Crabby Sunday - Oven Smoked Chicken Lollipops and Bacon Wrapped Corn on the Cob

I sat and watched and waited and hoped the little lizard would turn magenta like my bougainvillea, but no such luck. For sure, he's not getting that job with Valspar.

Just so you know, I've got a headache and an attitude.  There, got that out of the way.

Soak 'em if you got 'em

Look, if you don't have a container of this chicken spice rub in one of your cabinets, your life is much poorer for it.  Mix this up and put it aside - we're smoking lollipops later today.

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1/2 tablespoon McCormick's dark chili powder

1/2 tablespoon Badia chili powder
1 tablespoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon ground coriander
2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1 teaspoon ground fennel seed

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 tablespoon coarsely ground black pepper

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

I post a lot about so-called "invisible diseases" both here and on Facebook because it sucks to have people think you are faking your aching because you don't show traditional marks and scars. Sometimes, it seems that I am one of those people who has trouble  believing that I am always in pain.  I think this is what my cousin Sheryl meant when she said she had fibromyalgia, but she was in denial.

I guess I've been in denial for a few truly precious days, but all good things come to an end.  My back pain has become really awful.  Crippling, you might say. But I am used to that; that's why God created Advil,  The scary thing of late is the pain in my legs and the resulting difficulty in climbing stairs.  The bedrooms and family bathroom are upstairs, naturally.

I'm crabby and I'm agitated and my medication is taking its sweet ass time becoming fully effective.  I finally gave up on being patient with my kitchen sink, and I start cooking.  Handwashing took place in the office bathroom, so I guess I did my exercise walking in the house.  Today was about smoked chicken lollipops and bacon wrapped corn on the cob. I'm still working on timing and temperature, which is annoying me.

Still no Sloppy Josephine. Tomorrow, God willing. And biscuits, I love my biscuits.

Chicken Ood? Ask a Whovian.

Oven-Smoked Chicken Lollipops

These were AWESOME. And adorable.  Having said that, I confused myself on the timing, shuttling back and forth between convection to conventional oven, bottom heat to top only heat sources and changing temperature willy-nilly.  The hardest part of this recipe is creating the lollipop, but it's not that bad, and gets easier as you keep working on them.  This is the page I referred to for general instructions, but you can certainly look elsewhere.  No matter what, you've got to have a very sharp boning knife and heavy duty kitchen shears.

12 chicken legs, frenched (creates the lollipops)
Spice rub, above
Apple wood chips, soaked in water for at least an hour
Top quality barbecue sauce
Wildflower honey

Season the chicken all over with the spice rub.  Cover with foil and refrigerate for 1 to 2 hours. When you are ready to start smoking, preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Add the drained wood chips to the bottom of a 9 by 13 aluminum baking dish.

Set the chicken lollipops into an aluminum veggie grill pan (perforated) and then place it on top of the wood chips.

Cover this with an upside-down aluminum pan, and use a very large piece of heavy duty aluminum foil to wrap and enclose everything so that the smoke will remain inside with the chicken.  Set this inside the preheated oven (the heat source has to be on the bottom).

Now here's where things get dicey because I was experimenting with time and temperature.  But what I should have done at this point is to leave the oven on this high heat for 30 to 45 minutes, and then without opening the oven door, lowering the temperature to between 235 and 250 degrees and let the chicken continue to cook another few hours, checked the internal temperature after the first 2 hours, then letting the chicken cook till finished with an internal temperature of about 170 degrees.  I did the whole thing backwards and never really got the smoke production I was hoping for.  In spite of that, the smoke was light and very pleasant.  Next time, hopefully a little more smoke.

To finish these lovely lollipops, remove the foil and top pan, and raise the oven temperature to 350 degrees. While the oven is preheating, brush the chicken with barbecue sauce (I used Jimmy Bear's) and then drizzle with the honey.  Place back in the oven, uncovered, for 5 to 10 minutes, just enough time to develop a glaze.

In the Oven Bacon-Wrapped Corn on the Cob

This is easy but aggravating, because I left the husk on the cob, like I would if I was preparing it on the gas grill.  That confused my timing, so I have nothing definitive to pass on to you, except for my "next time."

Next time, I may or may not soak the corn in water and sugar, after removing the husk and of course, the silk. Then I will wrap each ear of corn with 2 pieces of bacon and sprinkle with my favorite seasoning-of-the-moment.  Next I will cook the corn under the broiler, turning so that the bacon cooks on all sides. When done, I will brush each ear of corn with a little melted butter on all sides, and sprinkle on a bit more seasoning (I used Emeril's Essence) and sugar.

