(this post is particularly aimed at my Seattle readers)
Yes, this morning I too, read the newest research announcing the unbelievable the link between eating processed food and depression.
And I quote,
"Researchers at University College London found that people with a diet heavy in processed food had a 58 percent higher risk of depression."
This is especially timely news for me and every other Seattlite who recently discovered (well, it might just be me) the our beloved Wallingford Winchell's Donuts has closed. (sigh)
This news certainly has added to my depression. Quick someone pass me some Prozac, no make that a xanax...I feel a panic attack coming on.
Where the hell am I going to get my donuts now?
This is a serious loss for all us serious cake donut eaters...not everyone loves or even likes Krispy Kreme.
Every month, for the last 18 months, the only thing that made my life bearable was just knowing that every time I went in to see my Lyme doctor, we would stop off at Winchell's to pick up a dozen of the most delicious donuts.
And then last month...we pulled into the tiny parking lot next to the permanent roach coach and my heart skipped a beat when I noticed the 'Closed' sign in the window.
Is it for real?
It's 11:47 am?
Was there a death in the family?
Maybe this is the one week out of the year he goes for a week vacation in Tahiti?
Seriously, I was grasping at straws.
I kept going through all the possible scenarios till we got home.
And then I called...hoping there would be a reassuring recorded message telling all his loyal customers he had swine flu, but would be back to baking my rainbow sprinkled cake donuts just as soon as he was able...I was holding my breath till I heard that fucking annoying beep, beep, beep and that recorded apology telling me the number had been disconnected.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Now the nearest Winchell's is a mere 901.18 miles away in Salinas, California.
What's the point to living if you can't enjoy a good cake donut?
Any suggestions, people?
I already have to drive approximately 29 miles for Popeye's chicken.
What is this world coming to if you can no longer get your fried comfort food?
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Earthquake and the Tree House...
I grew up in a northern California coastal mountain range.
Of course, to a Californian girl anything over 1,000 ft. is a mountain.
My parents built their house in the mid 1960's.
It hugged the side of a steep hill and was built on stilts (huge ones).
It was our tree house built on the side of our hill, every aspect designed and built by my father.
You literally had to walk across a bridge to the front door and because my father didn't want to cut down any more trees than necessary, the trees came up through holes in the decks that surrounded the house.
You could drive by the house and never see it, it was so hidden by the trees.
It is like no other house.
As you can imagine it gave the phrase, 'playing under the house' a whole new meaning.
Our house was conveniently located half a mile from the San Andreas fault line. We all knew this. Our Midwest relatives thought we were insane. How could we live in an area where an earthquake could level our house. I always though they were nuts. How could they live in an area where every summer tornadoes wiped out entire neighborhoods.
What most people don't know is, that unless the earthquake is higher than a 4.0, you really can't feel a thing.
Growing up we had a few good jolts here and there, nothing too scary.
Not until the fall of 1989. I was at university about 90-100 miles away. I'd just come home to my 1970's shitty apartment and was going through the mail when the earthquake hit. The apartment building shook and the dining room light fixture swayed so far it hit the ceiling. It scared the shit out of me, not because I thought the apartment would fall apart, but because I knew the closest fault line was 90 miles away in the Bay Area, and if I could feel it where I lived, I could only imagine how bad it was at home.
We didn't find out till days later, it was a 6.9 earthquake. The destruction was unbelievable. Unfortunately, the phone lines were down, and we only could rely on the television reports. It looked bad, real bad.
My childhood home ended up being knocked off it's foundation, which was nothing compared to houses and streets that were completed flattened. It was devastating to see my childhood home town shaken and my favorite city (San Francisco) hit so hard.
The city's population shrunk fast. All the out-of-town transplants, scared of the chance of another earthquake moved out of the city....fast. City rents dropped like a rock.
So on December 1st, on the first day the Bay Bridge reopened, I drove across the bridge with all my worldly possessions. I didn't have a job yet, buy I'd leased the cutest little apartment in lower Nob Hill.
My relatives thought I'd lost my mind, but I knew I was embarking on one of the first of many great adventures.
And I was right.
Of course, to a Californian girl anything over 1,000 ft. is a mountain.
My parents built their house in the mid 1960's.
