Girl Detective

Unless, of course, they don’t. Friday night I had what seemed very much like a gall bladder attack, after indulging in the Modern’s famous pot roast, which includes fork-tender meat, garlic mashed potatoes, melting carrots and veggies, all topped with a dollop of horseradish sour cream. Our family is pretty familiar with gall bladder symptoms, since G. Grod had them on and off for years before having his gall bladder removed earlier this year. Fortunately I had a prenatal checkup already scheduled for this week. When I described symptoms and said that this was the second time this had occurred during the pregnancy (the first at about 12 weeks), I was swiftly given more blood tests and signed up for a gall bladder ultrasound.

The good news is that I received an all clear–none of the tests showed anything to be concerned about. The bad news is that no one knows why I have had two episodes in 8 weeks that seem so gall-bladder-y. The best guess is a virus. I am worried, because I feel as if I’m waiting for a shoe to drop, wondering if I’ll have another episode. I am relieved, though, since I had lurid visions of having to undergo the same surgery that G. did, only at 20+ weeks pregnant.

In the meantime, I’ll follow the usual pregnancy advice to eat several small meals a day. I’ll also avoid especially rich or fatty foods, at least at night. Alas, no more post-dinner ice cream. I’ll have to fit it in after lunch, I guess.

I recently saw a friend who complained I was posting too many reviews; she wanted to know more about what was going on in my life. I know the posts can get review-heavy, but I spend a lot of my time on books and movies, so the reviews are a reflection of what is going on in my life, at least in part.

I have also been asked more than once how I find the time to read, to write, and to watch movies in addition to caring for a toddler. The answer is simple, though it’s not easy. I set myself book and movie challenges because I did not feel I was reading or seeing movies enough. The reason I have a weblog is so I keep up a regular writing practice. I’ve moved these things to the top of my priority list, which means other things get moved down, or even bumped off.

I have time because I make time. I make time for these things by not doing other things. My father has a few favorite phrases, one of which is “everything is a compromise.” The older I get the more I see how true it is. I can write, or read, or watch a movie, but it means I don’t clean the bathroom, do laundry, obsessively check my email, surf the ‘net, or dabble in other hobbies. I used to play the flute and do counted cross-stitch projects. I got rid of these things because I wanted to focus on the things I already love, which include books, music, cooking, movies, television, and comics.

I’m able to finish books because I take time to read. I’m not a fast reader, but I am a consistent one. I read a little bit when Drake goes down for his nap, then again before I go to sleep at night. I take my book with me wherever I go, so if I have a spare moment I can get a little reading done. There are so many things that can distract me, but by eschewing some things and focusing on others, I have a life that better reflects what is truly important to me.

I was warned out of the sun almost two decades ago by a dermatologist, and I’ve mostly obeyed. Even so, I still got one accidental sunburn a year for a while. In recent years, though, I’ve become less vain about wearing a hat and frumpy cover-ups in the sun, and the accidental sunburns stopped. I am very conscientious about sunscreen/sunblock for both Drake and me, since he inherited my fair skin rather than G. Grod’s dark olive complexion.

My new favorite sunblock is Neutrogena Ultrasheer Dry-Touch Sunblock, which comes in both SPF 30 and 45. As its name suggests, it is a non-greasy, non-sticky formula. It has a very light scent, and comes in a slim, light tube that is easy to slip into a purse or diaper bag. Its pleasant formula makes me dread putting it on less, so I use it more; I just bought my second tube of the summer.

The sunscreen that I am less delighted with is the Coppertone Sport Sunblock Spray. I bought it for my back and neck. While it does allow me to reach those spots, it has a tacky finish, and a strong, traditional Coppertone smell. Most unpleasant, though, is that it seems impossible not to inhale the stuff as I’m spraying it on. I usually opt to wear something that covers my upper back, and then use the Neutrogena on my arms and the back of my neck.

When I went to my annual dermatologist check up this year, the office recommended three brands as being overall good for skin and sun care: Neutrogena, Dove and Olay. Best of all, these are drugstore brands that are usually inexpensive and easily available. I haunted department store cosmetic counters for years. I am much more satisfied, with the products and from a simplicity-of-life standpoint, to buy and use the drugstore brands.

