Chronic Fevers
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It has been nearly impossible, as of a few years ago, to buy pants. Thrift stores, Ross, Wal-Mart or Old Navy? You must be kidding. Even their men's jeans come about 3 inches above the ankle.
There was a time that Express sold long pants that were actually long, but those days are gone now. Even when they did sell them, they were of a nature that they called "very very low rise", and I called, "why do you need to wax your bikini area to put on your jeans?"
And the Gap, which sold me the best pair of jeans I've ever owned (36" long, medium rise, stretch), no longer sells their flare stretch. Instead, they sell the gap "curvy" jeans.
Here's the problem. I'm not curvy. Well, let me rephrase that. I have several curves on my body. The chest curve, the calves curve, the belly fat curve. I just don't have the hips/butt curve. Which, incidentally, is precisely the kind of curve for which these Gap jeans are built. I liked the stretch not for my curves, but for ease of movement in the saddle and in everyday life.
So ever since my Most Beloved Gap Jeans bit the dust (read: 10" holes on the inside of each thigh, due no doubt to too many hours in the saddle), I have been fruitlessly searching for a pair of jeans.
Now, about 4 months ago, a very tall friend of mine (she's 2" taller than me) told me about a mythical, fantastical store called Buckle. She has bought a few pairs of jeans there, and made the outrageous claim that Their Tall Jeans Are Actually For Tall People.
Now, I have heard this claim before. "Look, these are tall length! That's at least a 32" inseam!" Ok, those come about mid-calf to me. It's not going to happen, people. But I had a hunch with Taller Friend. Her pants did, indeed, seem Long to me. So I went online.
I did indeed find long pants at Buckle. VERY long pants. 35", 36", 37" inseams. It was like the long jeans candy store. Except for one small issue. The price!
Now, I am firmly in the camp that jeans shouldn't cost more than about 25-30 bucks. It has been about 10 years since a pair of jeans fell into my lap at that price, but I just figured I had to put out to get pants due to my freakishly long legs. But 100 dollars? gasp. I just... can't...
So today, I sucked up all my courage (and much of Jasmine's) at went into our mall's Buckle. The nice, hipster young man eyed me suspiciously as I followed my frizzy pouf of hair into the store.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" Ouch. Just 'cause I'm 3 years older than you, do I really need to get called ma'am?
"Well, I've heard a rumor that people can come in here and get pants. Looong pants." I felt like some sort of underhanded deal was about to take place. They can't just sell these things on the open market, you know?
Much to my surprise, he promptly turned around and started pulling jeans off the rack. Many pairs. About 20 pairs, actually. I started feeling dizzy at the sight of so much artfully destroyed denim, but he saw my pallor and ushered me into a changing room.
Wow. These jeans are LONG. I mean, they touch the Ground. Real ground! I made a small yet victorious sound and looked up at the mirror. My heart sank.
I think they got all that extra material for the bottom of the pants from the top of them. Actually, those were Matt's words, but they described the situation perfectly. I had at least 5.5 inches from my belly button to the waistband. At least.
"Uh, sir? Do you have something with, like, a higher rise?" I asked casually, while pulling on these jeans like a toddler with training pants.
"Well, all of our jeans are lower rises, but try these: they're a little less so."
I tried them. I liked them. Sure, the fronts are full of small holes and the back pockets are ripped off, but they didn't show anything too inappropriate.
Cost? $68.
I have yet to but them, but the temptation is growing in my mind.
Fact 9: Matt and I bought our one-way tickets to Edinburgh today! We're going to Scotland! WAHOO!!!
When I was a little kid, I was a pleasing (I think) mix of girlishness and boyishness. I wore dresses, especially the red and white polka dotted one. I dug up worms and made milk carton homes for them. I acted in commercials and had head shots taken, and I would happily hang out with any gender of kid, as long as they liked the monkey bars and eating honeysuckle. I also raced bikes with my friends and pretended that mine was Silver and that I was the Lone Ranger.
From about 4th grade to about 9th, I became very gender-neutral, in part because weight gain and school bullies made me want to avoid attention. I cut my hair short and wore size 3XL shirts. I did have one shirt that was a size medium (from The Pantry, for those in the know), but I almost never wore it because I loathed the attention it brought. I got my period early (5th grade) and I hated the fact that I now stood out from the others because of it. In my mind, I associated "femininity" with unwanted interest.