I would suggest you google various methods for cooking this in the oven, but this gives you a basic idea.

(Don't even ask what I did, as I overcomplicated what should be a simple but really tasty side dish.)

This popped up on Facebook just as I was finishing up today's post. Timing, eh?

WTF, It's Saturday, Sad To Say No Chicken Lollipops Today

The morning walk through my northern exposure

I've always liked the character of Lady Macbeth.  Now that may seem a bit cold, given the terrible things she set into motion, but you can't deny that she was irresistible in a pathological kind of way.  If your high school English curriculum did not included at least one Shakespeare play each year, I pity you. There is much of human nature there, that even as a callow youth I could take to heart and appreciate. Which is why I took Shakespeare at the college level, which caused me to read seven tragedies and seven comedies during the course of the semester.  Those were good days at a bad university.

The "Three Witches" from the Sisterhood of Karn

Macbeth was one of my early literary acquisitions, my third Shakespeare play, studied in my junior year of high school.  I much preferred the tragedies, which is not an odd statement from someone who has been depressed since 1957.  What stuck with me from Macbeth was not the Three Witches (although they were my first thought at the appearance of the Sisterhood of Karn in a mini-episode of "Doctor Who") but Lady Macbeth's obsessive hand washing. 

Doctor:
What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

Gentlewoman:
It is an accustom'd action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of
an hour.

Lady Macbeth:
Yet here's a spot.

Doctor:
Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to
satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady Macbeth:
Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then
'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky.—Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier, and
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him?

Macbeth Act 5, scene 1, 26–40

Over the years, I have developed what I call my "Lady Macbeth Hand Washing Thing" which has nothing to do with murder, guilt, or madness, but everything to do with chicken, egg wash, and meatballs.  When I cook, which is, as you know, shockingly frequent, I cannot stand the feeling of anything on my hands.  I am one of those cooks who believes that the best utensils are at the end of my wrists, like a socially acceptable Edward Scissorhands.  I have no problem using my hands to do everything short of whipping cream, but I have to be able to wash them with plenty of hand soap or dishwashing liquid and copious amounts of very hot water after each stage in the process.

Tomatoes and okra, eventually

Today's cooking problem has to do with our recalcitrant kitchen plumbing.  My ability to wash my hands, as long and as often as I will need to, has been completely compromised.  Anything I do will only add to the mess that has been building up since Thursday.

What I had planned was nothing short of OCD-handwashing-inducing. CHICKEN LOLLIPOPS. Smoked in my oven. (Hey, the temperature hasn't gone below 95 in several weeks. If you want to stand over a smoking hot gas grill for a couple of hours, be my guest.)  Fried pickle spears.  Bacon-wrapped corn on the cob.  Sloppy Josephine.  Sprightly Southern Biscuits.

SSSSSMOKIN' chips

Perhaps this is all just as well.  For the third day in a row, I am in all-over back and leg pain.  My left arm looks like it got caught in a meat-mangler. Standing to cook and wash hands is probably more than I should be doing. I guess I knew that when I went out early this morning to peruse and plan my garden, and I tired out from walking around the corner.  And I live on the corner.

Yes. I broke the board with my elbow, before the Dark Times, before the Fibromyalgia

But I've also got this hyperactivity thing - I've got a lot of things - and sitting still is not something I do well.  (You can only imagine what a joy it was to sit for the bar exam in 1991.)  The boys are both at a martial arts event, which left be alone with Woodrow, Chelsea, Indiana, Romeo, and Anakin.  You may ask how someone can be alone with that many pets, but they nap all day and I don't. So I did a bit of shopping (today, not in 1991) to pick up the remaining ingredients for the Sloppy Josephine, and that wore me out like a fast-paced taekwando belt testing with Senior Master.

Some of the ingredients for Sloppy Josephine

                 

Sloppy Josephine is the result of a culinary ménage a trois between Sloppy Joe and my recipes for Chili and Argentinian Beef Sauté, and has nothing to do with Josephine the Plumber.  As I've been working on this post throughout the day, I was absolutely certain I had published it previously, but no such luck. I'm going to have to type this puppy from scratch.  Tomorrow.