I went to my first college reunion over the weekend, the fifteenth. I went not so much to catch up with anyone I’d lost touch with, but rather because the several friends I do keep up with were all going to be there, one with her husband and family. When one lives far away, as I do in MN, it’s important to try to get the most out of trips across country.

The night before my flight found me rustling through my closet for pieces that fit and were seasonal, then trying to put together outfits around them. The weather was hot and humid. This was not conducive to either a calm mind, or fitting into tight jeans or skirts. There was much frustrated hopping up and down. Finally I managed to put together four outfits that seemed as if they’d match both the weather and the events I’d be attending. I tucked in the tight jeans, too, just in case I got a last minute reprieve. And I packed a whopping four pairs of shoes, in addition to the one that I’d be wearing. Usually, I wear a pair and pack another. For packing in general, I try to take a bare minimum. Often I end up having under packed, though that’s never been problematic, just rather boring for me to wear the same things over and again. For my reunion, though, the rules were different.

I was fortunate to spend the night before the reunion with my sister Ruthie. I tried on my four outfits for her, all of which she approved. She confirmed that the jeans were too tight so they moved to the bottom of my suitcase. We found another smashing outfit in her closet, though, one that went with an existing pair of shoes. Additionally, we combed through her jewelry and handbags to accessorize all five outfits.

I felt somewhat ashamed of myself for obsessing so much over my appearance. If I was going to see my friends, why did it matter what I wore and how I looked? What did I have to prove, and to whom?

At the reunion, my time was my own–my spouse G. Grod and toddler Drake were at my in-laws. I had luxurious stretches of time to spend with my friends. We tried on each other’s clothes, and talked about our husbands and children. We traded makeup tips and birth stories. We tried to recall who we’d kissed in our younger days, then were shocked to see many of them balding and portly, very different from their 18-year-old selves. Each night I limped into our hotel after a night in lovely heels. My friends and I joked about fashion before function, but my blistered, aching feet told another tale by Sunday. I had fun, though, dressing up for the first time in a long time, and not worrying about having Drake smear up a dry-clean-only outfit (those few that I own) or tug at and break my jewelry.

I realize now that it wasn’t those boys that I kissed, or even the girls I was envious of back then, that I was trying to impress by dressing well. I was trying to give my college self, a chubby, drunk, depressed girl, the happy ending she so desperately wanted.

The first time I took a writing class, I read the following quote by Joan Didion, and it hit me with almost physical force. It still has power, almost ten years later, as I discovered when I read it recently at Mental Multivitamin.

I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.

– Joan Didion in Slouching towards Bethlehem

I’m a late bloomer. It takes me a long while to get my act together and figure things out. This weekend was good, making new connections with old friends. But I also reconnected with my old self, who wasn’t very happy in college. I think she would be pleased if she could have seen the life we’re living now.

Years behind everyone else, I recently finished reading Fast Food Nation. Overall, I found the book discouraging, but not surprising. It details many disgusting, inhumane practices of the fast food and meat industries. One of the most disturbing facts is that there is little or no regulation or testing on meat that is sold to public schools. Kids are most likely to get the worst meat.

My most lasting impression from the book is that I am very fortunate. I do not risk life or limb at my job. I can afford food that is grown and created conscientiously. I am, indeed, lucky.

While my son Drake napped today, I took to bed, and snuggled up with a short story and a chunk of Don Quixote. Sometimes Drake can sleep through cacophony; other times he wakes at an inopportune creak of the floorboards. To increase my chances of a long nap, I try to do just one thing. Today it was reading, and lots of it.

What is your definition of luxury?

Before our son Drake was born, one of the things on my husband G. Grod’s and my long to-do list was to get a lawyer and set up wills. We got a recommendation from our financial guy, then met twice with the lawyer, once to discuss what types of wills we wanted to have, and to get paperwork to go over so that when we met the second time we’d finalize the wills.