In high school, as I gained more confidence, I began to become more girlish. Not with makeup; I didn't even know how to apply mascara until college. But my school uniform was a skirt and polo, and at the barn I wore breeches. I realized that I liked my legs, my nose, and sometimes even my hair. And that, my friends, is where it all went downhill.
I wore my shirts a size tighter. Then, a size tighter. My tank tops became lower, and my bras became more illuminating. My jeans, too, became lower (but I partly blame the fact that there are few choices when you need a 37" inseam). By my freshman year of college, I was a full-blown hootchie. I also learned to apply mascara, and tame my hair a little. I was set to allure men, or at least their nether regions.
Eventually, and with a little help from my friends, I tamed myself. Now I own (mostly) acceptable and modest clothing, though I do still wear makeup about once a week. But it is hard for me to look past what society says I need to look like. When I think about moving to Scotland, I worry about how others will look at my wardrobe. I get down on myself about my weight, not only because of my health but because I feel self-conscious when my fat sticks over the edge of my pants.
Though I fight it, society has done its job with me. I now spend a part of each week (if not each day) thinking about clothes or hair or looks. I check out what other people are wearing, and sometimes judge them. It's sick, but true. And the worst part is that I KNOW it's wrong and I still do it.
Funny how I don't think about my love of cooking as a gender-influenced hobby. Probably because my mom didn't cook for us, but she did portray herself as a sex object to every man she dated and many she didn't. She, in fact, actually expressed surprise when I told her Matt and I weren't having sex until we got married, and doubt as to whether he would want to stay with me that long without "getting any." But that, my friends, is a different facto for a different day.
Also, this is the second day in a row I've only eaten one meal. Wahhh.
In other news, someone gave me 4 dozen eggs from their farm today! Yippee!
Yes, that DOES give me 11 hours of sleep a night. Ah, if only life could be so good.
And it isn't married life that has made it so. I stayed up late in high school and freshman year of undergrad, but then I lost it sophomore year.
Oh, well.
What makes this firm? I emailed the other school and declined their offer. Yipes!
Even if I am talking to someone who I dearly love and haven't seen in awhile, as soon as I am on the phone with them I can't wait to get off of it. When I am talking on the phone, I feel anxious and awkward. I get all clammy, and my voice goes up in pitch. Soon, I start thinking up a reason to get off the phone.
I use dumb phrases and inflections, saying "ANNNYway" in a very Seinfeldian sense, and ending every sentence with "...I don't know. I don't know." Come to think of it, I repeat myself in general. "Yeah, yeah, yeah" or "right, right, totally" or any other inane and ridiculous thing.
In person, I love talking. Conversations energize me, whether they be silly or serious or both. But I have this fixation about phones.
I couldn't tell a good recipe from a bad, I couldn't "eyeball" amounts and temperatures and seasonings. If things went wrong, I didn't know what I should do differently. I couldn't even make a quesadilla. Literally. But then, a strange and wonderful thing happened.
I got married.
No, I didn't suddenly turn into Susie Homemaker (or Becky Homecky :)). You can tell that from the state of our home! It's just that Matt and I carried on the tradition of Family Dinner Night, and I began cooking more so we could have more than just Kraft Mac every Sunday. And then I began cooking more during the week. And then I began reading cookbooks for fun, and trading recipes with
I discovered two things about cooking:
1. I really like it. From the science/chemistry aspect to experimenting with flavors, I just find the whole of the experience soothing. Unless I screw up, in which case I throw hot pans at the wall while cursing.
2. It isn't that hard. Today I tried making bread for the first time. Was it perfect? No. Was it a good start? Yes! If you follow recipes faithfully until you "get" the technique, it isn't that hard to then experiment and play around with what you'd like to try.
Anyway, I think I'll go eat a slice of warm, freshly baked bread. Mmmmm.
So instead, I will do one of those "100 Things in 100 Days" things. Except, I don't know if I'll get to 100. And I don't know if it will take me 100 days.
Here goes:
Fact # 1: My birth was the result of a magical premonition.
When mom was a few weeks pregnant, dad took her to Las Vegas. While they were there, they went to see a show by Siegfried and Roy. Dad was apparently buddybuddy with them (he did, after all, work as a limo driver), so he took mom up to meet them after the show.
As Siegfried was hugging mom, she mentioned she was pregnant, and Siegfried said, "Wow! Twins are going to change your life!"
