I'm a total dork.

I spent my free time this weekend creating a Yahoo group for alumni of my old Jewish summer camp. Not because someone commissioned me to do so, but because I thought it'd be neat! Actually, it's pretty fucking cool. I scanned bunches of old photos from the 80's and posted them, and put out a "welcome" message and then sent invites to all the people from Camp I'm still in touch with, 'bout five or six folks. Then I went onto Myspace and found a few more people and sent them invites, and now I'm just kinda waiting and seeing if anyone will bite and what kinds of pictures and discussion threads might start happening. I think that the site will probably grow to about double the membership now (so, say to ten or so people) within a few weeks, and then it'll probably be in stasis for a long time until other people feel motivated to scan photos and start chats and whatever. Maybe it'll just be the Bree Show; I have no idea at this point.

The photo on the right is classic, 'cause it's such a period piece. I've cropped myself and some other people out of the picture, but the central figure, Jenny (of course her name is Jenny) is not only wearing a John Taylor button, but also not one, but two Swatches on her wrist. Her hair, as well, is totally to die for, n'est-ce pas? This pic was taken in 1985, when we were all about 13 years old. Yes, it is I giving Jenny the "bunny ears" from two seats over. We were on a bus going on some camp field trip, probably to Great America. Ah, mem'ries.

Don't let the name fool you.

Oh my god I'm so freaking excited. Little Darlings is playing at the Castro tonight. Suddenly, more and more of my friends are coming out of the woodwork with their obsessions, too.

It is positively the best movie in the "teenage losing your virginity flick" genre, and Ube and I have been enthralled with it since the mid-80s.

Otherwise, a very relaxing day of dusting, vacuuming, making fresh salsa, and generally enjoying my summer freedom. Seriously, today I got, as Astrid put it, tongue-somewhat-in-cheek, "zen" about my house cleaning. It just feels so good to be nearly done with my bookkeeping gigs and on my way to starting a profession I am compelled by. My internship at the queer mental health clinic starts the first week in August. Meanwhile, I've got actual free time in which to live, and, yes, clean.

Buzzkill?

Sheesh, I thought by now I'd have some responses on the Death Poll, but I guess everyone found it too creepy or something? Or maybe people aren't checking the blog 'cause of the holiday and all. What gives?

I'm off to San Jose today to visit Mom and Schmend. C. is outta town, on a cruise to Alaska, in fact. Dunno if I'll see any of the nieces or nephews on this trip, but that'd be nice. We'll see how the day shapes up. I'll have three good hours of reading time on the train back and forth--hopefully I can finally knock out The Denial of Death because, truth be told, I'm getting a bit sick of reading it, even though it's really eye-opening. Only so much conceptual death I can handle at a time, I guess, but certainly more of it than actual death, right?

Love and stuff,
--Bree

Death Poll

So I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I'm doing my masters thesis on the subject of death. More specifically, I'm going to be exploring the effects of our uniquely human capacity for the awareness of death, or our ability to anticipate death. How does this consciousness of our own demise shape our emotional lives, our psychology, our ability to live in the world, operate in relationships, and exist in our finite bodies? Does it drive us to destruction, violence, and war? Does it give the privileged in the world (white, global north/west, wealthy) a way to disavow death and project it onto people of color and the poor through war, economic oppression, environmental devastation? And on the other hand, can our terror of death motivate us to put forward lasting creative projects in the world (to write books, make babies, found religions) to ensure our own symbolic immortality?

In my reading and research, I'm coming across a lot of different theories, ideas, frameworks. Major influences right now are Ernest Becker, and post-Freudian psychoanalysis (Melanie Klein, Otto Rank, Lacan, and Frantz Fanon). I want to branch out into other disciplines as well, and I'd be interested if anyone has any suggestions for research areas I should check out. I'd particularly like to read more women writers.

Some questions I'm generating at this early stage of the game are as follows. Please consider answering any or all of these questions in the comment section. I'd love to know other people's thoughts in order to get a bigger perspective than just what's been going on in my own head and in my reflections of what I've been reading.


1. Do you think the fear of death, or the denial of death is a "universal" fear, or anything close to a "universal" fear? Can you think of ways in which the fear of death manifests itself either psychologically at the level of individuals, or socio-culturally?

