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A cozy place of my own in the buzzing town of Blogville, the city that truly never sleeps. |
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A little blog for the occasional update. "I have come to the conclusion that we must not expect too much from life. We must give to life at least as much as we receive from it. Every moment one lives is different from the next. The good, the bad, the hardship, the joy, the tragedy, love and happiness are all interwoven into one single indescribable whole that is called LIFE. You cannot separate the good from the bad. And, perhaps there is no need to do so either." --Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis |
If everyone cared and nobody cried If everyone loved and nobody lied If everyone shared and swallowed their pride Then we'd see the day when nobody died --If Everyone Cared, Nickelback Again, sorry for such neglect. The exhaustion has set in more than ever, although the pint of blood I have lost the past week has probably contributed to that. We received the good news - or perhaps bad news - that everything is completely normal. I still have the results of my Lamictal levels and my halter test tomorrow left. The two-hour glucose results came in today as perfectly normal. Yesterday was a rough day. Sunday mornings are our busiest time. Everyone lets out of church and comes to our restaurant for our famous breakfast. Luckily my favorite manager (MFM) and second-favorite manager worked, because it is stressful enough without the manager I most dislike. While I was changing our sign that displays our features, MFM looked at me and said, "You're tired." It was said as a statement of fact, and I tried to grin at her and appear more awake, but she was unconvinced. "What makes you say that?" I asked her. "Your eyes, the way you talk, your facial expressions. I dunno - maybe other people can't tell, but I know you and I can tell." I knew there was no point in contradicting. I can't lie to her - not only am I a poor liar, and not only is she a read-in-five-seconds person, but she knows me better than almost any person in my daily life. I knew my words were slurring and my face in a permanently immobilized expression. I stumbled around the dining room and my hands trembled as I took money, fingers fumbling and dropping change everywhere. As the morning went on, I began to have moments of dizziness and fatigue, and returned to the kitchen to rehydrate or sit in the break room for a bit. After a while I finally said to my hostess friend (the one who stood up for me yesterday), "I don't feel well. I'm going to sit in the break room for a bit." And then requested she not tell MFM. "I don't want her to worry." Not to mention she was too busy to need any distractions. MFM spotted me in the break room and popped her head in and asked if I was OK. I said yes and she immediately left with an angry look on her face. Figuring she was irritated that I'd abandoned the floor, I picked myself up and returned. I found her near the registers and said, "I just needed to sit down for a bit and get a drink." She said nothing. Within a few moments, while standing at the podium, the world became distorted and rolled around, and I said to someone standing nearby - I have no idea who it was - "I don't feel well. I need to sit in the break room for a bit." I passed MFM at the registers again and, not even bothering to lie to her, said, "I don't feel well, I'm going to sit down for a bit." "OK," she said. Her one-word answers and cutting manner unsettled me. She is normally so kind and warm that I felt like I was going to cry. I swallowed and went to the break room. My friend popped in and asked how I was, and I told her exactly as I felt. "I feel like I'm going to cry." "Cry if you need to, man," she said bluntly. I later learned that she told MFM that I felt sick, and that she could let me go home as soon as we slowed down. A waitress showed up and asked how I was, and I told her. Soon the daughter of the general manager - also a waitress - joined us in the closet-sized break room with wide eyes and an expression of worry. She has had me sit and sip orange juice before, but somehow there was more real concern on her face. "I don't know what's wrong with me, I just don't know. Something's wrong and I don't know what it is." Even as I type this I feel so selfish for drawing so much attention to myself. It's so embarrassing and frustrating, but I have to write about it. MFM came by again, said, "OK, group, we switched the chart, check your sections." Looking at me dead in the eye, she said, "You are white. Go home." Trembling and choking down my tears, I grabbed my water bottle, stood and straightened myself, exiting the break room. She remained there and said, "Hey!" I turned to her and saw her arms held out for her customary hug. Taken aback, I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her more tightly than ever as my face scrunched and I broke down. I think she felt my silent crying, because her embrace became more comforting, and the two waitresses rubbed my back gently. After a moment we broke apart and returned to the break room by ourselves. We sat down face to face, and she locked eye contact. In spite of all the madness around us, which she was in charge of, she wanted to listen and take a moment just with me. The sapphire orbs of vision - beyond the external - were focused solely on me, and my own blue eyes. I apologized for breaking down. "It's OK, you're allowed," she said. I poured out all of my worries, frustrations, and questions. Absolutely everything. In those five minutes away from the rest of the world, somehow a weight was lifted, and a wound healed. The way I can describe the experience is visual - in the sixth Harry Potter film, Draco Malfoy is sliced open down the front, collapses on the bathroom floor, and his blood pours out mixing with the water spilled by shattered pipes; Snape appears and begins reciting an incantation, and Draco's blood begins withdrawing from the flooded bathroom floor and his midsection slowly comes back together, healing. She offerred her opinions and questions, and the simple act of sitting down and caring made all the difference in the world. To be honest, I think if someone had shown this much genuine care and concern earlier, I would be healed so much faster. At least, it would be more bearable and I would be stronger for it. It isn't that other people haven't checked on me every day, offerred help, and worried, reminding me "take care of yourself," but there was a way that she took me so seriously in the midst of all the madness and accepted everything without a trace of judgement, that I felt safe and as if nothing in the world could harm me - like when an adult shows up after a nightmare when you're a little kid. It reminded me the way I feel in the Confessional when the Priest says the words "I absolve you of your sins" after the end of a gut-spilling Confession. Grave peril isn't an object. Evil can't penetrate some invisible barrier. She spoke about me with the general manager's daughter a few moments before she appeared in the break room. "I'm worried about her. She's stumbling on words and slurring her speech. She's a very articulate girl and she just can't find words, and it scares the hell out of me." "How did you know? I was so careful not to let them slur in front of you." Although, I realized, I couldn't really hide it. "I don't know where you get these ears!" "I notice everything, dear." She thought of things no one else has, and held her gaze steady even when I looked away. In the end she said to me, "Go home, and get some rest tonight. Take care of yourself." We hugged one last time before she darted to give some servers print-offs and take charge of the world. She walked me to the micros machine to clock me out and I drove home. Still dazed, still dizzy, still exhausted. Yet somehow I felt healthier. Some life returned to my body, and the sun seemed more brilliant. Part of me wonders how much of this illness could be cured if loneliness was gone. And if someone would have held me in their arms and let me come undone - so safely - so much earlier. I didn't realize how lonely and isolated I've been. Some of my favorite song lyrics of all time are "In the end, only kindness matters," sung in 'Hands' by Jewel. Actually, the song 'If Everyone Cared' by Nickelback sums up how I felt. I am playing it as I write this. Again, people around me care, but there was some kind of magical touch involved yesterday. Some kind of healing took place - perhaps not physically, but certainly emotionally, which is half the battle. |