Josephine the Plumber

I Haven't Got Time For The Pain - Tortelloni with Roasted Grape Tomatoes

A little over a week ago, I was using the Internet to research methods of committing suicide.  Today, I was using the Internet to research methods of growing cucumbers.  I have to conclude that things are looking up.

For the first time in a number of days, I was able to spend some time in my garden.  Between the multiple daily rain storms, doctor's appointments, and suicidal ideation, I had neglected my little patch of vegetable heaven. Some of the plants benefitted by being left to the elements for a little while, but others are in need of a little clean up.  Maybe a lot of clean up.  Gotta put in some cones to support the tomato plants and okra and some sort of trellis for the bougainvillea and cucumber.  Lots of weeding, but that's going to have to wait until my back gets over whatever is making it cranky.  This is the worst back pain I've had for a while, and my doctor doesn't run a pill mill, thank God, so there's going to be some suffering.  And an ear worm:

Suffering was the only thing that made me feel I was alive
Though that's just how much it cost to survive in this world
'til you showed me how, how to fill my heart with love
How to open up and drink in all that white light
Pouring down from the heaven
I haven't got time for the pain ...

Maybe I should take an Advil.

I cooked because the grape tomatoes were approaching the End of Times, and you know how I hate to waste food.  I'm glad I did.

Sweet Italian Sausage Tortelloni with Peas and Roasted Grape Tomatoes

2 1/2 pints of grape tomatoes (about 5 cups) - for the best flavor, mix the colors - I used red and orange grape tomatoes
5 cloves of fresh garlic, smashed and sliced
My seasoning salt, to taste
herbes de provence, to taste
granulated sugar, to taste
cayenne pepper, to taste
4 tablespoons of garlic olive oil (more as needed)
1 stick of butter

2 - 9 oz. packages fresh tortelloni (I used Buitoni sweet Italian sausage) cooked according to package directions
1 - 15 oz package frozen steam-in-the-bag green peas, cooked according to package directions

4 basil leaves, cut into chiffonade
grated Romano and/or Parmesan

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Place the tomatoes in a single layer in a 9 x 13 aluminum baking pan.  Drizzle the tomatoes with the olive oil, and then add some seasoning salt, herbes de provence, sugar and cayenne pepper.  Place into the preheated oven and roast for 30 minutes.  The tomatoes should have released a good part of their juices and appear somewhat wrinkled but not dried out.  Stir around so that the garlic doesn't stick and burn.  Add the stick of butter and return to the oven for another 15 to 20 minutes.  Taste and reseason.  Add about three-quarters of the cooked tortelloni right into the pan with the tomatoes, then between 1/2 to 1 cup of the peas, and stir to combine.  Finish with the basil chiffonade and cheese. 

The kitchen sink is, inexplicably, as backed up as the eastbound Long Island Expressway on a Friday afternoon in July.  The bad news is that the 90-year old plumbing is being stubbornly resistance to all of Robert's attempts to commit chemical warfare on pipes that are older than he is.  The really bad news is that this is likely going to necessitate an expensive call to Josephine the Plumber, a nice lady who likes to get paid for any work she does.  I don't blame her.  I blame the pipes.

How to become a drug addict - Simka's Latkas

I actively practiced law for 24 years, and 23 of them were in the juvenile dependency system.  Most people have never heard of dependency, so I usually just say that I do child abuse law.  While this gives most people a better idea of my professional focus, it doesn't begin to describe the full breadth of my specialty.

In court with Judge Dawson, some of my best years

By the way, I still don't feel like cooking today.  There is a ridiculous amount of cooked food in the house already.  It will be sometime next month before anyone goes hungry in this household, so I can afford to take a break. I am just a bit concerned that my resolve may slip and I will start hand-grating a couple of potatoes.  If that happens, you will be the first to know.

(15) “Child who is found to be dependent” means a child who, pursuant to this chapter, is found by the court:

(a) To have been abandoned, abused, or neglected by the child’s parent or parents or legal custodians;

(e) To have no parent or legal custodians capable of providing supervision and care;

(f) To be at substantial risk of imminent abuse, abandonment, or neglect by the parent or parents or legal custodians; or

(g) To have been sexually exploited and to have no parent, legal custodian, or responsible adult relative currently known and capable of providing the necessary and appropriate supervision and care.

This is not a very happy area of law, or social work for that matter.  We burn out like a bunch of crispy critters, and that's no lie. The fact that our devotion to the kids doesn't easily permit us to get out while the getting is good just makes it worse.  As far back as 1998, my therapist suggested that I find another area of law in which to practice.  Oh well, that is water under the proverbial bridge.  Now he's just relieved that I am retiring.