It hugged the side of a steep hill and was built on stilts (huge ones).
It was our tree house built on the side of our hill, every aspect designed and built by my father.
You literally had to walk across a bridge to the front door and because my father didn't want to cut down any more trees than necessary, the trees came up through holes in the decks that surrounded the house.
You could drive by the house and never see it, it was so hidden by the trees.
It is like no other house.
As you can imagine it gave the phrase, 'playing under the house' a whole new meaning.
Our house was conveniently located half a mile from the San Andreas fault line. We all knew this. Our Midwest relatives thought we were insane. How could we live in an area where an earthquake could level our house. I always though they were nuts. How could they live in an area where every summer tornadoes wiped out entire neighborhoods.
What most people don't know is, that unless the earthquake is higher than a 4.0, you really can't feel a thing.
Growing up we had a few good jolts here and there, nothing too scary.
Not until the fall of 1989. I was at university about 90-100 miles away. I'd just come home to my 1970's shitty apartment and was going through the mail when the earthquake hit. The apartment building shook and the dining room light fixture swayed so far it hit the ceiling. It scared the shit out of me, not because I thought the apartment would fall apart, but because I knew the closest fault line was 90 miles away in the Bay Area, and if I could feel it where I lived, I could only imagine how bad it was at home.
We didn't find out till days later, it was a 6.9 earthquake. The destruction was unbelievable. Unfortunately, the phone lines were down, and we only could rely on the television reports. It looked bad, real bad.
My childhood home ended up being knocked off it's foundation, which was nothing compared to houses and streets that were completed flattened. It was devastating to see my childhood home town shaken and my favorite city (San Francisco) hit so hard.
The city's population shrunk fast. All the out-of-town transplants, scared of the chance of another earthquake moved out of the city....fast. City rents dropped like a rock.
So on December 1st, on the first day the Bay Bridge reopened, I drove across the bridge with all my worldly possessions. I didn't have a job yet, buy I'd leased the cutest little apartment in lower Nob Hill.
My relatives thought I'd lost my mind, but I knew I was embarking on one of the first of many great adventures.
And I was right.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I can't keep it clean...
UPDATE: Don't bother clicking on the links. They've been deleted by the paper's editor after Mr. Dumba** reported to her that I had insulted his manhood. Gee, I feel so bad. (please note heavy sarcasm)
For the last week there has been a very local debate brewing in our small town. Well, really a few towns over from us, but hey, I shop there once a month so it counts.
This particular town has a Planned Parenthood, which is regularly picketed by local church groups, anti-choice groups and nut jobs, etc... They picket on a very visible corner in this town with signs that depict aborted fetuses.
Last week they stepped it up a notch and hired a LARGE advertising truck that had an enormous picture of an aborted fetus. This truck drove around town.
As you can imagine, there were many complaints phoned into the local police department and letters written to the local newspaper. Complaints from parents who had children in their cars. Complaints from offended women, men, tourists, etc...
A local anti-choice group claimed responsibility for the graphic pictures. Quite a few letters have been written in the opinion page of their local newspaper.
They do get an occasional normal comment like here. But you don't have to scroll down(comment #3) far to read all the idiots comments like Bremertongreg's insightful ones(note heavy sarcasm).
I'm sorry people, but I'm like Debra Morgan on Dexter(if you don't watch it, Netflix it, it's hilarious). I can't keep my thoughts, words, opinions clean of obscenities. I call it like I see it. My husband tries to encourage me to keep it clean, especially when I'm posting on a website...but I just can't do it.
If you read some of the comments you might see mine...unless I've been censored(quite possible). I have to use *s to get around the automated big brother censor web programs...which you might guess irritates the shit out of me.
When I want to call Bremertongreg a dumbass and/or tell him to keep his dick in his pants...using the *s just takes all the fun out of it. Plus, you can never be sure these fucking idiots are smart enough to make out the word when it's not spelled correctly.
Sometimes an idiot just needs it spelled out...i.e., you're a fucking dumbass.
Sorry people, I just can't keep it clean.
For the last week there has been a very local debate brewing in our small town. Well, really a few towns over from us, but hey, I shop there once a month so it counts.