| Much to my relief, I found out that the nasty text messages from the hostess were taken from a small comment given by my friend and blown out of proportion. My friend had mentioned to her that I like to go to church Sunday mornings, and might be willing to switch her. I know that my friend was not lying about this - lies are obvious to the intuitive, and when she has a problem with someone she tells them upfront. I know this because I have been on the receiving end before. Although I did not plan to bring it up, I couldn't help myself - the words and fears had cut so deeply, and I was so afraid I'd lost her friendship, that I felt I had nothing to lose. Actually, I first brought it up with someone I knew I could trust - the waiter who also happens to be engaged to my manager. His first response: "She's not a nice girl. I don't know... she's young..." He waved his cigarette in the air, exhaled a drag, and said, "That's fucked up." I requested he not tell his fiancée. However, shortly after I went inside, he mentioned the texts to her. He did not disclose the contents of them, but felt it was necessary that she know. Come to think of it, he was right. She was furious - her eyes snapped and her jaw set. But it was good she knew - she complains enough about the general manger who also runs the scheduling. He is the biggest teddy bear and one of the kindest men I've ever met. My favorite manager is certainly the most affectionate, selfless, and genuine person I've ever met. If there is a problem with this girl with the two managers, there is something seriously unpleasant about her - which of course I found out in a real hurry Friday. Somehow after all that dissipated a great sense of relief was lifted from my shoulders. I am more content than I've been for a while. Their friendship has meant a lot to me. Actually, the hostess I'd suspected earlier had a few choice words with the less-than-pleasant girl. She made it clear that she'd better be nice to her, and that her texts were uncalled for. Just thought I'd share that update. |
| This morning my two-hour glucose test was scheduled. I began fasting last night and was up early for my eight o'clock appointment. We went to the hospital, they drew my blood from my left arm, one tube for my medication levels and the other for sugar, and we waited forty-five minutes to see if I was able to drink the revolting glucose syrup allegedly flavored like fruit punch. Finally I choked it down and waited another hour for a second blood test. The phlebotomist was a woman who was slick - slick enough to find a vein in my left arm and successfully drew blood from it, a near impossible feat for previous phlebotomists. We discussed the world's Royal Families, especially Princess Diana and the British monarchy. She, too, is a Diana fan, and we got on the subject because I would not let go of my book - Ever After, Diana and the Life She Led. I don't know about you, but it's hard for me to like someone who is jabbing me with needles every hour and sucking out my blood, yet I was impressed with this lady. She didn't hurt nearly as much as the others, would not touch my right arm (officially blue, purple and a sick shade of green), and I did like her. That is impressive. Even more impressive is that I was extremely hungry, extremely exhausted after a thirteen-hour trip to my college campus yesterday, and received a serious of some of the nastiest texts I've ever had, all from a fellow hostess. At first I wasn't bothered by them, because she tends to "hate" people quite frequently due to the fact that something's "not fair" and somehow she's the victim. But as the texts continued, I realized that other people were talking behind my back and fueling this spite. She accused me of "making a big deal about going to church," that I "made a big deal about rather going to church than working," and receiving "special treatment." I can't remember the last time I've been at the end of such spite, jealousy, and flat-out meanness. I didn't realize that I was the epicenter of so much drama and jealousy. To be honest, the fact that I have a shrewd idea of who was behind some of this is what hurts me most of all. If I didn't have my regular friends, especially my BFF who just returned last week from a month-long vacation, I would be pitched in the middle of loneliness. It really, really stung, more than the unsuccessful needles. My mother and I talked and I will be handing in my "goodbye till Christmas break" note to the general manager tomorrow morning. Hopefully I will be done at the end of the month. I'm putting in my two weeks. Maybe things will be better then; right now, I have so much shopping and packing and visiting with friends and family before leaving... I just need all the days off I can get. I start school early - much earlier than my friends, except for one who is attending American in DC. Finally I got home around eleven-thirty. I ate a chicken sandwich and stole a few hours to sleep and napped until three-ish. Hopefully I can sleep better tonight. Another busy weekend ahead. |
| No, I have not been grossly neglecting Blogville, although I have not blogged in several days, nor made any trips to any other blogs. Somehow in the past few days I have pulled off not getting anything in my inbox, which probably directly correlates to the fact that I have been an inactive member on WDC. As a matter of fact, I have very good reasons for not stopping by: not only have some major changes occurred with my friends and family, but I collapsed at work yet a second time Sunday evening. My less-than-favorite manager, who had me in tears at the beginning of my shift anyway, called my mother as I slumped in the break room, and finally my mother said, "I'm taking you to the ER." Well, I'd been hoping to get off early, and my wish was granted. The phlebotomist was - hooray! - a student, and not only drew four tubes of blood from a vein too small to hold the IV, but poked a hole through one side of the vein and out the other, leaving a fabulous pair of bruises about an inch on either side of the poking site. Nevertheless, four tubes of blood were collected and tested for everything - electrolytes, sugar, pregnancy, thyroid... everything. And everything was normal. However, I had just eaten my break food before the bloodwork, and in my appointment with my family doctor tomorrow afternoon I will mention one of those lovely two-hour sugar tests, which was recommended to me by another professional. Also, I'm wondering how my medication levels are. I do think I'm overmedicated, and said professional felt I was on a lot for an eighteen-year-old. I have been so tired, dizzy, and out of sorts, ears ringing and mood swings, that I actually had a friend pick up my long work shift tomorrow morning to rest some more. Tonight I worked a brief - only three and a half hours - shift with one of my favorite managers (I genuinely like three of the four), during which I did not feel particularly well and downed a whole Powerade to keep myself steady. Naturally everyone knows about my 'condition' now, which no longer bothers me. It is what it is. I don't feel well, and I don't plan to hide it any more. But don't worry about me - I am in professionals' hands and trust them. For something of a lighter note, I enjoyed a girls' lunch with some friends at a local Italian restaurant. We laughed and caught up with each other after over a month apart. Also, yesterday one of my best friends - a guy I've known at least a hundred years - convinced me to paint my unbitten nails bright red. His favorite color has been red for as long as I've known him, plus we were discussing the possibility of painting my nails Gryffindor colors, which was nullified as I have no gold paint. Later he called me a 'real femme fatale', which I truly felt. I told him I felt like I could take on the world, and make it up to a CEO's office without getting in bed - literally - with any of the guys on the way up. He laughed. Honestly, they say a woman can't feel fat in a pair of hot shoes, but I think a set of hot nails can do a girl's self-image some fun as well.  |