I could spend hours writing on the topic of child abuse and neglect, but I really want to focus on drugs. Drugs are bad.  I should know; my mother Joyce died of a heroin overdose when I was very young, and that, my friends, fucked up her family for life. It is a simple truth that when a parent abuses drugs, their ability to care for their child is deeply impaired.

Oh jeez, I started grating potatoes for a recipe I am going to call "Simka's Latkes".  If you don't get the joke, hire a taxi and come on over to my house for coffee and an explanation.  Or you can use google.   Let's go back to drugs.

Because of my mother, and because of what I've seen in my 23 years in dependency court, I have a "thing" about drugs.  It is bad enough when an individual chooses to engage in drug use; it's worse when the person causing the addiction is your doctor.

Just because a doctor prescribes it doesn't make it right.  I've seen some medical records which shocked the hand-knitted socks right off my feet.  Types of medications, huge amounts, bad combinations.  Result - one addicted patient who is going to be waiting in the pill-pusher's parking lot every Monday morning.  He or she has time to wait for you because their child is in foster care, or if lucky, at Grandma's house. Because the drugs that Dad or Mom insist on taking have impaired them to the extent that their child is at risk of harm, of being abused, abandoned, or neglected.  And that, dear friends, is the definition of a dependent child.

Everybody goes to a judicial review every six months to see how Dad or Mom is doing. At the second judicial review, the DCF attorney announces that the case plan goal has been changed to termination of parental rights.  And all because of "legal" prescriptions and a dishonest doctor.

What drives me crazy - and it doesn't take much - are these 23 year old parents who claim to be in excruciating pain from a minor fender bender or a slip and fall in Walmart.  An honest doctor would steer them away from the oxycodone, or limit its use, or at very least, not combine its administration with Xanax and Dilaudid.  A dishonest doctor would take their money and write those prescriptions, which they would then fill in the pharmacy the doctor happens to own.

(The doctor was finally arrested for manslaughter and trafficking and a couple of other bad things.  I hope he likes it in jail.  It's where a lot of his patients ended up for a variety of reasons related to their addiction.)

The moral of the story?  Find an honest doctor who will avoid turning you into a freakazoid drug zombie. If you do have pain, create a blog and complain about the pain every day.  Don't ever accept a prescription for oxycodone.  Learn to just say no.  Also learn to put pain in perspective.  If you are a parent, think about how awful you're going to feel when my able successor files a shelter petition against you. Don't hide behind the apparent legality of your choice of drugs. We figured that one out a long time ago. You get the idea.

Since I started this rant, the day has gone south and I am (surprise!) really angry with the President and his whole administration about the tragedy in Chattanooga. Maybe tomorrow, if my head won't explode, I'll be politically incorrect (no, really?)

This is an easy recipe, with a slightly different flavor from a "real" potato latke, a subtle sweetness that does not overwhelm.  Forget the whole sour cream-applesauce debate, and serve both as accompaniments.  Gives new meaning to "double dipping."

Simka's Latkes

(Simchah is Yiddish for a happy occasion, or celebration.  Latka is her husband.)

2 Russet potatoes

1 sweet potato

1/2 medium sweet onion, chopped finely

1/2 tablespoon chopped fresh dill

2 extra large eggs, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon coarse ground black pepper

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 teaspoon sugar

1/2 cup Goya rice flour

Peel and grate the Russet potatoes.

Cut the ends off of the sweet potato.  Place it in a saucepan, cover with water, and bring to a boil over high heat.  Lower the heat, cover the pan, and parboil the sweet potato for just 5 minutes.  Immediately remove from the heat and discard the hot water.  Cover the sweet potato with ice and cold water.  When it is cooled enough to handle, peel with a small sharp knife.  Grate the peeled and parboiled sweet potato into the same bowl with the Russets.

Place the shredded potatoes into a clean kitchen towel and squeeze out excess liquid.

Stir the onion and dill into the grated potatoes.  Add the beaten eggs and stir well to combine.  Add the remaining ingredients and stir well.  Heat an inch or two of canola oil over medium-high heat.  Test the flavor by frying one small latke so it can be tasted.  Adjust the seasonings.  Start frying the latkes, four at a time, using an ice cream scoop to measure them out.  Fry on both sides until GBD (golden brown and delicious).  Drain on paper towels, and serve hot.

