make them come true. Time ain't stopping for no one, dig? I'm just a late bloomer on the Work Ethic concept. It's good news. Because,<br />
<br />
5) I love living in the world in my head, my fantasy world, even if gets lonely and scary and bleak and stormy. I have lived there most of my life, and it feels good to have a productive outlet for it.<br />
<br />
So here's to Keeping Going, even if it leads to humiliating failure, which I will most likely share with you.<br />
<br />
Or else I can just delete this post.<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
In other news, I have found a new way to waste loads of time I don't really have and procrastinate becoming a gazillionaire novelist: <a href="http://www.celebitchy.com/" target="_blank">Celebitchy</a>. I thought I'd cured myself of my celeb habit with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Craving-Mad-ebook/dp/B001E7IEBA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1289266722&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Star Craving Mad</a>, but then I discovered the satisfying and often hilarious site one day when I was scratching an increasingly atypical Madonna itch and have spent Scary Amounts of Time on it. I highly recommend.<br />
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And also! Random pictures!<br />
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My mother below, post-stroke, my favorite version thus far, Ellie 2.0. Channeling Axl Rose, minus the scary plastic surgery.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sA3YkC2PCCc/TXvdOxB1mHI/AAAAAAAACGc/CvWMiY__2Rs/s1600/march%2B121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sA3YkC2PCCc/TXvdOxB1mHI/AAAAAAAACGc/CvWMiY__2Rs/s320/march%2B121.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Bryan and Stella holding their lumbar spines and scouring the creek bed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eW9Bmq_PyDs/TXvdPA8uhjI/AAAAAAAACGk/qvWfnpNzcv4/s1600/march%2B122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eW9Bmq_PyDs/TXvdPA8uhjI/AAAAAAAACGk/qvWfnpNzcv4/s320/march%2B122.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
We rock-collected one sunny afternoon. It was kind of sublime.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwId3uMb124/TXvdPQQZNbI/AAAAAAAACGs/Dp8iGbUrko0/s1600/march%2B123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwId3uMb124/TXvdPQQZNbI/AAAAAAAACGs/Dp8iGbUrko0/s320/march%2B123.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
I love rocks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dUJbAP_F0nc/TXvdPlHAgGI/AAAAAAAACG0/XJqeY4TZQGE/s1600/march%2B124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dUJbAP_F0nc/TXvdPlHAgGI/AAAAAAAACG0/XJqeY4TZQGE/s320/march%2B124.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Found this impromptu installation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKmGFXXyl9A/TXvdQcoeVMI/AAAAAAAACG8/WMdazOzWXa0/s1600/march%2B125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKmGFXXyl9A/TXvdQcoeVMI/AAAAAAAACG8/WMdazOzWXa0/s320/march%2B125.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Creepy-cool.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9xxgaYYKFzg/TXvdhEjaAwI/AAAAAAAACHE/TuArF95XrX4/s1600/march%2B126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9xxgaYYKFzg/TXvdhEjaAwI/AAAAAAAACHE/TuArF95XrX4/s320/march%2B126.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Hamish is desperate for a mention in Lego Magazine. That's his space station. I hope one day his creation makes it in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2g8oW-CW5Q/TXvdhnyI1FI/AAAAAAAACHU/E_H72Kw3z6Y/s1600/march%2B128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2g8oW-CW5Q/TXvdhnyI1FI/AAAAAAAACHU/E_H72Kw3z6Y/s320/march%2B128.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Hamish's birthday gathering. Cinderella made an appearance which I found dazzling. The boy was more interested in the Bakugans.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n1ObFnMdu0c/TXvdh6Zkb1I/AAAAAAAACHc/oueqoBI5vzg/s1600/march%2B129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n1ObFnMdu0c/TXvdh6Zkb1I/AAAAAAAACHc/oueqoBI5vzg/s320/march%2B129.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
That's it. A longy.<br />
xxx<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-52198007312716954322011-03-01T07:56:00.017-05:002011-03-12T17:29:13.370-05:00duct tape and a toy gun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Did I tell you I grew up around here? Five minutes away. I pass my childhood home sometimes on my way to Borders, Bed Bath & Beyond, the local cobbler. I've wanted to ring the bell since I moved here in 2008.<br />
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I've been doing a lot of walking lately. Traded my sticky mat for Pilates-based physical therapy. One of my doctors told me that jogging is out due to the arthritis. I was jogging for a while too. So I've downloaded Lady Gaga and Cee-lo Green and some muh-fucking song called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCivYv4HqiI" target="_blank">Traktor</a>...and I've been hoofing it all over the sleepy nabe in hopes of snagging some kind of endorphin rush, a feeling of exercise accomplished. I'm not easy to fool though. My arms, my yoga arms...I grieve. But they'll be back someday.<br />