This particular town has a Planned Parenthood, which is regularly picketed by local church groups, anti-choice groups and nut jobs, etc... They picket on a very visible corner in this town with signs that depict aborted fetuses.
Last week they stepped it up a notch and hired a LARGE advertising truck that had an enormous picture of an aborted fetus. This truck drove around town.
As you can imagine, there were many complaints phoned into the local police department and letters written to the local newspaper. Complaints from parents who had children in their cars. Complaints from offended women, men, tourists, etc...
A local anti-choice group claimed responsibility for the graphic pictures. Quite a few letters have been written in the opinion page of their local newspaper.
They do get an occasional normal comment like here. But you don't have to scroll down(comment #3) far to read all the idiots comments like Bremertongreg's insightful ones(note heavy sarcasm).
I'm sorry people, but I'm like Debra Morgan on Dexter(if you don't watch it, Netflix it, it's hilarious). I can't keep my thoughts, words, opinions clean of obscenities. I call it like I see it. My husband tries to encourage me to keep it clean, especially when I'm posting on a website...but I just can't do it.
If you read some of the comments you might see mine...unless I've been censored(quite possible). I have to use *s to get around the automated big brother censor web programs...which you might guess irritates the shit out of me.
When I want to call Bremertongreg a dumbass and/or tell him to keep his dick in his pants...using the *s just takes all the fun out of it. Plus, you can never be sure these fucking idiots are smart enough to make out the word when it's not spelled correctly.
Sometimes an idiot just needs it spelled out...i.e., you're a fucking dumbass.
Sorry people, I just can't keep it clean.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
But you don't look sick...
Every time I hear those five little words, I want to scream.
I want to jump up and down, and scream, "FUCK YOU" at the top of my voice.
Every Lyme patient I know has heard those five little fuck you words.
This past week I've been in bed sleeping 16-18 hours a day. Not because I need my beauty sleep but because my body is being ravaged by a parasitic disease, of which I am it's lovely host.
Between the red blood cell parasites, and the cute little spiral bacteria infection, and let's not forget the annoying little buggies that has decided to jump on the bandwagon just for fun. I feel like one big carnival ride for every bug in a two mile radius.
And I'm tired.
I'm tired of playing the host of this 24/7 party in my body.
With every antibiotic I take, every IV treatment I sit through, every horse pill I swallow to boost up my immune system, I am trying to fight this disease.
So when you tell me I don't look sick, I'll try not to take it personally.
Maybe you're really just trying to be polite.
Maybe you're really thinking I look like hell.
Maybe you're really thinking I'm just a big cry baby.
But telling me you wish you had the luxury to sleep all day like me...
Well, fuck you sister, it ain't no 'luxury'.
I'd have no problem giving you my:
joint pain
muscle and bone pain
double vision
all over body twitches
ear ringing and white noise
brain fog
hair loss
100F+ fever for 5+ years
hand/foot numbness
So the next time you...
I'm sure you won't mind me giving you the finger.
I want to jump up and down, and scream, "FUCK YOU" at the top of my voice.
Every Lyme patient I know has heard those five little fuck you words.
This past week I've been in bed sleeping 16-18 hours a day. Not because I need my beauty sleep but because my body is being ravaged by a parasitic disease, of which I am it's lovely host.
Between the red blood cell parasites, and the cute little spiral bacteria infection, and let's not forget the annoying little buggies that has decided to jump on the bandwagon just for fun. I feel like one big carnival ride for every bug in a two mile radius.
And I'm tired.
I'm tired of playing the host of this 24/7 party in my body.
With every antibiotic I take, every IV treatment I sit through, every horse pill I swallow to boost up my immune system, I am trying to fight this disease.
So when you tell me I don't look sick, I'll try not to take it personally.
Maybe you're really just trying to be polite.
Maybe you're really thinking I look like hell.
Maybe you're really thinking I'm just a big cry baby.
But telling me you wish you had the luxury to sleep all day like me...
Well, fuck you sister, it ain't no 'luxury'.
I'd have no problem giving you my:
joint pain
muscle and bone pain
double vision
all over body twitches
ear ringing and white noise
brain fog
hair loss
100F+ fever for 5+ years
hand/foot numbness
So the next time you...