This is a test of the Emergency Latke System ...

Both my boys liked them.  Booyah!  Sour cream and applesauce for everybody!  By the way, it is permissible to have latkes when it is not Hanukkah.  So carpe latke and have a good day.

How to become a drug addict - tomorrow

Piano Cat

But first, how to share a lovely social occasion with friends.

But before that, a few comments from the day:  I did not feel like cooking.  I needed a break from cooking.  I need to be able to eat something that I haven't personally cooked.  I need to be able to eat, period. God, the pain is constant.  I'm going to go back on Prilosec and hope for the best.

I love our new couches and being able to put up my feet.  So do the doggies and I even found Anakin sitting on my part of the couch this morning, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. I made it to my therapist's office; I had a phone message from the Very Nice Lady in Employee Relations asking for a doctor's note and I didn't freak out and throw the phone out the window.  I am still so stressed about this whole "separation" thing, it doesn't take much to set me off.  

Lap Cat

Today's "worst of all" had nothing to do with me personally, but hurt my very soul.

This headline:

Planned Parenthood facing investigations over ‘abhorrent’ video on body part shipments

This discussion captured on the video:

In the video, Nucatola is seen and heard discussing Planned Parenthood's policy of donating fetal tissue to researchers. The activists ask Nucatola whether clinics charge for the organs, which she skirts around.

The language is graphic.

"Yesterday was the first time she said people wanted lungs," she says. "Some people want lower extremities, too, which, that's simple. That's easy. I don't know what they're doing with it, I guess if they want muscle."

She described how they are able to get other organs without "crushing" them. "We've been very good at getting heart, lung, liver, because we know that, so I'm not gonna crush that part, I'm gonna basically crush below, I'm gonna crush above, and I'm gonna see if I can get it all intact."

I saw that, and then I cried.

Forget the drug thing - maybe tomorrow. That's a really evil story and I've had enough evil for today. Let's try to end on a high note:

Yesterday we met our friends, another married couple of A Certain Age (we're all Baby boomers) for drinks, steak dinners, and lots of catching up.  We keep in touch on Facebook, but it's not the same as good old face-to-face.

I met the husband from this lovely couple 46 years ago this September.  Yep, I was 16; do the math. This is another one of those stories about enduring friendships.  What is a little different about our story is how it all began.

Most of us have had long-term friendships, and my experience is that they start in a couple of standard ways - kids from the neighborhood, or schoolmates, or coworkers. That's just logical, I suppose - I even met my husband at college.  So technically speaking, I also met this friend in school, Lawrence High School.  All pretty customary, except -

He was the teacher.  One of those teachers who was very kind to me, then and throughout college, when I started showing serious signs of the anxiety and depression that would plague me the rest of my life.  Kind and thoughtful and supportive, utterly ethical and appropriate in his behavior.  Just the kind of teacher who always put students first.  And he married a lovely lady to boot, and we clicked, so - thank you both for being our friends.

About That Anger Thang

So yesterday I talked about letting go of anger.  But ha, that's a tough one.  Most of the time, I am running on a low simmer, just waiting to say something snarky.  I rode the NYC subway for many years, and I can cuss like nobody's business.  In three languages.

I can rant and rave and snap as necessary.  I can speak low and slow (like when you smoke pork ribs and brisket for the Kingsford Invitational) and that's probably a good time to back away from me and leave the room.

But the worst, and I mean absolute worst display of anger is when I speak to my victim using my mother's tone of voice.  All I have to do is channel my inner Beatrice Morris, and I can flay the skin off of any miscreant stupid enough to start with me. Oh yes, I have used the MTV (Mother's Tone of Voice) on certain judges over the years, especially while I was a redhead; it is unfortunate that on a certain day in March of this year, I was much too ill to summon my mother's spirit when I needed it most.  But while I am retiring from the practice of law, I can still write, I can still speak, and I still live in a country where freedom of speech counts for something.

And that's all I have to say about that, except to add that I continue to work on that anger thang, and I am stupendously, almost hysterically angry at President Obama.  If he were here right now, in MY house (incidentally, the White House has not always been white, but it has always been "The People's House") I would have to ask him, respectfully, what the fuck was he thinking of, negotiating with lying scumbag terrorists?  I would tell him:

I am an American, second generation on my father's side, third generation on my mother's side.  I believe this is the greatest country in the world.  I love having a United States passport, and I cry during the "Star Spangled Banner." (Yes, I really do leak tears before every Orlando Magic game.)