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The other morning on my walk I approached my old house and thought, now's as good a time as any. I plucked the earbuds out and stepped into the driveway. The concrete steps were eroding. That should have been my first clue. Well okay moss is growing on the side of the house. And the renovations—whoever replaced the windows used those thin white plastic panes, splayed them all over the place in grandiose semi-circles. Someone put in a new front door that's supposed to look like bling—a jigsaw puzzle of beveled glass shards. This is an old stone house. It's been raped. <br />
<br />
All the trees I used to climb had been cut down or stood dead in the yard choked with ivy. I rang the bell.<br />
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The woman who answered looked hungover. Yellow strings of hair. Beady blue eyes. Boozy eyes. Too many wrinkles. Saggy and plump. I saw bottles in my mind. Empty bottles. Dozens of them. Littering a dirty counter. It was one of those <a href="http://www.gladwell.com/blink/index.html" target="_blank">Malcolm Gladwell Blink moments</a>. <br />
<br />
I smiled brightly and hoped I didn't look like a lunatic or a burglar. I said my schpiel—Hi my name is. I lived here as a little girl, I'd love to see the house, you know, if it's a good time. I sensed it was not a good time.<br />
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And it wasn't. I was barred entry. "I feel funny about letting strangers in," she said. I'd told her my name. Didn't that make us friends? We live in a neighborhood with dogs and trees and outdoor furniture that is not chained to the ground. Joggers and jogging strollers abound. The elderly roam in peace. It's a friendly place.<br />
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My old house was not a friendly place. Maybe the rotting Mustang on cinder blocks in the driveway should have alerted me. I decided the old haunt had bad feng shui and I hoped the current tenant was as miserable as she looked. "I feel funny about letting strangers see my kids' rooms," she said. I pointed to the top of the house, the pair of windows each with their own little rooftop. "That was my room," I said. "It's my daughter's room," she said, unmoved.<br />
<br />
I told her thank you and left. She had every right to keep me from my childhood memories. But I felt enraged by her refusal to indulge my curiosity. It's not my house anymore. I guess that hadn't dawned on me. I could see over her shoulder that they'd knocked the dining room wall down, that I wouldn't recognize the place if I'd been invited in. What was I looking to find anyway?<br />
<br />
As I continued my walk I fantasized about returning, about getting her to let me in, about all the ways I could accomplish such a thing. About all the secrets I would share with her as I forced her on my childhood tour, and her shameful lifestyle I'd discover—the bottles, the filth, the severed limbs. <br />
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And I thought, I'll never do it.<br />
<br />
But I could write about it.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a><br />
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</div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-90948480792860083802011-02-19T21:55:00.005-05:002011-02-23T21:13:56.738-05:00now I remember laughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2J9oDK-7Vjk/TWB9F00QiPI/AAAAAAAACGU/XYPg1go8bNo/s1600/candy%2Bsneaks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2J9oDK-7Vjk/TWB9F00QiPI/AAAAAAAACGU/XYPg1go8bNo/s320/candy%2Bsneaks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><br />
I wanted to wait to post till I was sure I was giddy with joy, because I tell you Reader, the winter has been a suckfest. I was waiting for the third boot to drop, you know how bad news comes in threes. But Stella's teacher who spoils me rotten with her adoration for my kids, told me I could use her brother for my third thing. He's battling cancer. So thank you Miss K. I am done now. And I will pray for your brother even though I'm a budding atheist. And with the melting snow, let's just say I should give myself the gift of one of those light hats for next winter. The sun makes everything so much better. So does <a href="http://www.justgowithit-movie.com/" target="_blank">a doofy Adam Sandler movie</a>. So yes, laughter made a comeback this evening. Praise be.