A lot of the paperwork was about what each of us wanted to be done if we were incapacitated. I was surprised to learn how differently we felt from one another. One of us wanted to be kept alive if at all possible, the other wanted no extraordinary means. We’d talked about these things in generalities before, but filling out the detailed questionnaires made each of our views very clear to one another. When we met with the lawyer the second time, we put those wishes on paper, and got them signed. We also chose who would look after Drake, in person and financially, if something were to happen to us.

We had a zillion things to do in the days before Drake was born, but getting our wills was one of the best expenditures of time and money I can think of. Do you have a will? Does someone know for certain what your wishes are if something unexpected were to happen? It’s a little time, and a little money. But it’s nothing when you compare it to the wretched alternative unfolding in the news.

He looked up at his clock, which had stopped at five minutes to eleven some weeks ago.

“Nearly eleven o’clock,” said Pooh happily. “You’re just in time for a little smackerel of something,” and he put his head in the cupboard.

In our house, we don’t see the need to alter the clocks. We have our smackerel between three and four in the afternoon. My husband G. Grod and I have tea; currently it’s English Breakfast for him and camomile (not technically a tea, since it’s not made from the tea plant) with Ames Farm honey for me. Our son Drake gets diluted juice, usually prune. For food, we munch on crackers, fruit and cheese. Most recently, Drake is eating (and saying the word) dates, and learning how to eat sandwich cookies.

Our afternoon smackerel is one of my favorite family traditions. It provides a useful (and tasty) push to see us through the torpor of late afternoon.

I saw a blurb in the February issue of Lucky magazine about a product I just had to try: California Baby’s Overtired and Cranky Spritz. According to Lucky, it’s a perfect pick-me-up for both babies and grown ups during that dead zone in the afternoon between 3 and 5 p.m. I guiltily plunked down $12 because even the possibility of relief during the dead zone was too much to resist.

Verdict? Well, it doesn’t make me crankier. I think the phsyical shock of getting something cold and wet spritzed on the back of the neck might be what derails fatigue and crankiness as much as the fragrance itself. It may not be so much a calming thing as a distracting counter-irritant. Is it worth $12? Probably not.

My Chrismas gift from my thoughtful husband was an overnight at a nearby hotel. I left during Drake’s nap on Friday and returned 24 hours later. The short trip couldn’t completely reverse the upheaving effects of a tough week that was short on sleep, but it certainly helped, and was a lovely little interlude before jumping back into the fray.

I had a plan before I left, and it was to focus on things that are tough/impossible to do with Drake around. I took a lot of reading material, then picked out a movie to see and a closeby restaurant for dinner.

I saw In Good Company, a quiet little flick that was balm for my ruffled soul. It wasn’t high art, but it was charming, and smart in a subtle way. The ending didn’t feel surprising, but looking back on the movie, I thought it was easy to chart more predictable paths for it that would have left me at the end saying, “That’s stupid,” or “That’s obvious.” The movie adroitly sidestepped several trite possibilities and instead ended on a note that felt sweet and satisfying. I felt somewhat restored after the movie, as I did when I heard the uplifting notes of Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” on its soundtrack.

At dinner, then breakfast the next morning, I was deliberate in my choices of what to eat and my pace in eating. I also did not read or do anything else but eat. It was truly a luxury to eat what I wanted and at my own speed, which is slow.

I revelled similarly in the luxury of having several hours in which to read. I brought a novel, a collection of short stories and essays, several comic books and a couple graphic novels. I felt like I had the literary equivalent of tapas. Continuing this multiplicitous reading has left me a bit at odds, as I wrote about yesterday, but for a short period of time it was quite heady.

I had hoped for a stupendous greeting from Drake upon my return, but it was not to be. He woke from his nap, as he often does, in good spirits but raring to get back on the ground and get moving. I’m not sure he even noticed that I’d been gone.

One thing marred the overnight. Even in a very quiet hotel, I had trouble sleeping. The last time I went away, I also was not able to sleep, so this time I’d taken the precaution of taking a sleeping pill. Alas, even on drugs, no dice. I think that the last 17 months of oft-interrupted sleep have permanently damaged my ability to sleep deeply. Even with restless sleep, though, I still returned home in better, calmer spirits.