I am a Jew, back so many generations it cannot be calculated.  I support the State of Israel with my full heart and soul.  I like Bibi Netanyahu.  A lot.

These are the things that define me, Mr. President, and I am really pissed off that you and Secretary of State Lurch have put all of this at risk by playing hide-the-salami (you got screwed, dude) with those Iranian scum. You have made a terrible and costly mistake.  Look, I'll cut you a break with the Affordable Care Act, but this goes beyond the pale.  If - no, when - the Senate rejects this dreadful mess, put your considerable ego back into your pocket and resist the urge to veto them.

Terrorism is not an abstract concept that can be brushed under the rug with fancy words and unenforceable treaties.  Make no mistake about it, Iran is a terrorist state and they hate us. We the people have had enough of terrorist attacks on American soil.  You need to fix this, you really do.

This is Mike Opperman at a company baseball game, circa 1977. I took this photo with an instamatic camera, which accounts for the quality, or lack thereof. He was a gentle man, a good soul, a coworker who helped me when I transitioned from receptionist and dictaphone operator to broker's assistant.  As time went on, and we both left Alexander & Alexander, Mike moved up through the ranks with well-earned promotions. Time and again, he proved himself to be the incredibly talented and hardworking person he was up to the day of his death, September 11, 2001. He was 45 years old.

You can only imagine what this did to his family.  Or maybe you can't; your ability to empathize seems a bit skewed.

Michael Opperman is the face of he American victim of Islamic terrorism. Pay attention, Mr. President, because Mike's fate is what you have condemned us to, a world in which the bad guys  win. Google him to learn more about those terrible last minutes, about his wife and children, about the worst thing that can happen to people who only deserved to live long and happy lives together in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  And then, if you still don't get it, I want you to realize that the entire Islamic world is laughing behind your back.

Just to clarify (because there's always one jerk who takes criticism of a black president in the wrong way), I'm not a racist (and you're not black, anymore than Halle Berry or Bob Marley. You're biracial and should be proud of that fact. But that's another blog post.)  I am a realist, and even if you had purple skin covered with green polka dots, or were as fishbelly white as me, I would still be angry.  Beyond angry. Apoplectic. Enraged.  Infuriated. Livid.

Finally, because you are a guest in my house, I would serve you the best darn Jewish meal you ever had in your life.  Challah, gehaktah leber, goldene yoich with knaidlach and kreplach, stuffed cabbage, potato latkes, kasha varnishkes, brisket, roast chicken, lokshen kugel ... enough food to feed an army, or at least you and the Secret Service guys.  If my righteous profanity doesn't get you to change your mind, maybe my cooking will.  Maybe you will learn to appreciate the Jews and the State of Israel, and think twice about throwing Israel under the bus with this verkockte agreement.

I just want you to realize, with every bite, that the only things I got to prepare for Mike during the five years we worked together were cookies and an occasional cake.  Don't choke, Mr. President; just don't veto the Senate.

Be a mensch, Mr. President, and in the process you will save the Free World.

PSA - Why You Shouldn't End Up In a Psychiatric Hospital and Other Words of Wisdom

So I extricated myself from the behavioral center - a cute way of saying "mental health institution" or "funny farm", although there was nothing funny about this place - with a tremendous sense of relief, and fright, and shame.  Here I am with my bachelor's degree in psychology (okay, a very old degree, circa 1974), and 24 years experience as a social work attorney focusing on the mental health problems of thousands of parents and children, and I end up taking an unexpected vacation in the worst of all venues.  I could have been in Panama City Beach or Brooklyn, but instead I ended up in a truly horrible place, where the staff was almost uniformly unprofessional and acting in violation of HIPAA, where they obsessed about my eating but limited the quantity and time for me to eat (I lost weight there - my PCP is gonna be pissed), and the ward was comprised of folks who were, with one exception, in a lot worse shape than me. My one point of pride, if you could call it that, was that I was self-admitted, while my ward-mates were almost uniformly Baker Acted.  This was a place that was almost as horrible as that dark place in my mind, the one that researches suicide online. That's the lawyer in me, doing research on pills and ropes and trains. No guns; my hands are not strong enough to shoot most guns.

However awful the experience, I lived. and under the circumstances, I am willing to give my thanks to the psychiatric hospital and staff.  They must have done something right.