| Apologies for neglecting not only my blog but yours... I will try to get to them soon, but I am consumed with work and preparations for college at the moment. As I type, my phone is buzzing with my future roommate's text. We are organizing the fridge-microwave situation, because we agreed that we definitely want them in our room. I am sipping my Sleepy Time tea to relax after a day at work and feeling rather unwell - dizzy and the strange fading feeling I had a few weeks ago. Luckily I got off work early and was able to make it to the track behind the high school for my very first run. The relief was fabulous. My best friend is back home from her cross country trip. How much I've missed her it's difficult to express. But I suppose I ought to get used to it - sooner than I think I'll be packing every thing in boxes, filling up our Jeep, and traveling to the big city for a new life. Also, I wrote in my private journal (the old fashioned thing called paper in a book) to relieve some stress. Still, I did not sleep until late in the wee hours of the morning. Some of my best friends came over to welcome home our friend who spent a year in Thailand, watch Finding Nemo, and fix some things on my lappy. All in all I think we had a great time, and it was good to relax and enjoy some time with them. Off to wind down for bed.  Night. |
| A busy afternoon and evening lie ahead and I don't think I will have time to blog until late tonight, at which point I may be very tired. Writing is taking a back seat today. This morning I woke before my alarm clock, but snoozed when it did go off. I up and ate breakfast, showered, finished my 'Cotton Dress' lotion, and did a session of yoga to a Firm video. Yoga used to be easy with my muscle developed from daily weight lifting, but now my whole body feels entirely different from how I remember it. My balance is off, my tummy is larger and uncomfortable to bend, I'm not nearly as flexible as I used to be, and my arms get so tired so fast... It's really embarrassing and awful, and I plan to take yoga or fitness courses at college. I found the email address of the assistant director of wellness and fitness at my college and sent her a message asking if any dance, yoga, weight training/conditioning courses would be available. I enjoyed similar courses in high school and plan to continue them in college. My desk and half my room is a mess right now and I need to tidy it. I'll get around to dusting and vacuuming another day... There is too much to be done today and tidying is where it will have to stop. To be honest I'm not really sure how it got so cluttered and dusty so quickly after I role played homemaker so recently. But I do have some confidence in feng shui and believe that a cluttered room is unhealthy and unproductive - my allergies are telling me so with my struggle to find my college info, banking info, notes and other paraphernalia to vouch also. This is not to say that I have special furniture and pictures and candles, etc., but messes and dust are just plain distracting. I am loading pictures on my computer to add to my MP3 player. I love being able to carry pictures that mean something special to me - my family pilgrimmage to the UK in 2008, favorite pictures of family and friends, and some other photos that I am searching for. Hopefully I can figure out how to put videos on it, too, although that isn't necessary. Putting so much music on my MP3 player without having a message pop up saying no more data can fit actually makes me nervous. But I am enjoying my new gadget though it isn't touch screen or high tech in any particular way. My parents are conservative in their belongings and expenditures and I have grown up believing that things don't have to be flashy to be quality. Here's hoping you have relaxing, productive days and I'm off to do my work. I'll be around to comment later. |
| What I will miss beyond anything else about home is the tranquility of the countryside for walks. Today I rose with the sun and worked until three-thirty. I got off, filled my tank with the regular 87 gas, treated myself to a Frappé Mocha and stopped at my grandma's. I was totally parched and relieved by the Frappé. Grams is stuck on the couch with her leg in a brace before surgery on four things she tore... poor Grams. She's an extremely active woman and less than thrilled about her disabled state. I chatted online with some friends, including my newly found roommate. Yesterday our housing assignments arrived in our emails, and my roommate seems, so far, very nice. Since my birthday is nine days before move-in, she said she is bringing decorations and we will party -- "an AMAZING way to start college" in her words. And no, folks, that does not entail drugs and alcohol. A total no-no. After some other chats, I felt myself grow tense and decided to take a sunset walk over the hill to my elementary school. There is a creek that trickles by and formed the playground boundary -- in my day anyway -- where I used to walk and toss flowers into the middle with my then best friend. I was unathletic and invariably the last kid picked for kickball and humiliated myself in almost every game, so more often than not I would resort to daydreaming away from everyone else. I packed my new MP3 player, phone with ICE contacts and information lest anything should overcome me again, a notebook and pen. As I grew closer to the school, I turned off my music and meandered along the creek. As in the days of old, I picked a patch of grass dried after being mown, rested a forget-me-not on top as a damsel in distress in need of a boat to sail her down the creek through an obstacle course of sorts - currents, algae, rocks, etc. I followed it till it dropped into a stationary pool. Downstream there is a bridge that replaced old rickety wooden planks boarded over two parallel logs. I sat and began to write, watching people on the playground and people walking dogs, absorbing the pink light from the sinking sun, and listening to the little tinkling of the water bounding over rocks. I pulled out my notebook and began to write free verse poetry to be stashed away for later formatting. Soon it would be dark, so I up and left for home. The tension was relieved and I feel more relaxed and at peace than I have for a while. Sure, I was wiping my face of sweat and disgusted by the intense humidity mating with heat, but I felt like I had direction in my life. Writing takes me places and gives me a sense of security in so many ways. I feel connected to my future, to hope, to safety. It kept me alive when those around me were hopeless. It was my lifevest in an ocean of despair. I feel rested and ready for bed. Good night. |
Ok, ok. I've been teased about donning a red purse carrying a stash of CDs and a Walkman that one person actually wouldn't touch because they were afraid it was something to do with aliens.  I mean, did these people seriously not live through the '90s? We're young, but we're not THAT young. The most unfortunate part about living in such a small town is that I actually received a text from a friend apparently out of the blue informing me that MP3 players are more portable and hold more songs; when I asked him why he said this, he said, "I saw you walking in the park."  Normally when people tell me I "need an MP3 player" I tell them that they are free to purchase one and I will be more than happy to use it.Today my parents and I drove out of town to do some pre-college shopping for my dorm room. We stopped at Best Buy where they purchased a webcam with a built-in microphone so we can use Skype, and picked up a few other things. I found a new flashdrive I'll need, and headed over to the iPod and MP3 player table to price the available MP3 players. There was a reasonably priced Sony that met all the things I'd like in an MP3 player, and I've never had trouble with a Sony in my life. I have a Sony camera, Sony Walkman, Sony CD player in my room, and pretty well any electronic I have is of that brand. The employee I approached said no one had ever returned one or complained, and I decided to show it to my parents. They agreed I could reimburse them with birthday money and it is now lying, fully charged, on my desk, awaiting to be filled with songs I am transferring from my beloved CDs to my library. So, Jackie is plunging headfirst into a new decade and a new phase of her life. The MP3 player I previously used was a gadget everyone brought back from Christmas break 2004, and held about thirty-five (short) songs. It only works part of the time, so I usually resort to lugging my red bag. I'll fill it up a bit, eat dinner, and head to the park to warm up for my last evening of tennis practice. I'll update you later on its performance.  |