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>On a serious note, the photo above is documentation of my children's first collaborative covert mission to break the house rules. They climbed on top of the kitchen counter, wangled the stash down from the highest shelf in the cabinet, and ate all that crap. The incident occurred when I was napping a day or so after V-day, which somehow has become Halloween junior, which grates on my nerves. I mean, Lik-a-Stik? Valentines that come attached to little bits of candy? Cupcake and cookie party? Really? We need that shit? Teachers like this nonsense in their classrooms? I ask you.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I had this sinus infection, the kind that gives you a raging toothache and keeps you up half the night. I come downstairs, it's about five P.M., time to thaw the beef, and I hear, "Mommy's coming," and then Hamish smiles the guilty toothless smile and even his gums are blue. The jig was up. The funny thing is, I didn't get mad. I just thought, well it's about frigging time they made mischief together, and collected the wrappers from the trash can to photograph. I mean they actually threw away their own garbage. It was miraculous. Then when they were in the living room playing with their Zhu Zhu pets, I threw away all the candy they didn't eat. I am telling you now, I am stuffing band-aids in their Easter eggs, and we are giving out dental floss next Halloween. No one will come to our door. Whatevs. <br />
<br />
I wonder what they'll do next. I'd better go hide the scissors. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-20169552959114375222011-02-08T18:33:00.001-05:002011-02-11T11:08:18.780-05:00awed and humbledMy mom says she can see that the left side of her lower lip droops just a little bit when she studies herself in the mirror, but I couldn't tell when I saw her Sunday evening. In fact she looked better than I'd seen her in ages. She wasn't even annoying. Bryan and I think she's awed and humbled, both by the surprise attack—it was plaque in her blood that stroked her—and by the fact that she's doing so well after waiting to long to get her ass to the hospital. She admitted that she won't do that again. Hopefully she won't get the opportunity. <br />
<br />
xo<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="border: 0 !important; background: transparent;"/></a>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-60057905774080774412011-02-01T14:56:00.004-05:002011-02-20T19:09:03.560-05:00when it rains it shits (and other tales from the front lines of suburbia)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ODCuzKsIkg/TUho7d3MIKI/AAAAAAAACGE/gjQSP3Bwezw/s1600/DSC01989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5ODCuzKsIkg/TUho7d3MIKI/AAAAAAAACGE/gjQSP3Bwezw/s320/DSC01989.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Aaaaand my mother had a stroke.<br />
<br />
Ba dum bum!<br />
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Seriously folks, is this any way to follow up the last three posts I wrote? <br />
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Did I mention the lice is back?<br />
<br />
Oh she's killing them. Killing the lice that is!<br />
<br />
So Sunday morning, I'm standing around the kitchen counter fretting over the looming day. I've got the green light to take myself to a cafe with my laptop and work on the novel, which, and I thank thee o lord, is still in progress, ten pages away from 200 (can she make it?) when the phone rings.<br />
I answer. <br />
"Elishe?" says my mother, who sounds suspiciously drunk on a Sunday morning. <br />
"Yes?"<br />
"I think I had a little shtroke," she says. <br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
And my heart drops into my mug of Roma, a caffeine-free coffee substitute made from roasted malted barley and other brown things. I like to add a sprinkle of cinnamon, a teaspoon of cocoa powder and some raw milk. Usually I don't think to add my heart, but this morning, there she is, bobbing like a bloody apple in the muddy broth. <br />
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"I called Joe but I'm mad at him because I know he'sh going to call Nancshy. You're the shecond one I tshold." Joe is my step-dad. He's a Harley riding scientific glassblower. And Nancy? She's my sister. The M.D. my mother doesn't want to worry. <br />
"So um, What happened?" I ask. <br />
"Well I was tshalking on the phone lasht night and I felt this tchingle on my right csheek. I had the phone on my right shide. And now the left shide of my faish is drooping and my left arm is weak. Oh Elishe, my faish looksh sho horrible."<br />
"Oh Mom," I say tenderly, and mean it. Again, it turns out I love this woman, no matter how much Vaseline she smears on her face, no matter how many bowls of ice cream or hours of television she allows my children. <br />
"I took shum Bufferin and went to bed. Do you think you can you call your mother-in-law and come over? I don't want to be alone."<br />
"Sure, okay."<br />
<br />