2. Do you think there is such a thing as a "death drive" or an instinct that drives us toward, or compels us toward death psychologically, not just biologically toward entropy and decay?

3. What do you think happens when we die? Do you know what your parent/s think/thought about death? Do your beliefs differ significantly from theirs?

4. How often do you think about, have anxious or curious feelings about, or fantasize/daydream about death? (your own death and/or the death of your loved ones?)

I hope everyone feels very free to leave comments. If you'd rather email your thoughts to me personally, leave a comment with your email address, and I'll send you mine if you don't know it already.

Peace,
--Bree

Freedom!

Finally finished my finals, and I feel fantastic!

I *heart* alliteration.

Anon, here I find myself on the first day of my summer vacation. So much to do, so little time. Off to brunch with B. More later...

Two to Go

Finished my paper for child psychotherapy tonight, and still managed to watch two episodes of Angel. Astrid made an amazing salad for dinner with butter lettuce, carrots, cucumber, yellow bell pepper, sunflower sprouts, boiled eggs, and fresh mozzarella, dressed in a delectable raspberry vinaigrette with fresh tarragon and basil. I made crunchy garlic crostini with slices of baguette, freshly pounded garlic, salt, pepper, and olive oil. I'm actually salivating while I'm typing this.

Tomorrow, I work on my thesis papers in earnest. Three more days til summer break.

Breathe

My next nine days:

Tomorrow:
Read for class
Work on papers due for end of term for Child Psychotherapy,
Critical Theory, and Thesis classes
My final Critical Theory class
My final Law & Ethics class; 50-question final exam

Friday:
Penultimate* day at my Friday bookkeeping gig
Train new bookkeeper
Tranny March at Dolores Park
Party and general mayhem

Saturday:
Work on papers in the morning
LGBTQ filmfest local short films program
Dyke March at Dolores Park
Party and much more mayhem
Pink Saturday in the Castro
Even more partying and mayhem

Sunday:
Recover from the weekend
Work on papers
Avoid the Pride Parade
Reward myself with bloody marys

Monday:
Monday bookkeeping gig
Work on papers

Tuesday:
Work on papers
Final Child Psychotherapy class
More work on papers

Wednesday:
Wednesday bookkeeping gig
Final night to work on papers

Thursday:
Last chance to finalize all three papers
Therapy appointment
Turn in papers
Graduate Psychology Symposium on campus

Friday:
Last day at Friday bookkeeping gig
Last day of training with new bookkeeper

Breathe!

*I just learned that word!

Love - One

Astrid and I had a gorgeous, healthful evening. We made the yummiest fucking turkey burgers ever with a big salad and oven-fries (though, Astrid reminded me, they weren't fries at all, since they were baked, so I think we agreed on calling them "baked 'French-cut' potatoes" and then ruminated about whether there's anything "French" about "french fries" anyway.)

The turkey burgers were fantastic. I started with a pound of Diestel ground turkey in a big stainless steel bowl. I threw in a very large dash of salt (probably somewhere around two teaspoons), milled a bunch of black pepper into it, a couple dashes of hot sauce (I like Tapatio), tossed in one egg white, finely diced red onion (I would have used shallots, but we were out. It's never a good thing to be out of shallots!), minced one clove of garlic, and chopped finely a good couple tablespoons each of fresh sage and thyme.

Don't use dried herbs, or I'll have to pound on you!

So after throwing all that in the bowl, I mixed it all with my bare hands, which is a complete and utter necessity, except that it's totally disgusting, but wash your hands good before, and even better afterward. Then I heated up a large iron skillet, oiled it lightly with olive oil (try it on medium/medium high depending on how hot your stove runs.) The meat divided up into three good sized patties, and I placed those in the hot skillet. I can't be too sure of the time, but basically, I gave them several minutes on each side (say six or seven) and then, as the French-cut potatoes were baking in the oven, I placed the burgers, still in the skillet, in there to finish off, maybe another seven to ten minutes. Toasted some buns, melted some sharp cheddar cheese on top in the last minute of cooking (Astrid thought Swiss would be better next time), grilled up some red onions, and voila (or "viola," as one of Exene's professors actually has been caught saying, not ironically) - juicy, low fat amazingly flavorful turkey burgers!