| Woops! Sorry I didn't update -- I forgot to with all of the 4th of July celebrations and work and blah blah blah blah blah going on. I wound up getting my hair chopped shorter than I'd intended till August, but I am pleased and it is easier to work with at its length just above my shoulders. (This, of course, excludes updos.) After I had my hair trimmed my mother suggested we go out to eat at my workplace where my favorite manager was working Thursday evening. After we were seated I told the hostess to let Miss Manager (as I fondly call her) know I was there with my mom. She said she would, and after I had just one bite of my sandwich Miss Manager appeared, her lips pressed thin, eyebrows raised, blue eyes sharp, and wearing a half-relieved, half-reproving grin. I lowered my head with a coy smile in reply as if to beg a quiet pardon. She shook her head as she reached our booth. Before she had a moment to say anything I immediately jumped into an obscure conversation, but she was not fooled. Realizing it was a lost cause I said, "I'm eating today." "You scared me," she said, looking from me to my mom and back. "The color just went from her face. Thank God I grabbed her wrist -- she turned into dead weight and Mary grabbed her head. If she didn't her head would have split open." We got into the discussion and relived the scenario over again, then thankfully switched the topic to her wedding plans. Before she left she did say, "Take care of yourself. I'll be texting you every day saying 'Did you eat?' That's what you'll be hearing most, besides 'I love you!'" She gave me a big hug after we paid and headed out the door. Urgh - I should have been prepared for today. This morning I clocked in at eight and was scheduled until two-thirty. The owner and his wife come to work at different times, and this morning he appeared in the kitchen as I was passing through. I was feeling particularly cheery and had even written on the seating chart the Spanish verb "sonreír," which is "to smile," and the noun "sonrisa," which means "smile." Every time he sees one of us he pauses us from whatever we're doing, takes time to look into our eyes and asks us each about our days and our lives, truly taking care of all of his employees. He knows each of us by name, and remembers what we've told him. He is an inspiration for leadership, and if I am ever the owner or boss of anything, I shall always remember his example and strive to live by it. This, of course, meant when I beamed at him and said, "Good morning! How are you?" He paused and said, "No, the question is, how are you?" I told him I felt wonderful and was having a great morning, and he looked me dead in the eye and said, "We didn't have an upset earlier this week did we?"  I sighed and said, "Oh, she told you." "Yeah it's kind of a big deal," he said sternly. "What happened?" I explained that we were sure I was dehydrated and that I'd gone through two Powerades, plenty of water and watermelon and was feeling in top shape. "Take care of yourself," he said, "that's the most important thing. Take care of yourself."A recurring mantra in my life. Don't I? I thought I did. But I was raised in a household where I was told never to complain if I didn't feel well. My mother warned me against causing them any worry today, and I vowed I wouldn't, and truly did feel well. That is, until a few hours into my shift, when things grew dimmer again, and I felt shaky and out of it. Instead of going in the bathroom for privacy, I decided less drama would ensue if I sat in the breakroom and sipped my water for a few minutes. A waitress -- who I just found out tonight is the general manager's daughter -- gave me some orange juice, and when I asked if it was good for this, she said, "Absolutely!" She told me she was used to people passing out -- "I'm a professional body piercer." Learned two new things about her today. She is a real ray of sunshine, too. This eventually attracted the General Manager's attention, who grinned at me with the same expression Miss Manager had worn Thursday evening, and said I could have a few moments. I assured him I was fine and that I'd be out in two minutes. True to my word, I was on the floor. When Miss Manager clocked in around eleven, I noticed she'd been avoiding me until she had the chance to say, "I heard what happened." My expression must've betrayed my confusion. "I - uh - heard you got a little dizzy this morning." I've just been a little weary. "I'm fine now," I told her, explaining that I'd had orange juice and was completely restored to health. "If I don't feel well, I'll tell you." With a whip of her sleek blond pony tail she warned, "You'd better."How long must this go on? I've been avoiding the sun, overexertion, I've been drinking plenty of fluids and eating, yet I still have those shaky moments. How long is dehydration supposed to last? Google, here I come. Shortly after I was released from work I went upstairs and penned a thank you note to Miss Manager, stamped it with a Harry Potter sticker on the back and a note above reading "With love from Mrs" and Dan's picture. I went to Confession, drove to the mall to pick up some cute stationary on sale (after all, I'd promised many people I'd be in touch!), and returned home before heading to church. Mom and I came home, ate my dad's homemade pizza, and relaxed. Miss Manager and I texted for a bit and we talked on the phone for about twenty-five minutes about books and what she and her fiancé were like as children. Hilarious, hilarious stories. We hung up and here I am, relaxing as the sun is setting, making viewing my laptop progressively easier, books laid aside for a while. My feet, knees and hips are sore from bustling around a restaurant all day and I'm ready to cash in. Maybe it's just from being tired, but I am an emotional mess right now. Not that I've cried or anything, but I just feel on the verge of tears and frustration. My head is spinning and I'm very nauseous, and I feel abnormally vulnerable. What's gotten into me these days? Alas, it has darkened and the fireflies are knocking into my screen, signaling bedtime. I'll be rising before the sun tomorrow for another day at work. May God bless it and keep me safe and healthy -- and out of my managers' hair. |
| Despite the fact that I am still pale today, I feel much better and have continued drinking fluids and eating. This afternoon I have a hair cut scheduled, and I'm debating how I want to have it cut... Hmm... I'd like it shorter, but I need to be able to have it up for work. Plus I enjoy styling it over the summer, the only time I have time to spare for fashion. I'm having a litle spa day -- I showered and lathered with one of my favorite lotions; it's from Bath & Body Works and it's from a line last year called "Naked" and emits a light summery scent called "Cotton Dress" as a light shea butter. Also, now that I have stopped biting my nails, a chronic anxiety habit I dropped almost immediately after leaving high school, my mother decided to invest in Nail Tek for me. Nail Tek is a polish that is sold at Merle Norman (and probably other places) and comes in all varieties to strengthen nails of any kind. Mine is "Intensive Therapy for soft, peeling nails" and has been helping solidifying where my nails are flaking from chewing. They come in a series that changes after six months and helps create ideal nails. My mother swears by Nail Tek as she used to have problematic nails that are now long and beautiful. My grandmother, great-aunt and her partner also use them for the various flaws in their nails that have kicked in with age. My sister dropped off some of her clothes that she didn't want any more, including some she'd never even worn, and I have been mixing and matching to see what I like best. Some of them are flattering for my body type and are comfortable, so I am trying to figure out how I want to pair them with things from my own wardrobe. My sister worked at JC Penny's years ago and is an excellent shopper, so her clothes are not hand-me-downs that I'm embarrassed to wear. As for the hair, I would like a little hint of Jackie Kennedy style in it. I love her style and it's not too dated at this point in time. Some of her hairstyles are not too short, but a nice bob length. Hmmm... I'll give you an update later. Also, I am scraping through my money stashes to see if I can buy another copy of a Harry Potter book while I have a 33% off coupon for a bookstore where I hold a membership. One by one I am re-purchasing the series to have a set to take with me for my dorm room. Harry Potter has always held a great source of comfort for me, and it is something I turn to when I get bored of reading, a phase that hits every now and then. Last night I finished HBP before falling asleep. After gobbling over half of the Narnia books quickly, I grew sick of them and needed a break before returning to them. Today I'll probably read more of my book on First Ladies. Saving the best for last -- I will be around to read everyone's blogs later this evening, I hope, because I have been neglecting them with all of the surprises these past few days have held. Sorry everyone, but I am coming! |