I'm sure you won't mind me giving you the finger.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
My version of the truth...
I got the sweetest shout out from one of my favorite political bloggers.
I'm sure I've mentioned her before, you know me (in an internet stalker kind of way) I love to talk politics. Even a good argument with one of my few (perhaps only) republican friends can be a great opportunity to ruffle his feathers.
I do like to screw with people's sense of security.
Even if it's as juvenile as messing up my friend's overly organized OCD closet.
Or putting a rainbow bumper sticker on some red neck's jacked up 4 x 4 truck w/an NRA sticker and a gun rack.
Or even putting a tattoo on my then 2 year old, right before my in-laws once every 7 year visit.
It's true, I do like to push people's buttons...especially if they piss me off...or just for my own sick amusement.
Just like Maude said, "Well, if some people get upset because they feel they have a hold on some things, I'm merely acting as a gentle reminder: here today, gone tomorrow, so don't get attached to things."
So, ten truths about me...
To all my favorite bloggers, you know who you are...thanks for the great writing and reading.
I'm sure I've mentioned her before, you know me (in an internet stalker kind of way) I love to talk politics. Even a good argument with one of my few (perhaps only) republican friends can be a great opportunity to ruffle his feathers.
I do like to screw with people's sense of security.
Even if it's as juvenile as messing up my friend's overly organized OCD closet.
Or putting a rainbow bumper sticker on some red neck's jacked up 4 x 4 truck w/an NRA sticker and a gun rack.
Or even putting a tattoo on my then 2 year old, right before my in-laws once every 7 year visit.
It's true, I do like to push people's buttons...especially if they piss me off...or just for my own sick amusement.
Just like Maude said, "Well, if some people get upset because they feel they have a hold on some things, I'm merely acting as a gentle reminder: here today, gone tomorrow, so don't get attached to things."
So, ten truths about me...
- I'm left handed.
- I've always wanted to get a tattoo of Max from Where the Wild Things Are.
- I use my vacuum to kill spiders.
- I like to sleep diagonally in the bed.
- Hence, I wish there was a bed bigger than king size.
- I love the way my pillow smells.
- I wear cologne instead of perfume. I prefer woodsy vs. flowery
- I have eight scars on my body. Even though they're from surgeries, I tell people I've been in a knife fight.
- I think Clive Owen and Gerard Butler are edible.
- I think I'm going to be Mary Poppins this year for Halloween.
To all my favorite bloggers, you know who you are...thanks for the great writing and reading.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Do our kids really need an extra 3 hours in school?
Obama's new announcement yesterday got me thinking.
There is no doubt that the American school system needs an overhaul, but I don't think arbitrarily adding 3 extra hours to the school day is the answer.
I already see high burn out rates in teachers and students alike.
Compared to my elementary education in the 1970's, children are being pushed harder to learn concepts at an earlier age, given more homework/busy work and given less time to be 'a kid'.
Adding an additional 3 hours to the average school day will completely take away any chance for a childhood and severely impact parent/child relationships.
As it is now, most working parents only spend on average 3 hours or less a day (Monday-Friday) with their children. In that 3 hours, a parent needs to help with homework, make dinner, get their children ready for bed and spend quality time with their children. Forget running errands, cleaning, and extracurricular activities. Add more children to the scenario and it's next to impossible.
When we lived overseas the monkeys were in the American School system. Lucky for us, my husband's company paid for their tuition(can you say cha-ching).
Their school day started at 8am and ended at 3pm. Because most of the kids attending were from expat families, the school understood the difficulties expats experienced and kids were rarely given homework. All school work was finished at school (made sense to me). Every student attended a study hall class.
The differences here in America are staggering. Even though the girls attend one of the best public schools in America (98.7% of the students go on to 4 year university), the parents are expected to supplement the kids education, (i.e. I often feel like I'm repeating the 5th and 10th grade).
I remember my father helping every now and then with a book report, but my parents were never expected to sit down everyday at the kitchen table and help me with my homework. My brother and I still had plenty of time to be kids.
School was where the teachers educated the kids, home was where the parents parented the kids, weekends were for family time and the two never met except at fundraisers and parent/teacher conferences.