Yesterday I spoke with the Very Nice Lady in Human Resources about my upcoming "separation" from the State.  That's what they call it, rather than termination or "we're firing your ass."  She answered my questions, and after that I was better informed.  My husband has been a rock in helping me through this horror show.  My doctors have been gracious and truthful with me.

So goodbye, yellow brick ... something

I have to let go of my demons. And there are so many of them.  You don't get to the age of 62, almost 63, without some really hurtful baggage, filled with anguish, anger, pain, guilt, and worst of all, regrets.  So many regrets.

I need to let go of the loved ones who have died, leaving me bereft of their company.  I still grieve as though their passings were yesterday, so that the pain is as sharp as it was thirty years ago.  I have to let that pain fade, as it should.

I will have to say goodbye to my Pop and my Grandma, to Bethe and her beloved Maurice; and to all the furry babies who brought so much joy, especially both Ira cats, and Minerva, and Tuffy and Athene, Pixel, Polly, and Emeril.  I need to stop crying all the time.  It won't bring them back, and I know God is watching out for them.

I need to let go of my regrets, and my guilt.  I've made some terrible mistakes over the course of my life. I've hurt myself and worse than that, I've hurt other people, most of them inadvertently.  But I can't change what I've done; I've apologized where I could, but that's not always enough.  Unfortunately, it will have to be, and I have to learn to accept that.  I am not perfect, not even close.  Thankfully, no one died because of my mistakes, and that's the best I can say.  I can't change the past.

I have to learn to accept the present.  The fibromyalgia is not going to spontaneously disappear.  I will need to walk with a cane for the rest of my life.  I will have to compensate for the mental confusion.  I will have to walk away from the job that gave meaning to my life. I will never get my first degree black belt. I will continue to slow down, and one day, I will no longer be able to cook or knit.  Life is cruel, but it is the only game in town.  Best to live it in your own home, with the people you love.  Three days in a psychiatric hospital taught me that very bitter, frightening lesson.  I pray to God that I never have to do that again.

I have to let go of my anger.  It is the most corrosive of all emotions, one that I have tried to control most of my life. I can be vengeful, but in the end, it serves no purpose.

I need to recognize that over the course of my life, I have been primarily a good person. I've given people love and caring and I hope it brought each of them some degree of happiness. I have an exceptional husband and we raised a wonderful son.  I have my cousin Cary, my brother from another mother, and his wonderful family.  I have a surprising number of friends.  I have my wonderful in-laws, and cousins, nieces and nephews, and even a sister, Nora, and her daughter Rachel, and cousins I never knew, including the incredible Steve and his wife Cookie. I grieve for Larry and Freddie, the brothers I never got to know, and for my sister Patty, gone too young. My heart hurts when I think of my brother Elliot, what might of been, and what will never be. 

I simply have to let all the negative facts, figures, and connotations go.  I can't bring back the house in Flora Vista or the property on Central Avenue.  Time to move on.

Somehow, I will get this medical leave-disability-retirement thing straightened out, and when I do, I will be able to move onto the next phase of my life.  If my family history is any indication, I have another 30 years, and I want those to be good ones.  God willing and the crick don't rise.

By the way, I worry all the time about mental confusion and forgetfulness, but yesterday while driving home from the psychiatrist's office, I realized I could name all of the actors who had portrayed The Doctor.  This is a perfectly useless bit of knowledge, but it did make me smile.

Don't bother counting.

So here I am at yet another doctor's office, for an appointment that was set 6 weeks ago.  My daily routine used to involve going to court, attending staffings, drafting petitions - now it's all about going to this doctor or that therapist or another laboratory.  I cannot eat at all today.  Nothing tastes right to me, not even simple stuff like bread and butter.  I've been noticing that the temperature of food affects my ability and willingness to swallow the offending item.  I tried a small amount of dairy-based food recently: epic fail.  Serious digestive discomfort, definitely not worth the effort or the calories.

Today is not a bad day by any means. Our spiffy new couches were delivered.  Recliners, electronically operated.  We (Rob and Cory) moved the piano to a less-crowded spot.  We are meeting some very old friends (not their age, but the length of time we know them) for dinner.  So it's a good day, and I am thankful for that.

Oh crap, I just saw that the US reached a nuclear arms agreement with Iran.  It's raining, I'm stuck in the car, and lunch is stuck in my esophagus.  The day just tanked a bit.