September 29, 2006

My Special Club

The Tiny Kingdom has tons of clubs you can belong to, but in general, I’m not much of a joiner. I declined invitations to the Junior League and the Twins Club. The idea of the latter was especially perplexing to me. I could see a club for Moms With Well-Behaved Children Who Baby Sit Each Other, or perhaps the Moms With One Extremely Still and Quiet Child Who Requires Virtually No Care and Feeding at All, but even when I had only one child I could see that it would be impossible for a mother of newborn twins and a two year old to get to the bathroom, much less a meeting outside the house.

I don’t sew or smock, so I’ve never been invited to join the club where mothers hand make outfits for their children and then put on a fashion show to raise money for the arts. After I heard a rumor that one mom knit matching bikinis for herself and her daughter and pranced down the runway in the ensemble, I came close to asking someone to sponsor me for membership. I would have paid big bucks to see such bravery.

But I do belong to one special club. No one had to write me a recommendation or bring a bottle of wine to a meeting and then stand up and tell everyone I was a “cute girl” from a “good family” with “an impeccable reputation” who would “be a valuable addition” to the organization. In fact, membership in this club is involuntary.

Here are some of the more well-known members:

It’s a varied lot, yes? Musicians, sports figures, actors, writers… I’ll give you a minute to identify them and decide what we have in common.

Left to right: Allen Ginsberg, Phil Lesh, Ken Kesey, Anne Glamore, Evel Knievel, Naomi Judd, Dusty Hill, Pamela Anderson, Mickey Mantle, Jack Kevorkian, David Crosby, Larry Hagman, Steven Tyler

What unites us? Here’s the story.

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In the spring of 1997, Finn was a little over a year old and I was practicing law full time. I started losing weight and my head felt buzzy. I got dizzy when I stood up, and I slept whenever I could. Something was wrong, so I went to the doctor.

“You are a tired working mother,” was his diagnosis.

I’m sure that was partly true, but I knew that something else was going on so I sought a second opinion. This doctor performed some blood tests which revealed I had elevated liver enzymes. An ultrasound showed that all was well with my gallbladder, and my doctor advised me that she was ordering a test which she guessed would show that I had hepatitis.

I remember sitting in her office and looking at her blankly. Although I’d practiced medical malpractice defense law, I’d never had a case involving hepatitis, and I knew nothing at all about the disease.

Once I’d been definitely diagnosed with hepatitis C and scheduled for a liver biopsy, I learned a lot about the virus. It’s transmitted by contact with tainted blood. I’d received blood transfusions during my original surgery for scoliosis in 1980, before the blood supply was tested for hepatitis C (or HIV, for that matter).

My biopsy revealed that my liver had suffered some damage from unknowingly living with the disease for seventeen years. My physician advised me to finish having children before undergoing treatment for hepatitis, and Porter and Drew were born in August of 1998. (The disease is a slow one, so delaying treatment for a year or so wasn’t likely to affect my liver much given the amount of damage I had sustained thus far.)

When the twins were six months old, I started a year-long treatment. Three times a week, Bill and I would put all the boys into the bathtub where they’d be out of the way, and he’d give me a shot of interferon. I took ribavirin pills each day. I had thought having one kid and a law career was exhausting. Adding twins, a scary disease, shots and a feeling of general uncertainly about the future showed us what stress really is.

I suffered most of the side effects associated with the treatment and had to stop working for a while. At the end of a grueling year, I had a negative hepatitis C test, which still hangs on our bathroom wall as a reminder not to take good health for granted. Last October I celebrated my fifth year of remission from the disease. I wrote about it here and here. My mom heard the good news a couple of weeks before she died.

October 1 is World Hepatitis Awareness Day. I wanted you to know that anyone can have the disease, and the “silent epidemic” can be quietly destroying your liver while you feel perfectly fine. Most patients find out accidentally that they have the disease, when they are being treated for another problem, having an insurance test, or being screened to give blood. My story of seeking help for symptoms is the exception.

Each of the member of the club pictured above has or had the disease.

Please click HERE to see if you may be at risk.

As you can see, all of my children were at risk because I was HCV positive at the time I gave birth to them. I had them all tested last summer, which involved taking blood from trembling arms, sopping up tears, and large scoops of ice cream. It was a huge blessing to find out that they are all negative. I’ll just worry about buck teeth, scoliosis, acne, and other childhood traumas for them.

If you haven’t signed up to be an organ donor, please consider it. Lots of people could use your liver when you’re through with it. These days, you can even donate part of your liver while you’re still kicking, as doctors have had great success with living liver donation. (Your liver is as large as a football, and you have plenty to spare). I have a good friend whose nine year old son is doing great with a chunk of his uncle’s liver.