I got some more tips on handling dry skin from the dermatologist’s office this week.

Don’t soap up everything when you bathe, just the nooks and crannies.

Pat dry, don’t rub or scrub with a towel.

Use a mild soap, like my favorite, Dove Sensitive Skin.

Use fragrance free moisturizer and laundry soap.

I’ve got stitches in my back right now, and they itch like crazy. I had a dermatologist appointment earlier this week, and she removed a suspicous-looking mole for biopsy. It looked suspicious to her, that is. I had a hard time finding it in the mirror, and it looked little different to me than the dozens of other moles around it. That’s why I’d sought the opinion of a professional.

The chunk of skin she cut out is in a difficult place that makes reaching and lifting difficult, both of which are frequent as I care for my toddler Drake. I also get the joy of waiting two weeks to find out whether anything is wrong.

For the past fifteen years, I’ve been a fairly conscientious user of sunscreen and protective clothing and general sun avoidance. And in spite of fifteen years of good behavior, I still had a chunk of my skin removed this week.

I write this for all of you that still go out in the sun without sunscreen, that go to tanning salons or who actually lay out in sun trying to get tan.

Stop fooling yourself. At best, you’re just aging and drying your skin. At worst, you’re courting cancer. Unless you have the green light from your dermatologist to go out in the sun with abandon, and I’m betting you don’t, then you know it’s bad and you do it anyway. Cut it out.

Or you’ll be like me, and your dermatologist will cut it out for you, and you’ll have stitches that hurt and itch and if you’re lucky, that will be all.

Some might say this is a common-sense caution. I, however, often need to have common-sense things spelled out to me, so I share this dry-skin advice.

The dryness of winter is not a good time to try a retinol product for the first time, especially if you have even moderately sensitive skin. A few years ago I finally bit the bullet on my persistent cystic acne, took my dermatologist’s advice, followed his cautions, and underwent a treatment of Accutane. Accutane, like retinols, is a highly concentrated form of vitamin A that forcefully encourages growth of new skin by sloughing off the outer layers. After several months, the end result was great–I am no longer troubled by cystic acne. My one regret, though, was that I’d undergone the treatment during late fall and winter. The cold, dry air exacerbated the already extreme moisture-draining effects of the drug. Taking retinol in winter made an already difficult process for my skin even more uncomfortable.

If you, like me, are often trying new products, especially ones to combat aging, give yourself and your skin a break. Retinol creams do work for some, but they are irritating. For now, use gentle, hydrating creams and lotions. Products with retinol will still be around in a few months, when the weather and the humidity are more favorable to their use.

I don’t think we’re going to break 20 degrees Fahrenheit today, and it’s probably not as warm as 50 degrees in our basement. I change multiple diapers a day and am trying to make hand washing before meals a habit for our toddler Drake. All these mean that unless I’m careful, I’m going to have skin, especially on my hands, that is as dry and cracked as the writing on Arrested Development. While eternal vigilance isn’t possible, there are a few things that I do to keep dessication at bay.

One, I’m not drinking much more water. When I was breastfeeding, a nurse told me that while it’s important to keep hydrated, drinking too much water results in frequent urination, which in turn can result in losing more water than is retained. So contrary to common sense and practice, I’m sticking to the usual recommendation of about 8 glasses a day.

Two, I use Cetaphil cleanser for my face. Not only is it gentle, but it can also be tissued off without water.

Three, I apply hand lotion after every hand washing. I keep lotion next to every sink.

Four, I don’t shower every day.

Five, I avoid moisturizers with petrolatum, lanolin and mineral oil in them. These ingredients create barriers so that moisture doesn’t escape from skin, but they can irritate skin and simply sit on top of it rather than moisturizing or healing cracked skin. Using lotions with gentler ingredients immediately after rinsing the skin with water works best for me.

Finally, I find products by Dr. Hauschka good on several levels, though affordability is not one of them. The ingredients are natural, organic and sustainably harvested. They smell and feel great to use. I find the rose moisturizers for face and body and the rose body oil very comforting both in scent, which is light, and texture, which is rich.