| First things first: Today had to have been the worst day I've had in a long while. For the past few weeks, I've been battling GI problems, due to anxiety or a bug or something... it's unclear which, but I knew I'd be working first thing this morning, so I took a pill to stop the problems last night so I could sleep and function this morning. Shortly after I arrived at work, I went into the bathroom to tuck in my shirt and straighten my hair. What I saw in the mirror threw me aback -- I have not looked so -- what's the word? -- pale? plain? ill? -- since I was in the hospital years ago. I hadn't felt well at all when I'd first rolled out of bed, and swallowed a Pepto-Bismol after eating a few spoonfulls of cold bread and butter pudding. My eyes were bloodshot and I cringed at how ugly the face in the mirror appeared. (And, for the record, I am not the sort of girl who fusses in the mirror and calls herself "fat" or "ugly" unnecessarily.) Nevertheless, I straightened myself as best as I could, and returned to the dining room to work. The other hostess, who happens to be my cousins' neighbor and an RN, was ready to take her break as soon as I clocked in. My favorite manager was working this morning. I was beyond excited; I have never worked one-on-one with her on first shift -- my preference over second shift -- and looked forward to it very much. We are very close; she texted me over Christmas to wish me a happy time with my family, checked in when my aunt had her baby, and even attended my final dance recital with her fiancé, also a dear friend, a few weeks ago. I trust her with my secrets and feelings that I don't share with others, and she has informally "adopted" me as her own. Of course she is professional while managing, but I still love to work when she's in charge. I sat a few people and came back up to the front where there is a podium next to a stash of menus, silverware, etc. She was discussing with another waitress and me the debacle her fiancé is going through with an infected tooth, when everything grew dim and my ears began ringing. Nausea welled up and I barely choked out her name and "I don't feel well...", giving her enough time to grab my wrist to steer me back to the bathroom, before I clutched onto the podium fleetingly and sank to the ground in total blackness. How it happened, I don't know, because I have not passed out in years... since 2007, to be precise. Next thing I knew I heard my manager calling my name and, "Honey, honey...!" and I was struggling to open my eyes and saw her, the waitress, and another waitress hovering over me. I heard the general manager's wife, also a waitress, cry, "Oh my God, what happened?" and the other hostess rush from her breakfast -- it all happened so fast, I don't remember precisely what was said as I fell or what happened, but my head was supported, someone wanted to call an ambulance but instead I handed them my phone with ICE contacts and they called my mother... It was all so, so embarrassing. I knew I'd have to leave work, which upset me more than actually being sick. I hadn't even cleared twenty minutes on the clock and they were dragging me to a bench off to the side, wrapped in someone's coat. The other hostess was checking my pulse, felt my temperature and said, "She feels like ice." (Honestly, until this point, I never took the words "out cold" literally.) My manager commented that my pupils were dialated, and that I was the color she was, and she held out her ivory arm that betrays her English heritage. They asked all sorts of questions that were simple enough to answer, and I was completely lucid, could smile and laugh, trying to lessen everything so I could come back to work after coming round at home for a while... which I knew wouldn't happen. "Good thing I'd grabbed your wrist to take you to the bathroom," she said as I leaned my heavy head on her shoulder. "When you said you didn't feel well I thought you meant you were going to be sick." "I felt sick," I said. My co-hostess asked if I wanted something to eat or juice. I remember asking for apple juice, but I can't remember if I said "please" or "thank you" because things were dimming again and I was leaning on my manager. I hope I remembered my manners. Soon my mother bustled in from work, helped me home, and sent me to bed with a cup of ice and Powerade to restore my electrolytes, because we assumed they were probably down from all of my fluid loss. My dad, ever the health nut, said later that I was probably dehydrated and ate only the ultra-sugary bread and butter pudding, and when the sugar left I crashed. A reasonable hypothesis, and my doctor later said that the pill I took last night also has a dehydrating effect. I reminded my manager to clock me out, and she insisted that I give her updates all day through texts. I kept her updated, good and bad, including when my grandpa came over to stay with me as I re-read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, lying on the couch with my dog. Beyond the embarrassment and the medical fiasco of it all, the worst part was not being able to work this morning. I was so excited and looking forward to it so much... but these things happen, and everyone understood. I am currently sipping my second Powerade and have eaten watermelon, fruity snacks, and a chicken sandwich from Wendy's, so I have recovered considerably. On a more positive note, in case you were wondering about the food... I did indeed make the bread and butter pudding with great results. The Amaretto flavor was intense with all of the raisins on the bottom, absolutely delicious. Darren McGrady described it as a cross between a bread pudding and a crème brulée. (I even used my dad's brulée torch to heat the sugar top and form a crust... mmmm!) As the chef I have to admit that not one thing -- other than the alcohol-soaked raisins -- in that whole pudding is healthy. But it was a great hit with my parents, aunt, sister, and now I am awaiting my grandparents' opinion who received their share this evening. My mother wants me to bake it for Christmas morning, which I think would be delightful. However, as we are currently out of flour and eggs, and had to re-stock on our sugar supply (I had to stop at my grandma's for a cup of sugar and two eggs to complete my recipes), my mother has forbidden me from baking desserts until further notice, which is fine by me, because I still have ten pounds of fat to shed before September. So the Peach Princess is out for the time being, along with other creations I was hoping to make. On the plus side, I will start searching for dinners to make. Sorry to bombard you with such a negative story today, but that was my day. Not the greatest of my adventures, but at least I am just under twenty pages short of finishing HBP. |