I already see kids who feel the pressure of enormous amounts of homework. My eldest spends approximately 2-3 hours a day on homework...my youngest 1-2 hours. I remember the time chart parents received when I was a kid...
Kindergarten - no homework
1st grade - 10 minutes/a day
2nd grade - 20 minutes/a day
3rd grade - 30 minutes/a day
4th grade - 40 minutes/a day
and so on...
Teachers didn't send home 20 pages of dittos of busy work.
I had time to go to piano lessons once a week, soccer practice twice a week, and still be home at 6pm for dinner.
Our teachers are already underpaid and our kids overworked, I'm just not sure this is the answer.
There is no doubt that the American school system needs an overhaul, but I don't think arbitrarily adding 3 extra hours to the school day is the answer.
I already see high burn out rates in teachers and students alike.
Compared to my elementary education in the 1970's, children are being pushed harder to learn concepts at an earlier age, given more homework/busy work and given less time to be 'a kid'.
Adding an additional 3 hours to the average school day will completely take away any chance for a childhood and severely impact parent/child relationships.
As it is now, most working parents only spend on average 3 hours or less a day (Monday-Friday) with their children. In that 3 hours, a parent needs to help with homework, make dinner, get their children ready for bed and spend quality time with their children. Forget running errands, cleaning, and extracurricular activities. Add more children to the scenario and it's next to impossible.
When we lived overseas the monkeys were in the American School system. Lucky for us, my husband's company paid for their tuition(can you say cha-ching).
Their school day started at 8am and ended at 3pm. Because most of the kids attending were from expat families, the school understood the difficulties expats experienced and kids were rarely given homework. All school work was finished at school (made sense to me). Every student attended a study hall class.
The differences here in America are staggering. Even though the girls attend one of the best public schools in America (98.7% of the students go on to 4 year university), the parents are expected to supplement the kids education, (i.e. I often feel like I'm repeating the 5th and 10th grade).
I remember my father helping every now and then with a book report, but my parents were never expected to sit down everyday at the kitchen table and help me with my homework. My brother and I still had plenty of time to be kids.
School was where the teachers educated the kids, home was where the parents parented the kids, weekends were for family time and the two never met except at fundraisers and parent/teacher conferences.
I already see kids who feel the pressure of enormous amounts of homework. My eldest spends approximately 2-3 hours a day on homework...my youngest 1-2 hours. I remember the time chart parents received when I was a kid...
Kindergarten - no homework
1st grade - 10 minutes/a day
2nd grade - 20 minutes/a day
3rd grade - 30 minutes/a day
4th grade - 40 minutes/a day
and so on...
Teachers didn't send home 20 pages of dittos of busy work.
I had time to go to piano lessons once a week, soccer practice twice a week, and still be home at 6pm for dinner.
Our teachers are already underpaid and our kids overworked, I'm just not sure this is the answer.
Friday, September 18, 2009
My brother...
I didn't know why she came for me.
Every Thursday for as long as I could remember.
Why me and not my brother?
She always took me for ice cream and then to the park.
Even at 5, I tried to understand what she wanted.
I tried to answer her questions without telling her my secrets.
And at the end of every visit, I'd get more and more scared, waiting...wanting to go home.
Hoping this time, she didn't move us to another home, another family.
Please don't ask us to move again.
Please don't ask us to move again.
After every visit, she'd drive me home.
We'd come around the corner, and I'd hold my breath till I could see him.
Sitting on the steps, waiting.
Right where I'd left him. Holding his paint chipped fire engine.
Always waiting.
Knowing I'd always come back for him.
Every Thursday for as long as I could remember.
Why me and not my brother?
She always took me for ice cream and then to the park.
Even at 5, I tried to understand what she wanted.
I tried to answer her questions without telling her my secrets.
And at the end of every visit, I'd get more and more scared, waiting...wanting to go home.
Hoping this time, she didn't move us to another home, another family.
Please don't ask us to move again.
Please don't ask us to move again.
After every visit, she'd drive me home.
We'd come around the corner, and I'd hold my breath till I could see him.
Sitting on the steps, waiting.
Right where I'd left him. Holding his paint chipped fire engine.
Always waiting.
Knowing I'd always come back for him.
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