Plenty of other people have written eloquently on this topic. Here are some places to check out if you’re interested in learning more:

Penny Arcade’s Story

Phil Lesh’s HepC Site

Kelly Luker’s entertaining article from the point of view of a child of the sixties

Steven Tyler’s story

Naomi Judd’s HCV Site

September 28, 2006

In Which I Commit Murder

– Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.
W.H. Auden

Several other mothers had bad days yesterday, but apparently none of them ended their day by committing murder. Maybe they don’t cook, or maybe they did commit murder and just didn’t blog about it, which is probably smart.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened to me; it was just that I was so crotchety yesterday that nothing was going to make me happy, and believe me, I tried to sate myself with fistfuls of chocolate and a glass of wine, but pretty much everything Bill and my boys did or said made me furious anyway.

When I helped Porter study for his spelling test, he insisted on spelling “familiar” as “familar” because, as he explained, “that’s the way my teacher spells it. She wrote it on the board that way and I have to spell it her way on the test.”

I pointed out that I am a fabulous speller and that I won the 5th grade spelling bee by correctly spelling “linoleum” but Porter was unimpressed and steadfast in his refusal to add an “i” to the word.

Just before dinner time I realized that I’d forgotten to go to the fish market. It was closed, and I had nothing for dinner. I went to Publix, bereft of ideas, and wandered the aisles aimlessly. I came home with a box of Hamburger Helper and a pound of ground chuck.

Perhaps I should add here, for those who haven’t figured it out already, that I’m a huge dinner snob. I cook because I enjoy it, my mom did it, and I’m good at it. A home-cooked, sit-down meal is a top priority for me, and if I don’t produce one, I feel like I’ve failed at a major part of being a wife and mother. Worse, I’m an ingredient snob. I scorn meatloaf, and exult in artichokes and edamame. I think nothing of whipping up a buerre blanc. In the past, I’d been known to sneer at people doing just what I was doing: buying dinner in a box.

To atone for what was sure to be nasty food, I made a chocolate chip pound cake, and I sent the boys to take showers as I prepared it so I could lick the beaters and the bowl all by myself.

When it was time to eat, I hid the box of Hamburger Helper deep in the trash, and said, “I tried a new recipe, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it,” as I handed out plates of Cheesy Italian Shells. Bill and the boys sucked it down like manna, which made me wonder why the hell I spend time and money preparing Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto, lovingly topped with shaved fresh parmigiano-regiano, when apparently I could serve them Kibbles and Bits with milk and be just as popular.

Bill and I put the boys to sleep, and then we got in bed. I tried to concentrate on an article in the New Yorker about the popularity of food shows, but our damn dog kept barking and yipping. It didn’t seem to bother Bill at all but it was driving me berserk so finally I stomped out of the room and let the mongrel in the house to try to make him shut up. (Which it didn’t, and he’s still FREE to a good home anyone who wants him, and if possible he’s even more annoying than I previously described. If you have a neighbor who’s thinking about moving and you’d like to encourage that, this is the “pet” for you.)

Anyway, when I was letting the dog in, I saw a roach scurry across the deck into the darkness, and something in me snapped.

Grimly, I went to the bedroom and put on some jeans and shoes, and then I returned to the kitchen and got the Raid and a flashlight from under the sink. I stepped quietly onto the deck and turned the flashlight on the wall near the grill. I sprayed a shot of Raid at the drain spout behind the grill, and an army of roaches ran in all directions along the wall. I blasted them with the Raid, aiming carefully at each one until he either flipped on his back or started crawling in circles, then turning my attention to the others.

By the end of the battle, I was almost suffocated with the smell of Country Fresh Raid and the deck looked like an abattoir*, littered with roach corpses too numerous to count. I surveyed the scene and was satisfied.

I went inside and washed my hands and replaced the flashlight. The kitchen still smelled faintly of Cheesy Italian Shells and chocolate cake. The can of Raid was was empty, so I tossed it and wrote “Raid” in black Sharpie on my grocery list on the refrigerator. As I headed back to bed, I felt better than I had in days.

I am proud to be a cook and a murderer. Tonight we’re having Salmon with Fresh Ginger Sauce, and after everyone goes to bed, I plan to continue my killing spree. Care to join me?

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*spelling bee word

September 23, 2006

In Which I Discover That Porter Has Been Hired By The Government

Like most Americans, I’m used to giving up some of my privacy. That’s the price you pay when you’re the Lone Vagina surrounded by Peckers. My house is permeated with the smell of stinky feet and littered with marbles, hickory nuts and boxer briefs. There are boys running everywhere, and only my bathroom is sacred ground.