| Wow, I actually received a blog reminder in my inbox. I came back feeling ready to crack my knuckles and blog, and didn't realize that I would have automated messages to remind me. Honestly, why can't I have more reminders in other areas in my life -- like, say, in the kitchen when I have to re-do an entire batch of pastry dough because I forgot the eggs? Yep, that was my flop of the day. However, I did remember it before I refrigerated it for an hour, and threw it out, starting fresh. The crust this time was for treacle tart. My dad had a jar of golden syrup stashed away for goodness knows what, so I used it and made an exceptionally citrus-ey treacle tart. Dad and I prefer English puddings chilled, so we'll see how it tastes tomorrow. Also, I made a second batch of iced coffee, and I am preparing to make "Bread and Butter Pudding" and "Peach Princess" within the next few days. Hopefully Dad and I will get to the grocery store and get the ingredients for "Cottage Pie" (aka what I grew up calling "Shephard's Pie") so I can make that for dinner in the near future. There is also a recipe for a vegetable mix that looked pretty good, too, which we'll also have to try. Today was an exceptionally productive day. I woke up after eight hours' sleep shortly before nine-thirty, thinking it was noon (my usual wake-up time). But I rolled out of bed with no desire to return, which is a first in years. -- I think the last time I experienced that was on a trip to the UK in summer of 2008. -- To be honest, I think it was because I had a mix-up with my meds yesterday. I accidentally took my night meds, which help with sleeping, in the morning, so I had trouble standing up while working. My mother flipped out, and I can't blame her, because I have always been very sensitive to my med changes. But I did manage to fall asleep with my morning meds -- much easier than I thought it would be -- and actually think I might be slightly over-medicated. My parents tell me off for oversleeping, which I can't help, and now I see why. Unfortunately my ninety-day supply of meds arrived in the mail yesterday or the day before, so if my doctor changes my meds Wednesday, my mother will hang me by the noose. Again, I can't blame her. As for my weekend, it had its ups and downs. I'm not going to publicly complain about my job; that's just reckless; but it's safe to say that it's upsides mostly outweight the downsides. My colleagues, whether out of good humor or mean humor, all find me hilarious for my little quirks. For instance, seeing guests fingerprint the glass on the doors is like having someone give me a papercut under my fingernails; I am instantly up at the door with Windex-and-towel at hand, wiping them down till they shine again. Also, I have a habit of using British slang that I heard either from my obsessive Harry Potter fascination or my dad's English-Canadian family, and blurt things out without realizing no one else is familiar with the words "poppycock" or "Bob's your uncle" until I get blank stares and the comment, "You make up the weirdest words."  One waitress said to me, "Every time I see you walk in that door I laugh because I know something weird is going to happen that night." From her, it's probably mean humor, because I'm not sure I've ever heard her say anything particularly pleasant.This weekend, however, a waitress and a manager, who happen to be sisters and two of my favorite colleagues, began a conversation about Daniel Radcliffe (*grabs desk to keep from fainting*) because I'd made a Facebook post about the Harry Potter theme park in Florida. It's embarrassing to admit, that although Dan and I do not see eye-to-eye on probably the most important things married couples should, I tend to flush and suffer hot flashes whenever I see him and hear his husky, London-accented voice (*sighs, wipes brow and recovers*). The pair of them found this highly amusing, and laugh and use "I-won't-say-his-name-because-you'll-get-all-flustered" when they now talk about Harry Potter. Maybe it's the orthodox Roman Catholic in me, waiting till marriage and all that good stuff, that gives them such great joy to laugh at this. My dad and uncle, who went with me to the UK two summers ago, also got a kick out of my mini crush, and did me the kindness of pointing at large masses of people hording across the London streets and shouting: "LOOK THERE'S DANIEL RADCLIFFE!" Of course eager little me began bouncing, "Deathly Hallows" book and Sharpie in hand, searching frantically just in case they weren't kidding. I mean, you never know! |
Soooo I may have fitness-walked for an hour yesterday, which did not seem like a big deal at the time, especially since I'd been stretching. However, I woke up this morning, rolled over, and felt a throbbing lump in my left gastroc as I stretched. Before I'd even gotten out of bed I was boiling with anger; it is the most annoying injury I have ever had. The doctor was right.  My mother took half a day off work to spend time with my sister and me. I wasn't up to much today, and asked her if we could relax on the back porch in the sun and read. After all, I needed to finish "The Naked Roommate: And 107 Other Issues You Might Run Into in College," continue plugging through "The Voyage of the 'Dawn Treader'," re-read "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," and alternate reading "My Antonia," "Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, A Political Marriage," and "First Ladies" by Betty Boyd Caroli. Finally I finished "The Naked Roommate," and I'm progressing more with "First Ladies," which is tempting me to pick up another Jackie Kennedy biography. I love biographies on her - she is my all-time favorite First Lady. (Are you surprised?) After I lounged in the bath for a while, I slipped in my hot pink sun dress I picked up in Cozumel and carried down six books, abandoning air conditioning for the summer sun. I read until dinner time, my face colored by bright sun rays and my hair completely dried. Pennsylvania has the lowest vitamin D rate in the US, so I like to spend as much time as possible soaking up the good stuff. My vanity is hoping my hair will lighten and I will tan slightly before college begins. While I don't plan to major in "Mrs.," as my "school dad" teacher Mr. B. calls it, I do want to look a little less like a small town little girl. In case anyone was wondering about my handle, it was something that hit me last night for the first time in months. About five years ago I befriended a woman in her forties and became pen pals via email. Our correspondence coincided with the darkest time of my life, and her presence, albeit virtual, meant the world to me. We met about this time of year, and by November, she was having problems with pneumonia. She had given up smoking for a while, and the doctor told her she was doing well the day before she passed of respiratory complications. The loss was a total shock, a real blow, and the first close loss I've ever had in my life. About a month later, things turned around as I was diagnosed with manic-depression and received proper treatment. I did not find out until later that she, too, had bipolar disorder, which explained why she understood everything I was going through, and knew how to respond to any question or problem I had. As time has gone on, I have felt selfish for not getting to know her better, but I do keep in mind that I was extremely ill in a way that incapacitated me from understanding other people. She was off her lithium. For whatever reason, I burst into tears last night. I would have said it was random, except I found a supportive note she'd sent me encouraging me to follow my dreams and that I would be successful one day. I was able to collect myself after about twenty minutes, but the tears caught me off guard. I have been legally in full remission for two and a half years, and no longer cry much, so it was the first time in a long while that I've had a surprise "attack" of tears. Sara was actually a member of this site: VerySara   . I have a link to the side of my blog that leads to her port if you are interested. At one point she was a Preferred Author with a yellow briefcase, but it did not change to a white briefcase after she passed because no legal death notice was presented to WDC.Other than that, all has been well in Jackieville. I made "English Pancakes" this morning, which are more like dense crêpes than pancakes, but folded with some granulated sugar and wrapped around slices of orange wedges they are more delicious than any pancake I've ever tasted. Over the weekend I probably won't be on here much from work both Saturday and Sunday. That just means I'll have more stories when I come back.