She laughed and said she was just having one, but he shook his head and said, "Well, I would tell the doctors to look more carefully."
At the next ultrasound, the doctors exclaimed with surprise when they found another heartbeat. Since I was the 2nd one out of the womb, we've always said that I was the one Siegfried was talking about.
Fact number 2: I was born in three hospitals, as the story goes.
My mom went into labor with us twins about 7 weeks early. She went to the hospital (#1), where they told here that she needed an emergency C-section, since my brother's water had broken several hours hence and I was still chillin' comfortably in the sac.
Unfortunately, hospital 1 did not have the resources for a high risk preemie twins C-section. They transported mom to hospital #2, where they performed the C-section and removed us little buggers. However, hospital #2 did not have the high-tech neonatal ICU that my poor shriveled brother required (I was small, but healthy enough for a regular incubator).
So, hospital #2 transported mom and us twins to hospital #3, where remained until we could go home.
To this day, my brother insists I was healthier in the womb because I "stole all the apple juice" mom was drinking.
As I was walking out of our apartment to take out some of the (mountainous hordes of) trash, I felt a little sting on the back of my neck.
"Ouch! What the crap insect is out biting at this time of year?" I said aloud. Yes, I do speak to myself in poorly constructed sentences. But before this sentence had even fully exited my mouth, I knew the answer.
Hail started plummeting toward the earth, first in new-pea-sized stingers (what bit me). As I ran back toward the house (garbage still in hand), the hailstones grew larger and more painful. The last one that landed on my head (and got stuck in my hair) was about the size of a large kidney bean, or a marble.
Whoa, wasn't I just thinking about an hour ago about how warm and nice the weather was today? Now the sky is spitting gravel at me and thunder is rolling over the roof.
Forget the garbage. I'm making cocoa!
Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Either this, or an old truck which I can restore and into which put this. They'll cost about the same.
Oh! Maybe I have brucellosis! That causes undulant fever. Or maybe I have bird flu! That'd be tight. Or maybe, just maybe (probably), I have strep.
Good thing I'm on Jury duty this week.
Peaches and Cream Cake
1 29 oz. can peach halves (8 halves), packed in heavy syrup, drained with syrup reserved
1 package plain yellow cake mix (NOT with pudding)
1 stick butter, melted
4 large eggs
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
Sweetened Cream (recipe follows)
1. preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour 2 9-inch round cake pans and set aside.
2. place 8 of the peach halves in a food processer and blend until smooth (about 1.5 cups puree). Reserve the rest of the peaches (if any) and 1/2 cup of the syrup.
3. Place the cake mix, puree, melted butter, eggs, and vanilla in a large mixing bowl. Bleand with an electric mixer on low speed about 1 minute. Stop the mixer, scrape the sides, then beat ay medium speed 2-3 minutes more. The batter should look well blended. divide the batter between the two pans, smoothing with a rubber spatula. Place in the oven side by side.
4. Bake the cakes until they are golden brown and beginning to pull away from the sides of the pans, 28-32 minutes. Remove the cakes from the oven and place them on wire racks to cool for ten minues. Run a dinner knife around the edge of each layer, then remove the cakes from the pans and place them right side up on wire racks.
5. At this point, make sure your cake pans are on counters you can easily clean. While the layers are still warm, poke holes into the tops of the cakes with a toothpick. Carefully pour the peach syrup over the layers (1/4 cup for each layer). Let the layers cool completely.
6. Prepare the Sweetened Cream. After the cakes are cool, place one layer right-side-up on a serving platter. Put about 1/2 of the cream on top of the first layer. Carefully place the second layer right-side-up on the first layer, then smooth the remaining cream on top ofthat layer. As you may notice, there is no cream on the sides of the cake. This is as it ought to be.
7. Prepare to wow all your friends with your fancy, tasty cake!
Sweetened Cream
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1/4 cup confectioner's sugar
Place a clean, large mixing bowl and electric mixer beaters in the freezer for a few minutes. Pour the whipping cream into the chilled bowl and beat on high speed until cream has thickened, about 1.5 minutes. Stop the machine and add the sugar. Beat on high speed 1 or 2 minutes more, until stiff peaks form. Resist the temptation to plant your face into the bowl, and instead use to frost or fill the cake of your choice (in this case, the aforementioned peachy wonder).