We hang up and I promptly break down into tears, and scream for Bryan who's in the basement watching TV with the kids. They are a cozy trio. He comes up, sees me in a state, I tell him the news, and he hugs me, then starts packing a backpack full of clothes for the kids. I start packing my new totebag with all our leftovers, because in my dawning shock, my mother's instructions sound logical and reasonable and she never has any food, save for salad dressing and mango juice. We'll just <i>not</i> call my doctor sister, hang out at my mom's and talk to my mother-in-law on the phone, who's a dialysis nurse in Brooklyn. Who said anything about a hospital?<br />
<br />
It takes forever to get everyone ready. Like trudging through creamed honey it is to get out the door. <br />
My mom calls back.<br />
"Hello?"<br />
"You know, why don't you call Carolyn now? And it's so icshey out there. Don't bother coming over. It'sh okay. You're not going to find a parking shpot anyway. Oh wait. I shee shum shtreet out there." My mother lives in South Philly, land of the narrow streets, copious stop signs and iffy parking. <br />
<br />
I hang up and decide that <i>maybe</i> going against my mother's wishes and calling my sister is actually a good idea. <br />
"Mom had a stroke," I say. I add this bit of superfluous dialogue because saying it out loud was weird and terrible. <br />
My sister is brilliant. She says to go to the hospital. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Maybe because I don't have an M.D. from The University of Pennsylvania. It turns out that when you have a stroke you need to go to the hospital RIGHT AWAY. I am so in the dark about these things. A stroke, people, is a <i>medical emergency</i>. <br />
<br />
I call my mother back. <br />
"We're going to take you the hospital."<br />
"Okay," she says, mildly defeated. "Can you bring me something to hold up the shide of my faish?"<br />
"How about some Scotch tape?"<br />
"Perfect," she says. But is it? It probably won't adhere to the Vaseline. But I don't realize this till later, and I forget to pack it anyway. <br />
"Maybe I should just call 911 for you?" I say. <br />
"Oh no. I don't want the neighborsh peering out their windowsh."<br />
Again, this sounds reasonable. It's none of their business. Let's not cause a scene. It's only a shlight shtroke.<br />
"Okay, we'll be over soon," I say, and lug the totebag, filled with chopped liver, gluten-free pasta, hummus, guacamole, chips and other assorted tidbits we will not eat this day, to the minivan. <br />
<br />
Bryan and I realize that it's probably not a good idea to take the kids with us, who knows how long we'll be at the hospital, but who can watch them? Because for freaking out loud, Stella has lice. Again. Our heroes turn out to be our artist friends who live conveniently near an entrance to the expressway. They have two kids the same ages as Hamish and Stella. I pull my daughter's hair into a ponytail and get her a hoodie and a hat to wear the entire time she is in their care. We owe our friends gold. We owe them a basement-to-attic deep-clean, a massage, a Caribbean vacation, a bottle of your finest Scotch. They reign supreme. Thanks E & D!<br />
<br />
At my mom's my twenty-five year old niece is just pulling up in a taxi. She's a gem. We share more than a few smirks and twinkly eyed smiles at my adorable stroked out mom, who's ambling around at low speed, slurring—"I managed to brush my teeth. Can you believe that?"—and not nearly as droopy as I'd anticipated. (Phew.) My mom whispers to me how much money she's got in her bank account, waving her checkbook in my face, and shows me the bills that need to get paid but tells me she's having trouble writing, and darn the luck, she's left-handed. She has trouble buttoning her coat because it's too tight and she's just had a stroke and keeps dropping her keys. She says, "Aren't I fat?" and lets the coat fall to the floor. "I want to wear the green one anyway," she announces, and shuffles out of the kitchen. Catie and I look at each other and laugh. <br />
"It's like she's herself, but magnified," I remark and we nearly trip over ourselves getting my mother and her pills and her cell phone and her library book and her giant cataract sunglasses packed up. <br />
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Bryan digs a path to the van and we help my mother in. She tells Bryan how to get to the hospital. I quiz my mom on everyone's birthday. This stroke did not affect her cognitive skills. She remembers every one. <br />
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Bryan drops the three of us off at the emergency room. My mother tells the nice lady at the desk, "I think I'm having a shlight shtroke." She manages to sign over her life on the forms, very well I may add, considering she's lost a lot of mobility in that left arm of hers, and then mutters something about schvartzas, which Catie and I, filled with horror, demand that she cease. Then we crack up. <br />