Generally the boys are busy playing outside after school: climbing trees, riding bikes, setting up obstacle courses. I can prep dinner in the kitchen in relative peace, unless it rains.

So you can imagine my surprise when I was putting some of Porter’s spent shotgun shell collection into his room and discovered some disturbing papers. I thumbed through them in astonishment. Apparently Porter has been masquerading as a hungry eight-year-old, but is really a well-trained spy who accomplishes his investigative assignments with ruthless thoroughness.

This appeared to be one of his first assignments:

After some study, I was able to break the code: “Mission is to see what time it [is] without being seen. 2:08 Mission done.”

That wasn’t so bad. Porter could have accomplished that in his room simply by looking at his clock. Then I saw his next file:

“No sign of Mommy.”

Well, that was unsettling. What was the kid doing sneaking around the house looking for me? Who needed to know my whereabouts? What if I was shaving my legs, or trying on bras? Would he have reported that to someone?

Bill was easier for Porter to locate, and he immediately advised his superiors:

“My dad is loading the dishes.”

Was Porter’s boss a member of the older generation, who’d never believe that a husband would be loading the dishwasher? Would he think that Porter was a double-agent? Would they torture Porter to find out? The more I read, the more anxious I became.

Apparently Porter was instructed to continue tracking my movements, because this was the last entry I found:

“Mommy is cracking a egg.”

I’ve cracked eggs almost every day the last week. Was this a euphemism for some other activity, like forcing Porter to wash his hair?

I like to keep a close eye on all my boys, but I’ve been watching Porter especially attentively since this discovery. I bet he has a hidey-hole in the front yard where he deposits his reports. Maybe that man who walks his dogs every morning while he smokes a cigar is not a suburban neighbor, but a government agent collecting information on our family.

One answer remained unsolved– how did the feds convince Porter to spy for them and write up such detailed reports? This morning I carefully examined his room again. Something about his sock drawer seemed amiss:

I threw all the socks on the floor, and found the secret to Porter’s cooperation:

He is being paid in candy, primarily in exotically colored M & Ms.

My plan is to cook Porter’s favorite dinner for him tonight, follow that with some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and then snuggle with him and get him to confess everything. The feds are no match for a mother.

September 21, 2006

Finn’s Fashion Wisdom

This morning as we were getting ready for school, Finn said, “Mom, I really love this shirt. It’s so soft and comfortable.”

“Great,” I said, as I brushed a big tangle out of the back of his hair. I think it looks pretty good myself, considering it cost around $10 at Target.

“The girls dig it, too,” Finn remarked, as he started packing up his backpack.

Bill looked up from his Special K with a look of confusion. “How do you know the girls ‘dig it?’” he asked.

“Well, when I wear it, the girls flirt with me,” Finn said, handing me his agenda to sign.

“How do you know they’re flirting?” Bill asked.

Finn looked at Bill pityingly. “Dad, you just know. I mean, when I wear it, they’re like, all over me and stuff.”

“All over you?” I yelped. “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

“If he is, I don’t have any idea at all where he got that from,” Bill said.

“I don’t mean they literally climb on me,” Finn said. “What they do is, like, Kristin will be on the other side of the room, and she’ll say (and here Finn used a high-pitched voice) ‘Finn, would you mind bringing me a pencil?’ Or sometimes they’ll ask for a book or help reaching something on a shelf, but you know they could’ve gotten it themselves.”

“So what do you do?” I asked.

Finn shrugged. “I’ll tell them it’s no problem and I’ll go get the pencil or whatever. What they really mean is that they want to see you walk across the room and use your manly muscles. I figure I’ve got ‘em so I might as well show ‘em off,” he said nonchalantly.

I turned my back to Finn and pretended to be very busy pouring another cup of coffee so he couldn’t see my face.

“So dude,” Bill said, “do you really work it?”

“Oh yeah,” Finn answered. “I make sure I flex my muscles while I walk across the room and back, because that’s what the girls really want to see. The pencil is just an excuse.”

Just then Chatty Mom drove up and honked and all the boys ran out the door.

Bill and I looked at each other, processing this new information.

“Honey, do you think we ought to go ahead and start saving up for a home condom machine?” Bill asked. “I think we might need it for peace of mind.”

September 17, 2006

In Which I Declare Myself The Victor In The Breast Wars

Here’s a multiple choice test to get you in the mood for today’s column. If you saw this, what would you do?