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For whatever reason, I've had little appetite today, and I feel a bit sluggish. I did get up and go for a long walk and did a lot of stretching in preparation for running again. Perhaps the sluggishness comes from oversleeping  and being outside for about an hour before coming in to an air conditioned house. Perhaps the smaller appetite has something to do with it, too, but I've been feeling nauseous. When cake doesn't look appetizing to Jackie, you know there's something goofy with the system. Not too many complaints, though, because I have some weight to lose that I picked up while working at a newly-opened restaurant.On the plus side, finally, in six more days I am allowed to run! In the past four years I have become progressively more interested in working out, and running has to be one of my favorite stress-relievers of all time. Unfortunately, I have been perpetually inflicted with overuse injuries, mainly shin splints (aka medial tibial stress syndrome) which are extremely painful but subside after a few days' rest. However, this time I pushed the overuse pain too far. A handful of girls and I went to the Jersey Shore in May, and while running on the beach in my bare feet (stupid stupid stupid) an excruciating pain shot up my left leg beyond any pain I'd previously had, including knots and charley horses. I could hardly walk, and used my best friend's heated rice pack at night. The pain of the shin splints surged upward til I was concerned my tibiae were fractured. One of the differences between shin splints and stress fractures is that the inflammation of the former encompasses the entire tibia, whereas a fracture is in a specific location. There was definitely a point where the pain was worst: right in the middle of the bone. I'd had a knot before, which comes loose with rest, heat and massages, and could feel one behind the bone, which didn't help at all. Shortly after I came home, I went to a tennis practice where one of the adults helping happened to be a physical therapist. I was preparing to go for a run -- yes, I am crazy enough to keep running in that much pain, hence shin splints and overuse injuries -- and, for whatever reason, I decided to ask her what she thought of the pain: shin splints or fractures? She pulled me over to the side and took a look at my left leg, which was much worse than the right, and asked me a few questions about the pain before squeezing my calf muscle all the way down till I jumped in pain, literally. "You have a nice knot there," she said. "It feels like it could be your Achilles tendon. Please, please call your physician." Until I thought I would be in a cast for six months, I did not realize how active I was: running, tennis, ballet, jazz, and on my feet for hours at a time at work. Wow. I know sometimes medical professionals insist on seeing physicians for all sorts of obscure reasons, but I took her seriously and told my mother, who scheduled an appointment a few days later. I saw my family doctor who referred me to an orthopaedic specialist across town who spent his residency in Florida working with a dance company for sports injuries. He had me balance, turn around, stand on my toes, and after a few minutes said simply, "It isn't your Achilles tendon. You tore your calf muscle and have a big knot. I'll refer you to a physical therapist. It'll be an annoying injury, lasting about six to eight weeks." He told me about a baseball player who had the same injury -- and it recurred. Fabulous. When I asked him was I was allowed to do, he replied, "Anything you want except running. I don't want you running yet. You can do anything, but stop when it hurts." I had no idea what he meant by an "annoying" injury until I dealt with it for a few weeks. No running, no stress relief, no weight loss. I had a hard time with tennis, dancing, and pretty well anything I did on a regular basis. At least no cast and no surgery were involved. Physical therapy has been working wonders; I never would have expected what I previously considered expensive "stretching" to make such a difference, but it has. My PT has been slowly pulling out the hard mass of torn muscle and repeating an ultrasound deep-heating massage. She spent seven years studying this stuff, and knows the exact locations to put pressure on and pull all over my leg to undo the twisted fibers. I have excercises I do at home every night, and now I have to do more stretching than other runners, which is fine, just so I can RUN. Maybe running again will bring more energy back into my body. For now I'm just doing the prep work and lots of stretching. |
| Again, in the mood for buzzing creatively through my kitchen. I slept about an hour over my alarm clock, got up, showered, and began my day by dressing for the grocery store. Yesterday I tricked my mother into purchasing the Granny Smith apples and oranges I would need for yet another recipe out of my "Eating Royally" book. (Looove it!) My dad knew I was planning to bake my mother a surprise -- Old English Apple Pie -- and loaned me his member card for the grocery store so we get points for lower gas prices. Everything I needed was in the kitchen, minus vanilla paste, a lemon, and a cup of sugar. (I'd used up the sugar on the iced coffee yesterday.) Instead of investing in vanilla paste that really doesn't have much use in our house, I skipped it and purchased a $.67 lemon (which wound up being more pith than lemon) and stopped by my grandma's house for a cup of sugar. She was tickled pink, to use a cliché, and congratulated me on my attempt at making a homemade pie, crust and all, for my mother. Both of my grandmothers are experts at homemade pastry-making, an area of baking in which my mother fails. Normally she is great at bakery, but from a very young age I was told that I had to learn how to make pie crust from my grandmothers to carry on the family technique. My mother uses the frozen pie crusts, which my granny has resorted to in recent years, and my father instructed me to use the crusts we have stored in the freezer. Of course, I neither planned to use said crusts, nor did use them. Ah, Almost-Eighteen Syndrome. All of the filling ingredients were laid out -- four Granny Smith apples, orange zest and juice, lemon zest and juice, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and butter -- along with the pastry ingredients. Both the pastry and filling required butter with two significantly different amounts. I began mixing the butter and sugar together for the pastry, then mixed it with the flour and egg. A few summers ago I took culinary lessons, and pie crust was one of the things we made. I remembered a few things clearly about pastry-making, and the rest are vague details. I did remember not to overwork the dough, but found that the mix of butter and sugar turned into a sweet crumbly mess with all of the flour. Nothing I did made it stick together, and it certainly didn't look anything like any pie crust I'd ever seen in the process of making. Surprise, surprise: I wasn't paying attention (what else is new?) and mixed up the amounts of butter while preparing the pastry. There went the rest of the sugar in the house, along with a massive amount of flour among other ingredients. So, I started from square one, and found the batter too sticky, but simply continued adding flour as I folded the dough little by little. It was still sticky, but in much better