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We speed through triage with the help of Alan, a lovely nurse with a bad toupee that the other nurses and doctor make fun of openly to us. Alan insists that my mother be wheeled to a bed which she eventually agrees is a good idea. When the doctor strokes my mother's face, asking if she can feel his touch, she tells him with doe eyes, "I can feel everything and it feels very nice." This, after asking him if he's old enough to have even completed medical school. I cringe, seeing myself in her coy ways. Bryan sees it too, and laughs it off as a Classic Elise Move. I am, of course, mortified. <br />
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Then the lady in the bed to the right of us, a wizened witchy bag of bones with an explosion of gray hair and crusty feet, starts her lunchtime show. She shouts for help. Her pleas go ignored and we learn that this is because she's insane. When no aid arrives she gets out of her bed, spilling tea, falling out of her gown, clutching god knows what to her sunken chest. Wide-eyed with terror, she peers into our little beeping lineoleum cove where my mother lies prone (so her head can receive as much blood as possible). My niece and recently arrived oldest sister (not the doctor but the English teacher) and twenty-one year old nephew and I sit surrounding my mother (bryan's gone to retrieve the kids by now), cracking inappropriate jokes and checking our cell phones. The shrunken old woman looks pleadingly into my eyes (why me?) and says, "Can you help me?" I swallow, and look around for someone to rescue me. How can I possibly be of service? My mind reels for ideas but comes up blank. The twelve year-old doctor thankfully witnesses the commotion, escorts her back to her bed and I remark that he must have gotten an A in bedside manners because this lady does not ruffle his feathers at all.<br />
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When she pulls out a stash of cigarettes and lights up, it's another story. The cigs get confiscated, the nurses and doctor roll their eyes to us because we are sane enough to be in on the joke with the staff, and we have a good old time, feeling well cared for and entertained. My mother pleads with us to open the curtain so she can see the show. She's having a hard time feeling in the loop flat on her back. My family's faces shine with a mixture of mirth and acceptance into the scrubs-clad fold. We belong! our hearts sing. <br />
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A few minutes later the old woman whips out her second, hidden stash of smokes from where I can only imagine, and lights up again. The nerve! We howl with laughter. This time there are words. "Jerkoff!" she calls Jim, another nurse on duty. "Go get your own cigarettes!" she spits. <br />
"I don't smoke, ma'am," he responds professionally, staring into his computer screen and typing furiously. <br />
"That's what I thought," she mutters, as if his non-smoking ways betray a paltry lack of character she obviously possesses in spades. Then, "When am I getting my own room!"<br />
"That's what I want to know," he says, without hiding his disdain. "I'm trying to find out right now." <br />
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We were sad when they finally took her away. Then my mother got moved to her own room, after some tests which determined that her stroke wasn't slight, but a full-on regular-sized stroke. The lovely neurologist reported the effects to be moderate to medium. <br />
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Her speech slowly returned to its usual cadence and even her droop undrooped some. Rehabilitative therapy for her left side began that day. Nancy arrived and it was a nice little reunion, studded with terrible food, the loveliest staff you could ever hope for, save for one overworked and stressed out young nurse, and a lot of wires emanating from my mother like rays of electric sunshine. <br />
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She's seen the nutritionist, the physical therapist and has a lot of work to do. But the mood is light because she's still herself and she's alive. <br />
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She goes home today, my newly minted stroke mama. Get well soon. I love you. And, poo poo as my mother would say. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35497867.post-1978116201376647242011-01-19T23:10:00.005-05:002011-02-20T19:09:44.013-05:00soup and cards and warm hearts and cookies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There has been an outpouring of love and sympathy from readers and friends and family since Stuart died January 3. Bryan and I are very grateful to have such wonderful support. To those who have shared their hearts, thank you. <br />
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Here's what I have learned from this event, about myself and about grief and about Stuart and family—<br />
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1. It's better to express what's in your heart than to suppress it for fear that it will sound trite or wrong or inappropriate. If it's heartfelt, it will be the perfect thing to say. <br />