This holiday season is a little different for us this year. My husband was laid off last month, and I resigned last May to stay home with our baby, now toddler, Drake. We are now a family of three with a new house, and no jobs. I gave some serious thought to setting aside a small budget for gifts. In the end, it became clear that even if we did small things, they would add up, so we opted out of buying presents entirely this year. Both our families were very understanding about this.

Since I haven’t been running about buying gifts, though, I have had a little time to ponder what I might have given. I came up with a fairly comprehensive list of virtual gifts for my family. And while I was wishing, I did jot down a few things for myself, as well: bras, and more importantly–time to shop for them; turtlenecks for this very cold winter; a new bulb for my sun lamp; and a babysitter. Exciting stuff, no?

Here’s the list of virtual gifts I thought about giving others, though it’s so late in the season that it will help nobody with their holiday shopping. The list is strangely missing books, music and movies. Apparently my giving spirit is disdaining the media this year. Instead, go visit your local library and appreciate a librarian and all the free books, music, movies and more that s/he can help you to find.

Sorry that this list is so late, folks, but it’s the holiday season–even without gift buying I’m working on a time delay. But since they’re all imaginary anyway, what if we imagine that they are on time, and real. Go ahead, take your pick. From me to you. Enjoy. Happy holidays.

Graeter’s ice cream–any flavor that has chocolate chips
A writer’s retreat–a weekend at a cabin in the woods, with meals taken care of
A new cream by Clinique to soothe redness-prone skin
A week’s stay at a mind/body wellness spa like The Golden Door
Framed Conde-Nast art
Zyliss garlic press
Microplane fine grater for lemon zest and parmesan cheese
Kitchenaid box grater
Subscription to Cook’s Illustrated
Subscription to Lucky magazine

I do not practice a particular religion, but the idea of resting on the seventh day has consumed me for some time. When I was working, I found Sundays especially tough. I spent Friday night and most of Saturday detoxing from the previous week with movies, books, tv, and comics, alternated with errands like grocery shopping. Then Sundays I had to work like crazy to cram in all the boring, home and chore-type things that remained undone. The result was that I returned to work on Monday about as exhausted, sometimes more so, than I’d been on Friday afternoon. The dynamic changed somewhat, but not entirely, when I had a baby and then again when I resigned to stay home with him full time. Sundays still have been the day for the tasks that can no longer be put off.

Defining boundaries for a day of rest was difficult. Each potential restriction needed a loophole. No television–except football for my husband, and shows that I enjoy. No car rides–unless I need to go to yoga, or it’s ass-biting cold outside. No cooking–except we have to eat. No cleaning–except we have to clean up after cooking, and I had friends coming over who hadn’t seen our house. No computer–except I need to do just this one thing, and while I’m here I might as well check email. Then, rather than trying to define what not to do, it occurred to me to try to emphasize what I wanted to do: take a break and enjoy, spending time with friends and family and not working so much.

Yesterday, I made a not entirely unsuccessful attempt at a day of rest. I had lunch with two friends I hadn’t seen in months, and spent time reading to my son, and even just laid on the couch for a bit while he ran around and before we began dinner preparations. I did use the computer, make food, wash dishes and clean a bit. But I didn’t do laundry. At the end of the day, I had spent more time relaxing and with family and friends, and less time working, than I do on an average day. I figure this was my first attempt; perhaps I’ll get better with practice.

Often, I worry about my level of fear–that it’s too much, that I’m paranoid.

Last night, I went to get my hair cut. I parked across the busy, well-lit street from the busy, well-lit building that houses the salon, along with two crowded, mid- to up-scale restaurants. As I entered the building, I noticed that someone was behind me, very close. Uneasy, I moved my purse to the front of my body, and stuck out my other arm in a don’t-fuck-with-me posture. I walked quickly to the escalator, telling myself that I was probably imagining myself in danger.

The person, a tall man in a puffy jacket, got on the escalator behind me, and deliberately brushed my hand as he did so.