shape, and still needed refrigerated for "at least an hour" according to the book. I covered it and went to my room to dust and vacuum, filling up time.At last close to an hour passed and I returned to the kitchen to peel, core, and slice the apples while mixing together the rest of the ingredients for the filling. I removed the dough from the fridge, sectioned it in half, and worked the dough gently, adding flour, flour and more flour. Still it fell apart but, semi-workable, I tossed it into the pie dish and worked it from there. After pouring in the filling -- which smelled delicious -- I worked the rest of the dough with slightly better results and placed it on top. There were lots of tears in the crust, so I picked off the excess from different sides and tried to patch it up. With a knife I made a few slits in a circle, painted on a bit of beaten egg, and prayed for the best, putting it into the oven with five minutes under the time instructed -- better than having it burn. All day I'd been calling my dad for help. He is the main chef in the family with a great sense of food, both from growing up with two top-notch cooking grandmothers -- one whose alma mater was a European finishing school -- and traveling to nearly every continent, eating his way through dozens of countries. Upset about my crust, I told him, "Dad, I think I ruined the pie crust. It looks like it's going to be a disaster." "Did you use the pie crusts in the freezer like I told you to?" "No." "Why not?" Rather sheepishly I answered, "I wanted to try making pie crust on my own." Sounding less-than-thrilled, he said, "Well God bless your heart for wanting to try to make pie crust on your own." Because of the delay with the pastry, my mother arrived home mid-bake. She was still surprised and excited to try it after dinner. Finally the timer went off, and it appeared "golden brown" to me. The crust didn't look bad; it looked edible, but I imagined the filling was runny with all the orange and lemon juice. My mother said it would still taste fine. My father's comment: "It looks pale." Although I am a small, feminine version of my dad, and a total daddy's girl, my father is the one person in this world whom I've always been afraid of. I value his opinion and won't marry a guy that doesn't get along well with my dad. In other words, his thoughts mean the world to me. His taste test -- he is the traditional, Fiddler on the Roof papa -- was first. I scooped the pie onto a dish and poured on the juices. He sat down and took his first bite as I scooped my mother's piece and then mine. After a moment of silence, I asked meekly, "What do you think, Dad?" "It's runny," he said. I finished scooping my own piece and looked over. Dad is known for his fast-paced eating, acquired at a young age from eating with a large family with only so much food on the table; who finished first got more second helpings. I was unsurprised to see his piece was gone, but impressed that hardly a speck remained. "That was, hands down, the best-tasting pie crust I have ever had." I refuse to cry in front of my parents, and held it back. Naturally he had some constructive criticism: "Make sure you preheat till the light goes out." - "Leave it in the final five minutes." - "Try it with a cobbler crust that my mother can give you. It would be great with this." The apple pie had a great flavor. It burst with citrus from the orange and lemon juices and zests, and the Granny Smith apples were tart with the right balance of softness and crispness. The crust was flaky, and I was pleased. However, it was runny, and the crust did need a little more time in the oven. That I'll admit. Once more, this book is filled with recipes fit for a king. Phew! A long day of slaving in the kitchen turned out to be rewarding. Honestly, I admire women who are homemakers. Today people have this notion that it's backwards to stay at home and care for a family, but I am no feminist when it comes to that. It makes sense that someone had to stay home and do all the cooking, cleaning, etc., because there was no way a woman could work and do all three meals, etc., unless she went without sleep. No wonder prairie fathers advertised for wives in newspapers. |
| Without a doubt, my favorite cookbook is "Eating Royally" by Darren McGrady, the personal chef of the late Princess of Wales. I picked it up in Naples, Florida at an exhibit featuring Princess Diana's gowns. All of the gowns were auctioned in New York for charity after the Princess's divorce, and these privately owned gowns were donated for the exhibit "Princess Diana: Dresses of Inspiration" at the von Liebig Art Center. After a tour through -- twice -- I stopped at the gift shop where I spotted the book. Along with recipes, it's full of history, stories about the royal family, and hand-written notes. The recipe I chose to try today was Iced Coffee, a simple recipe that sounded delicious. Other than a physical therapy appointment this morning I was free and decided to cash my paycheck and spent part of it on the freshly ground coffee and cup of heavy cream for the recipe. I brewed espresso and stuck it in the freezer to chill while I tidied my room, then returned to make the sugar syrup -- two cups of water and a cup of sugar boiled on high -- and combine it with the chilled espresso. At the moment I haven't tried it over ice, but I did get a taste of it slightly warm before I put it away to chill completely. It was very similar to a Starbucks Frappuccino, only a bit sweeter and more homemade tasting. I don't know how the homemade taste can be described, but it seems to appear in almost any food compared to a restaurant. The physical therapy appointment went well. My PT even moved my next appointment from Thursday to a date next week. She wanted one more week with me to finish the professional work, then I could stretch more on my own. Thankfully I am allowed to run again in July, which I can't wait for, and will be doing lots of stretches. I did have a little freak-out today at the gas station. I usually go to the one on the outside of town where the price is lower than the one a mile away; it has to compete with the "price war" with all of the other nearby highway stations. I handed the cashier $20 and told him I would be back in for the change. The tank was half-full, so I knew I would have a few dollars change. For whatever reason, I hit the Super 92 button and unwittingly filled my tank with gasoline that is significantly more expensive, and was startled by the numbers. After over a year of driving I'm used to the gas prices skyrocketing and dropping, but I couldn't believe the highway stop price, and didn't dare to wonder how much the gas was in town. As I drove away with no change, I double-checked the price and realized my mistake. Heart thudding, wondering if my car would stall on the highway, I pulled to the side of the parking lot and phoned my dad. He said my car would work "fine" and the only difference was I might get better mileage that I wouldn't really notice, and it was like buying $50 champagne versus $5 champagne. Both are drinkable, but the $50 champagne is of higher quality. Note to self: pay more attention to the label on the nozzle. Off to see if my iced coffee is ready for cold serving. UPDATE: The coffee was amazing. If you like iced coffee of any kind -- especially a Starbucks Frappuccino -- I can give you the recipe! |
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