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2. It's better to share grief than to grieve alone. Grief is a burden that really does lighten when you know others are aching with you. We're all in this loss together. <br />
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3. Silence divides. Ever thought it would be better not to say anything? Maybe you thought it would be too awkward? Bad timing? I know I have. Now I know it's definitely better to speak up. Somehow a room full of broken hearts mends all. Not sure why it works but it does. <br />
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4. Stuart was a bit of a star in his hood. The restaurant owners and shopkeepers in his Brooklyn neighborhood were shocked and saddened by the news as much as anyone else was. <br />
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5. Stuart's book collection was more sophisticated than mine. He had Emily Dickinson. I have, you know, Stephenie Meyer. <br />
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6. If I don't move my body, my mind will start to smoke and curl like a newspaper on fire.<br />
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7. Grief has weight and heft and you may as well honor its brawn, and have faith it will release you. In the beginning it holds you down and presses you into the bed, the sofa. It forces you to stay in your pajamas. <br />
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8. Sleep is a welcome drug but waking up equals withdrawal. Because when you awake, the fact remains. The dead stay dead. <br />
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9. Grief and depression are the same, only they come at you from different directions. One has some perspective and other has little. Grief can lead to a depressive episode if you're prone to it already. Your body and mind register the signals and slowly the neurons fire and before you know it, the anxiety and all-encompassing despair sets in and you realize that it has nothing to do with the original loss. You wake up one morning and suddenly breakfast seems insurmountable. Grief and depression become one—the dimness, the negativity, the dark. <br />
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10. You have to take care of yourself in order not to get sucked into that black and overpowering thing. You have to eat right (don't get me started), sleep, talk to good friends. Exercise. Take a shower. Put on something that makes you feel pretty (especially Bryan). Take some vitamin D. Maybe Omega 3. Magnesium. Laugh. <br />
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11. Distraction helps. Netflix has <a href="http://www.twilightthemovie.com/#/Splash" target="_blank">something distracting</a> for everyone. <br />
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12. Dealing head on helps too. Looking at pictures. Talking about it. Writing poems. Processing the loss through whatever creative outlet moves you. Crying cleanses. <br />
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13. My family is there for me in times of crisis and I am there for them too. Who knew? We can be very grown up. <br />
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14. My children are capable of sitting still during long church services if they have the right drawing materials.<br />
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15. You can eat too much chocolate. <br />
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16. Good friends are true treasures. <br />
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17. You can grieve and laugh at stupid jokes in the same minute. <br />
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18. Even Stuart's parents laugh and talk about other things sometimes. <br />
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19. Even as I feel his loss and feel so much for his parents and sister, there is much to be gained from the experience. It's nothing you hope for or want, but it's there all the same. <br />
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20. Death and growth don't do manners. They come and go as they please. You think they give a shit what we think? <br />
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21. I see Stuart's mom and dad and sister as the nucleus of a storm, the pebble that got tossed in the pond. We're the ripples. Our hearts still ache for them and always will, but these durable blood-pumpers seem to be getting a little lighter every day. The ripples all disperse eventually. The pebble settles on the soft sandy floor.<br />
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22. Life is hard. It's not supposed to be breezy. Unless it is. <br />
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Peace. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/202/489391721207E35AAB76C113EA88B1A1.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a></div>Elise A. Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04244523375465549967noreply@blogger.com8