OK, so I wasn’t imagining it. I moved to the left up the escalator, walking quickly until I passed another person and stood in front of her. But as soon as I got off the escalator, I heard the swish of the guy’s jacket behind me. Fortunately, it was just a few yards to the salon. I veered in quickly, shaking my head in amazement. I turned to see the back of the man’s puffy coat go by, and a small boy with him, asking “Why are we in such a hurry?”

I have no idea why the man was following me. I was in my winter coat and hat, dressed plainly, not looking particularly attractive or prosperous. It gave me pause to think about what might have happened had it occurred in a place less bright and crowded, and if I had been farther from a destination.

I was glad that I reacted so quickly to my unease, even before getting confirmation that something was off. I have a lurid imagination, so it is sometimes hard to distinguish between valid instinct and overactive imagination.

Ever since I had the baby, I’ve struggled with my posture. Soon after Drake was born, I reached for something and had a shooting pain in my hand. I went to get it checked out and saw a family doctor, a chiropractor, and finally a physical therapist before someone ventured their best guess that the problem was a weakness in the midback, translating to a weakness in the shoulder, and travelling down to the hand from there. When I did the recommended exercises, the shooting pain went away. When I slacked off, my hand became numb at night and I would experience periodic numbness all along the arm. I’m back, then, to doing the exercises and feeling better. I’m very conscious of not rounding my shoulders, though it’s hard to pick up and carry the 25-pound Drake without doing so.

I get tremendously aggravated, therefore, when I see catalogs and magazines in which the model is posed in that round-shouldered posture, like this. This is not only bad physically, but in the yogic tradition it shuts in the heart, so it’s bad emotionally, as well.

My friend NYC Bette has worked with actual models, and says that the stereotypes are often true: vapid people who smoke a lot, eat very little, do a lot of drugs, and don’t even exercise because the development of muscle might alter their body and make the clothes not fit.

Ignore the models. It’s an unhealthy stance, one that only gets exacerbated by the physicality of motherhood, with breadfeeding and baby carrying. Madonna had it right, way back before she was even a mom or into yoga: open your heart.

The tendency is to overcorrect and arch the lower back and stick out the boobs. This doesn’t help; it’s just bad in a different way. Instead, the correction is to breathe into your middle back and open your heart, projecting it as if you had a lovely pendant at the top of your collar bone that you wanted to show to good effect. Also helpful is to lie on the floor with a rolled towel under the spine between the shoulderblades.

Track #3 of Fatboy Slim’s latest CD, Palookaville.

Evening in Missoula tea (actually, not a tea but a tisane, as you can read about at Tea Source, sweetened with Ames Farm honey.

The books of Jane Austen, of which I just finished Emma. Charlotte Bronte had a point when she wrote

What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death–this Miss Austen ignores.

Yet sometimes I need soothing rather than stirring, and in those cases I prefer to spend time with Miss Austen.

and I lived deliberately for less than 48 hours. And used an outhouse. And made good progress in editing novel #1. And nearly finished reading Emma. And walked in the woods. But did not test the ice. And did physical therapy exercises for my problem wrist, back and hip.

I stayed at a retreat recommended by a friend, in a single cabin that had heat and electricity but no running water. I picked up meals at the lodge. The cook told me what was in the basket each time. My first meal, lunch yesterday, was a veggie curry over brown rice, a salad with hard-boiled eggs and cheddar cheese with a honey mustard dressing, and sugared almond slivers. I took it back to the cabin, and burt into tears, overwhelmed by the peace and quiet, with a nice meal given to me that I could enjoy at my leisure.

And I did. Throughout the time I was there, I only did one thing at a time. What a luxury that was. When I ate, I ate. When I walked, I walked. When I read, I read.

Unfortunately, my high hopes of two nights of blissful, uninterrupted sleep did not materialize. Both nights I was anxious about being alone in a cabin in the woods. The first night I had the cabin too hot, and the second night I undercompensated and had it too cold. Also, I fear that I may have lost the ability to sleep deep, uninterrupted sleep, even if I didn’t have to contend with lurid imaginations of killers with hooks for hands, and widely variant room temperatures.

At the end of my time, I felt rather like I’d visited a MASH unit for my internal self. They patched me up, treated me nice, and sent me back to the front.