After just the right amount of dinner (I did not nibble at the extra burger, nor did I bake too many French-cut potatoes) we took a walk up to Dolores Park and played some tennis (read: hit some balls wildly around the court) which was just love-ly (ahem) as A. and I'd never played together before. I think it might become a thing.

While we walked back home (pronounce the "l" in "walk" - this is a holdover in the vernacular from when B. and Mag were still together, I think), hand in hand, we noticed many other people out walking. The day was unusually warm, and at nine-thirty, when we were done with tennis, it was perfectly gorgeous still. We walked and laughed about all the people walking on their legs, I dunno why, but it was silly and pleasing to us--that everyone was walking on their legs--and we had big smiles on our faces. Another couple passed us, and the woman said to us, "You're so cute!" I wanted to tell them that they were cute, too, but I couldn't stop grinning and laughing.

Yay, healthy food! Yay, physical activity! Yay love!

Rosebud

Hanging out at Muddy's, attempting to write a self-evaluation paper on my clinical skills in identifying and working with clients' substance abuse issues. Mag'll be here pretty soon and then we're going to the Castro to see Citizen Kane on the big screen. Exciting - he's never seen it before! I've only seen it once, so it'll be great to see it again and be able to absorb more of the details in the plot, in the filming, in the performances.

Yesterday, Astrid, Bob, DJ, and I went to a softball game organized by some friends of Astrid's. Calisto and Dave were there, too. The latent softball dyke in me came out in full color, and I found myself almost involuntarily yelling shit like, "Good eye!" and "Way to hustle!" I haven't played the game since probably 1988. I found that all my skills--hitting, catching, throwing--had atrophied, but I can still hold my own "for a girl." After about an hour and a half on the field, I began playing better, but by that time I was pretty tired. Definitely have to do it again sometime.

After the game, Astrid, DJ, Bob and I went over to Calisto and Dave's for yummy mushroom soup and a screening of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. It was definitely my favorite in the Star Trek movie saga. Humpback whales save the Earth, dude - who could not love that shit? Probably not quite the calibur of Citizen Kane, but hey, I'm an ecclectic film lover.

The Flying Meatball Incident

On Monday night, after a lovely Memorial Day party* chez Mr. & Mrs. C and baby Pez, Astrid and I biked home through the Mission and decided to get dinner at Emmy's Spaghetti Shack. Neither of us had ever been before, and it was totally worth the hype. It's not the most extraordinary food you'll ever eat, but they serve really tasty, fresh grub, inventive drinks, and the space itself is really cozy. You've gotta get there super early to get a table, though. We'd tried before, and the line was out the wazoo. Anyway, Astrid got the pea soup with mint (deelish), a lavender martini, and a salad with arugula and speck (which neither of us had ever heard of, but A. wisely surmised the German origin of the name of this lovely, smokey cured meat). I got the spaghetti and meatballs, 'cause I'd heard their meatballs rock. And it turns out they are mighty nice, indeed, packed with lots of fresh chopped onions and garlic, and the spaghetti comes topped with a rich, tangy marinara sauce and lots of freshly grated Parmesan and minced parsley.

As I'm trying to be more mindful these days of how much food I shove down the gullet, I had a decent amount of leftovers, which the hipster waitress kindly packed for me in a Chinese take-out box. We wrapped the bill and departed, making our way through the crowd and out to our bikes. Before unlocking, I realized I'd left the leftovers on the table, and went back in to fetch them. The hipster waitress said, "It happens all the time," as she wiped the box off, having retrieved it for me from the garbage. I figured that if I get E.coli, it's my own damned fault. I put the box in my bike basket and we set off for home.

Not two blocks away from the restaurant, Astrid and I made a left off of Mission, and I hit a pothole. The take-out box went flying, and as I looked behind me out the corner of my eye, I saw the leftover meatball pop out of the carton, arch through the air, and bounce onto the pavement. Guess I didn't need the extra calories or potential E.coli infection.

xo
Bree


*B and I were expecting a Memorial Day Barbeque, not just a "party" featuring tamales and seven-layer bean dip. Not that the tamales and dip and mojitos weren't excellent, but, y'know, where's the *beef*? Oh yeah, it flew off my bike.