1. Grab a frying pan, a mallet, butter, capers, lemon juice, and wine and make a delicious chicken piccata.

2. Say, “Modern art doesn’t interest me very much, but I hear there’s a fabulous new lunch place down the street.”

3. Slap those suckers on your chest and strut your stuff like Dolly Parton.

All are good answers, but in my world, the correct answer is 3.

Behold: the NuBra.

Those of you who have been keeping up with the replica of my breast I made out of food and the embarrassment I suffered when I tried on approximately forty bras with Bill’s help due to a roller-blading accident (rather than privately as I had planned) will be happy to hear that the Breast Wars are over.

First, a little background on my bra situation prior to the beginning of the wars. Before I discovered that there is a bra for women like me (women with itty-bitty titties topped with fireplug nipples), I was resigned to the fact that if I wanted a bra that actually fit, I’d be wearing two triangles of fabric with a little rosebud centered between them. This is the kind of bra you buy in the preteen section at Macy’s–the ones where the package shows some girls at a sleepover painting each others’ nails. When the wars began, at a minimum I hoped to purchase a bra from the women’s department bearing a tag that pictured an actual grownup wearing the bra (preferably a woman).

The best solution I had found to hide my perma-nips was the NuBra, which is a sticky, gel-like breast form you stick on top of your boobs. You can use it as a regular bra or a strapless bra, if you’re small-breasted, like me. As long as you wash it off after each use, you can wear it over and over.

The NuBra has two drawbacks. One is that it’s funny looking, which is why Bill often says,”You wearing those chicken breasts out tonight?”

The other is that the forms don’t stick so well when you have sweaty boobs.

Aunt Lulu had a lovely outdoor wedding on a sweltering day in May 2004. In Alabama. Here is a picture of me just before the ceremony, when both sides of my NuBra were firmly attached to my breasts, sort of filling up the front of my extremely pink dress.

There were four bridesmaids, and we all stood in the searing sun wearing our chicken breasts as Aunt Lulu and her husband promised and vowed. Just as I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back, I heard a thwa-kink! and another thwa-kink! and I realized that my NuBra had popped off and was nestling in the band of my dress between my boobs and my stomach. A moment later I heard several fainter, but unmistakable thwa-kinks! on both sides of me, and soon there were four bridesmaids standing up front with eight uncovered nipples in thin Pepto dresses. We walked down the aisle with our NuBras lying limply at the bottom of the bodice of our dresses.

I tried to stick it back on several times, but it was a hot day and I was dancing and sweaty and therefore unsuccessful. Here’s a picture of me later, after I stuffed the chicken breasts in my purse and resolved to party all night, regardless of nipple protrusion.

“My dress is caving in and I don’t care! Cheers to Aunt Lulu!”

So the NuBra is good, but not great in my climate. A real bra that fastens with straps and snaps would have been helpful in that circumstance.

Another recent discovery I’ve made is this product:

Low Beams are basically flower-shaped band-aids that you put on your bosoms to paste your nipples down. They certainly flatten my Tootsie Rolls, but they don’t add any fluffiness to my pancake. And at $9 for 5 pair, I find them pricey. I do like the package, though, which has a key ring and the slogan “Headlights are for cars.”

Because neither the NuBra nor the Low Beams fully met my boobie needs, I whiled away an afternoon at a lingerie shop while I was in New York waiting on Aunt Lulu to have her large bundle of joy. There an elderly woman measured me and pronounced me a 34AA, not a 36AA as the last three “breast experts” had. My bust size is difficult to assess, not because I’m uncooperative or unduly modest, but because I have a hump under my right shoulder blade because of my scoliosis, and even my second spine surgery didn’t reduce it. Apparently I stood different ways for the various women who measured me and that accounted for the discrepancy in the calculations.

The difference between a 34 and a 36 mattered because the cups in a 34AA are smaller than those in a 36AA, and tinier cups were exactly what I needed, as I illustrated with fruit in the second part of my description of the wars.

Once I had the correct numbers and letters to work with, the sales lady advised me that Wacoal is great with petite bras, and her suggestions were right on the money.

To my great delight, I arrived home with five bras that fit.

I bought this bra in ivory and nude:

You can just take my word for it that it doesn’t mush in if you press on it, and there’s no extra room for an avocado or turnip in the cup.

Then I bought this bra because it has a bow:

You do remember that Bill has a thing for bows, don’t you?

That’s why I think he’ll go wild for this bra, which I bought in nude and black:

That’s not just a bow; it’s a lace-up mini-corset looking thing, which is far sexier than anything I’ve ever worn on a bra before. I don’t think this ad gives you a true picture of the vixenish quality of this brassiere. For a lady used to slapping silicone chicken breasts on her front and calling it a day, this is a definite improvement.