The Saga of the Couch

Many of you who have been to my apartment know that I've had successive shitty futons in the living room for the entire five years I've been here. The last one was nicknamed "Jerry" by DJ, or maybe it was Bob, but regardless of who named it, I mean him, I mean it, I could never succumb to acknowledging the moniker.*

Now that Astrid and I are making a home together, we both immediately acknowledged our need of a proper couch. There were too many nights of Buffy watching forced apart, each of us sitting on our respective old stuffed chairs, separated by what seemed like miles (picture me in full dramatic pose, forearm on forehead, to cover my tragedy-stricken brow.) Anyhow, we needed one.

Astrid did some fine legwork on Craigslist and found a full-sized couch that we both really liked, which lived with its gay boy owner not three blocks away from our place (although I don't name objects, I clearly have no problem anthropomorphizing them). We made an appointment to look at it, loved it, and paid the deposit. A few days later, we ensnarled DJ into our very flawed plan to transport the couch atop Astrid's automobile and move it up the very narrow, steep stairway and into the apartment. This was to be accomplished inside a window of an hour and a half or so, after which we were supposed to go see the new Simon Pegg movie, Hot Fuzz.

DJ and Astrid sweated and grunted and shoved the couch in as many angles as they possibly could, for the better part of an hour, and the bloody couch would not get through the door. Our friend MJ, who showed up to join us for the movie, tried a few Rubik's Cubish (Cubist?) maneuvers as well, and even I made a couple token attempts, but when it comes to manual labor, I'm pretty much useless (I've never done a single pull-up; glad they didn't flunk me outta school on account of those Presidential fitness tests!) We'd measured first and everything, that was the bitch of it, but the couch simply couldn't get passed the funky door angles to have a chance to be dragged up the stairs.

In a last-ditch effort, Astrid and DJ tried getting the thing into the alley on the side of the house, so's to move it up the equally physically impossible back stairs; unfortunately, the couch got caught in the narrow corridor, snagging under a slat of fence, and in the dark, there wasn't a way to figure out how to pull it passed that point and onto the patio even to be able to make an attempt at the stairs.

Sigh.

After that, we sent DJ and MJ away to meet Bob for the movie. Sitting on the couch, which was relegated to the sidewalk in front of our apartment, Astrid and I fell into despair and frustration.



I went upstairs and brought down some beers and A's computer (yes, so we could watch a Buffy episode.) We ordered a pizza to the couch. We asked passersby if they'd like to buy it. Some of them sat down and chatted with us: it was a happenin' scene.

At about 1:30 am, we decided to surrender the couch to the fates, and dragged the cushions upstairs in hopes that the bare springy frame would be less attractive and thus less "scoreworthy" for the would-be takers. I still had hopes to re-sell it on Craigslist to someone with a bigger doorway; Astrid held out for the impossible dream that we'd be able to get it upstairs if only we tried hard enough. The night passed, and the couch was still there when we woke up. There was minor forensic evidence suggesting someone had made it their bed for the night. Astrid had a study group that day, and I was around at home, peeking through the window periodically to see if anyone had claimed it. No one had. When A came home, she utilized CL yet again to procure us some movers who showed up in the evening and managed to get the couch through the alley, and up the back stairs. They strained, walked on top of the railings, lifted the couch clear over their heads to maneuver the tight corners, and did contortions to their bodies we had no right to have asked of them, but by god, they got that fucking thing into the apartment.



After we paid and handsomely tipped the movers (nearly doubling our expense for the couch), Astrid escorted them downstairs. When she came back up, we embraced. I was so in awe of Astrid's persistence, so relieved and extatic to have the couch we wanted sitting in our living room, so fucking in love, and, quite honestly, slightly terrified. The feeling welling up in me in that moment may not have been unlike Ceeb's when she suggested that the 'Flix account she shares with Dax felt like a real commitment [though I'm certain my comment was less "couched" (groan!) in sarcasm than was Ceeb's.]

Standing next to our new couch, I looked at my beautiful girlfriend, shook my head, and said, "Baby, you know this means we're married, right?"

xo
Bree

___________________________________

* Though this is totally irrelevant, it might also be acknowledged that I've never been one to name inanimate objects like cars or favorite gadgets, much less crappy futons, though I did name my menstrual cycle as a teenager, at the behest of my Jewish youth group cohorts, all of us agreeing on the ritual as a counterpoint to the guys naming their penises. Among our group's cycles were "Amethyst" and "Wawona;" mine was "Marguerite."

Master and Servant

Yesterday was a day of celebration in the Astrid-Bree household: Ms. Astrid took her oral exam and is now an M.A. in comparative literature!! She read a core book list of thirty works and had to prepare a 20-minute presentation in a specialty area. Yeah, she's smart 'n' shit. Yesterday proved big for me, too: I got a phone call from the clinic director of an M.F.T. training program where I interviewed this week letting me know they want me to come work with them! I start the internship in August! So, while Astrid is now a master, I have become an indentured servant, and will be working 20 to 25 hours a week at the clinic for free. And getting good clinical training, I remind myself.

Astrid and I celebrated by eating orgasmic tapas at Ramblas and getting drinks with Calisto, Dave, DJ, and Raquel at the Lex.

Anyway, hurrah!

Malaise

I feel a familiar setting in of the doldrums which hasn't visited me in a long time. The weather isn't helping (cold, wet, icky. It's fucking May, okay, weather?) Now that the funeral is over, there is less chaos and tension, but there is still a faint sadness permeating everything. I picked up my studying yesterday for the first time in two weeks, but in class, I felt removed, wondering why I was even there, wondering what good it does for people to be trained as psychotherapists, when we can't control the fucked up things that happen to people.

I dreamed about Andrew last night. I was with a bunch of people, and we were lost on our way home, as if we'd never been there before. I don't know which "home" it was supposed to be, but it was apparently somewhere between Los Gatos and San Jose, and off the Monterey Highway (where the cemetery is), and there was a beach. A beautiful beach, mind you, but a dirty, rocky beach, not a smooth sandy one. Mom was there, and Andrew was sitting by her. We all acknowledged that the problem was that he was misunderstood somehow, and Andrew, with relief in his voice, said, "Yeah, THAT'S the issue!"

Restless

I can't sleep. Spinning about Andrew, what the funeral will be like, logistics of death. I'm also realizing that my grandmother's death in December was not that fucking long ago--two deaths in my family in four months' time. I think I've been holding it together too tightly--I need to freak out. The decision-making about the funeral and the celebration of his life have been slow, and everyone has been feeling an unsettling state of limbo. It's not fun. I wish I could've cancelled work and school this week to spend more time with my family, but I really couldn't do it.

This sucks.

Monday night at home

Spent all weekend down in San Jo with my family. It was alternately sad, boring, devastating, and sometimes poignant and illuminating. I had a lot of time with my sisters, J. and C. We talked about morbid things, like our own eventual deaths and Mom's eventual death. If there's one thing I know about how I wanna go out, it's that everyone needs to drink good booze at the party.

Astrid's studying for her oral exam, and DJ is here, borrowing a computer to write his paper on the filmic representations of Ulysses. I should be studying too, but I'm distracted (I'd like to say because of Andrew's death, which is certainly true as well, but I'll admit that I'm distracted, per yoozsh).

It's amazing, the tonal change that comes with death. It gets one to thinking about the eventual deaths of everyone, and about the deaths that have already come, deaths that were expected, deaths that traumatized. The concentric circles of grief spiral outward and expand to cover everything. I'm normally a body preoccupied with it. I might work with bereaved folks in my practicum next year. I'm probably writing my thesis about it, and I'm currently reading an amazing book about it. I don't consider myself a morbid person; I'm pretty fucking joyful, as a matter of fact. But what can I say? I find death compelling in its terrifyingness, and I embrace the chance to learn from it.

Every time death comes for someone I love, it completely humbles me. Everything I thought I knew, killed. I search for the healing from my dad's death, over thirty years ago, for which I was completely not cognizant, being two and all. The relief comes in tiny bits, macerated in my tears and laughter over decades and decades.

My mom and I had a remarkable conversation on the phone today. Andrew's death is bringing up stuff about Dad's for her, stuff she hasn't fully processed thirty years later, either. She said to me today that she is tired of death, and doesn't want to see anyone else die. Which implied, of course, that she'd rather die than live through another death. I, myself, am bracing for the experience of watching many more of my loved ones die, because, despite the pain of loss, I very much want to live and thrive and survive for a lot longer. But I guess when you're 70 years old, and you buried your husband at age 38, and then years later buried your father, and then your mother, your nephew, your best friends, and your lover, it's really enough. She said she doesn't know what she believes, and it causes her anxiety. Will she be reunited with her loved ones in some sort of cloudy paradise, or will she simply cease to exist? Will she make bedfellows with the worms? Will she live again?

Bed time for me, the kind replete with breathing, dreams, being draped in the arms of the most amazing girl in the world. I'll try to make it til tomorrow, I will.

xo
Bree

Rest in Peace, Beautiful Andrew

My mom called me this morning with the "you'd better sit down" kind of news. My cousin Andrew is dead. His body was found by some kids in a park in San Jose. We don't know the cause of death yet--may have been exposure (it was cold, and he was without a jacket or sleeping bag like he's been so many nights in the last few years), may have been an overdose (he'd been off heroin for months, but I'm guessing a fix at his normal dose might've done it), may have been a recurrence of the alcohol-induced pancreatitis that'd almost killed him a couple times before.

Some of you might remember the discouraging stories about my cousin that have emerged over the last couple years. He's been walking around without proper diagnosis nor treatment for several years, getting more and more paranoid, isolated, and depressed. He most likely had paranoid schizophrenia, and the delusions of conspiracy and being under attack ruled his consciousness to the point that he wouldn't eat food offered him (poison), couldn't sleep in the homes of people who loved him (he was constantly afraid of being gassed), wouldn't take showers (he was convinced that whoever put the toxins on his body wanted them to wash into his body) or accept offers of clothing or help with his mental health (of course drugs or any kind of intervention were all part of the conspiracy). The safety and solace that we offered to him were received ambivalently at the very best, but often, in his delusional perspective, seemed malicious, poisonous, murderous.

He was never violent--only turned terribly inward to his despondence and sadness and fear. He was an amazing blues guitarist, but hardly picked up an instrument in the last two years because he was so defeated. His life was (I can't believe I'm using the past tense) emblematic of how tragic the loss of someone young can be: he was boundlessly creative and talented and funny and kind, and by the end, he had no idea that he was capable of beauty and happiness. We all knew that it had the potential to end this way, but we all prayed that he would finally decide to reach out for help. The only good that will come of his death is that he's not suffering anymore. But I can't say the same for Aunt Rhoda, or anyone else who loved him. I can't imagine the horror of watching your kid deteriorate and die like this. It's just so wrong.

Good bye, Anj. I love you, man.

Ranking

Astrid and I just wasted two hours (a collective four!) ranking movies on Netflix. We finally succumbed to membership after the unfortunate incident in which we ended up shelling out $30.00 in late fees for a single Buffy disc. Ranking, listing, and otherwise documenting one's tastes and proclivities is such a sexy wormhole to fall into. We could've actually watched one of the movies we rented in that time. Gah!

kisses,
Bree

P.S. Dax is whining about not being included in my Cast list yet. I think she needs to do something noteworthy first. ;)

Anxiety or Indigestion?

I feel happy and motivated for the new term* at school. I feel cozy and homey and lusciously fulfilled in my new home with Astrid. So what is this rumbly, tense feeling in my stomach? It might be that I've applied to three sites for clinical internships, have been rejected by two and am waiting on the other still, while most of my classmates already have placements for next year. It might be that I hate bookkeeping and I can't believe I still have to show up and work tomorrow, Friday, and every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the next several months, and that even though I'm quitting all my paid gigs come summer in order to make time for school, internship, and thesis, I really should continue to work 'cause I'm gonna be broke-ass-broke next year.

Or maybe it's the cheeseburger, fries, and shake I had for dinner between classes tonight.


_____________________

*My graduate program refers to terms as "trimesters," because we have three per school year. It's essentially a quarter system with no summer quarter, thus, the "trimester" system. As I tend to associate that word with pregnancy, you'll understand why I usually refer to the demarcation of time at New College by "term" rather than by "trimester." Though, as many friends have joked, after the third trimester of my second year, I'll have myself a bouncing baby master's degree.

Chicken Breast Envy

What would happen if I actually bothered to write a little snippet on a daily or almost-daily basis? Would my entries all suck? Hmm...

Tonight, I got home from work, and DJ was here, having beers with Astrid. A was prepped to make her deee-licicious saffron rice pilaf, but needed onions and parsley from the store. We'd pulled out a couple o' skinless chicken breasts, and I was gonna make my yummy Michael Chiarello recipe, except healthier (usually use the whole chicken, which is fan-fucking-finger-licking-tastic). So I went to ye ol' supermarket across the way and picked up the ingredients for the rice and some salad things and some more skinless breasts.

The meal was tastey! I'm pleased to report that the healthy way is darned good (but certainly not as wonderful as the whole, crispy bird, with all that mouth-watering fresh rosemary, lemon zest, and salt encrusting and sealing the skin so the juices are bursting with every...oh god, make it stop! Yeah, the skinless breasts were...pretty good.

We three then watched the next installment in the Buffy marathon, on disc two of Season 3, Band Candy. Great episode (link has spoilers).

Should go to bed now.

'Night!

--Bree

Revolt!

My body is revolting, in both senses of that word: Astrid and I rolled back into town at 3:00 am Monday morning from an amazing spring break road trip down the coast and through the desert (more to come on that). I then had about four hours of sleep before having to work Monday, and then collapse and wake and start my third quarter at school on Tuesday. That morning, a bad sore throat came on, which I proceeded to medicate with mass quantities of ibuprofen. By yesterday, the pain not having abated, and with the additional symptoms of an annoying ringing in my right ear and head congestion that was making everyone’s voices, including my own, sound like echoing effects box noise, I decided to call in sick to work and head over to Kaiser to get screened for strep throat and ear infection.

So I went in, and the doctor was pretty convinced it wasn’t strep (no fever, and my throat was “pink” but not “red and beefy” (I loved this description) but we took a swab anyway, just to be sure. I did, however, have an ear infection, so I couldn’t escape the prescription for antibiotics (counting the days til the yeast infection hits). I also talked to the doc about some other chronic problems I’ve been having, most important of which are an on/off chronic cough, which I have been attributing to allergies or my acid reflux, and a recent wheezing with exhalation I’ve noticed in the last couple months. She ordered up a chest x-ray and some lung tests for me, and I spent the next few hours making additional co-payments and waiting around for the lab, the radiologist, and my scripts for amoxicillin and a generic for Flonase, as an experiment in seeing whether a post-nasal drip is causing my cough (“Flonase,” by the way, has got to be one of the most disgusting brand names ever! Every time I hear that word, all I can think of is mayonnaise made of snot).

I got home from the doc in the afternoon, still feeling shitty, but glad that I’d taken care of stuff. I watched The Big Lebowski, a movie I have always enjoyed, but had a hard time making sense of, and as it’s a movie that Astrid and DJ often refer to, I charged myself with becoming fluent. I can now say that I finally get how clever and funny it is, and how every seemingly random and unprovoked action leads to a necessary turn in the plot. I think I'll watch it many more times, actually. Unfortunately, throughout the day, another very annoying symptom was manifesting: I had managed to contract an eye infection. It couldn’t have showed itself when I had audience with the doctor, right? So, on top of the sore throat, ear infection and the lesser symptoms of coughing, snotty nose, etc., I also have to deal with a gunky, disgusting eye. Fun weekend.

DJ and I were supposed to see Ted Leo tonight, and I’m really bummed to be missing it. Loud rock show + ear infection = not so nice. DJ made the very tongue-in-cheek remark that the reverb effect in my head from the infection might make the show “trippier” – which we both agreed might have been compelling at Laser Floyd, but probably not an indie-politico-punk show. I probably also have to miss my dear friend Magna’s party tomorrow night in celebration of her white coat ceremony. She’s a D.O. student entering into her clinical training, and she and the gf, Dori, are having a wine party to encourage early staining of the white coat. I can’t believe I have to miss it. I may feel a bit better tomorrow, but I can’t quite picture myself socializing successfully with a pounding ear and a squinty, dripping eye. Great company I’ll make, no doubt.

Instead, extra Buffy episodes and finally writing a blog entry – woot!

xo - Bree