Make Room for Ducks

I received an email from someone about an "amazing duck rescue," complete with a half-dozen pictures. Something about the details bothered me, so I went to Snopes.com and was surprised to discover that the story is true, but some moe-ron had changed the city from Spokane to San Antonio, and several helpful bystanders into San Antonio police officers. Isn't that just bizarre? Why would someone do that? The story on its own is heartwarming.

Anyways... that would have been the end of it, but someone else sent me a link to a video of the event! I guess every moment of life is now on video somewhere. That alone ought to cure everyone of nose-picking. Go see Banker Helps Mother Duck and her Ducklings.

Good Morning, Starshine :)

I was having a sleepless night. I admit it. I came into the living room at 5 am, having given up on pretending to sleep, pretending to try to sleep, pretending I might fall asleep, etc. I believe I mentioned that I live close to a commercial district that includes many bars. Too many bars. Occasionally, drunks stumbling home feel compelled to make noise, but it's usually just an unrestrained whoop or profanity.

There was a time when I went to some of these same bars, and drank too much, and stayed too late. But I always had a mortal fear of being the pathetic female drunk who Makes a Spectacle, so I tended to go to the other extreme. The more inebriated I became, the more self-conscious and withdrawn, so no scene, no screeching, no waking the neighbors. Friends could all agree: I'm a lot more trouble sober than drunk. But I'm the exception. Drunks of both genders behave badly, but I expect more of girl people. Yeah, vestiges of sexism, I guess.

This morning, at 5 am, it was two drunk girl people, fighting with each other. Of course, since they were girls, and very, very drunk, the fight consisted of them screeching at each other, one at the level of oh, say, an air raid siren, the other sort of a conversational sonic boom. Unfortunately, they were on the far side of the canal, so running them over just required more energy and planning than I could muster. The fight had disintigrated to:
"You shut up!"
"No, You shut up!"
"YOU shut up, I MEAN it!"
"NO, YOU SHUT THE F___ UP!"

So I couldn't resist yelling out my window, "Why don't you BOTH SHUT UP?" They were startled into silence for about 5 seconds, then presented a united front: "No, YOU SHUT UP!" Okay, I'd had enough. I called 911 and reported two screaming females at their location. Almost instantly, a cop car cruised by at about 10mph... and the rocket surgeons decided to call it a night. (Don't tell me to shut up, beeyotch!)

The Best Tortilla Soup Recipe

1. In a large stock pot, bring to a boil:
6C chicken stock (can use chicken or vegetable bouillon)
2-3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 Tbs fresh or dried cilantro
1 Tbs ground cumin
2 tsp chili powder
1/8 tsp cayenne pepper or dash of red pepper sauce
1-2 stalks of celery, chopped
1-2 carrots, chopped
Reduce to simmer until chicken is cooked through.

2. In large saucepan, combine
2 Tbs vegetable oil
1-2 minced garlic cloves
1/2 large white or yellow onion, chopped
simmer until onion is clear, then add 6-8 corn tortillas, thinly sliced. Stir just until softened & remove from heat

3. In a blender or food processor, put
1 13-oz. can crushed or chopped tomatoes (I use a Mexican blend)
the cooled onion, garlic & tortilla mixture
Whiz until it is a thick liquid, then add to soup pot. Remove chicken breasts, chop or shred, and return to soup. Optional: add 1 can of kernel corn.

Garnishes: In the same sauce pan, add another Tbs of oil, thinly slice 2-3 tortillas and stir-fry over medium high heat to make crispy. Remove promptly & drain on paper. (An alternative is 2-3 crumbled corn chips, but this really is better.)

Pour hot soup into bowls. On top, sprinkle crispy corn tortillas, generous pinch of shredded Monterey Jack cheese, and a big squeeze from fresh lime.

This was cobbled from several different recipes, and I think it's the best. Try it to see if you agree; next time, you will double the recipe. It freezes well, too. All of the seasonings are "to taste." I add a lot more cilantro and hot sauce. And, yes, I can pronounce all the ingredients!

The Killer Instinct

My lot seems to be some kind of Happy Hunting Grounds for the food chain. Animals come from all over the city to die here. And I don't do Dead Things, period. (At least, nothing bigger than a spider.) When my neighbor Susie was alive, bless her heart, she was my animal undertaker for anything squirrel-sized or smaller. That was almost everything: squirrels, birds, mice, chipmunks, bunnies. Only once* was there a critter beyond her ken.

Miss Molly, my sweet little petunia of a pup, has a killer instinct that apparently cannot be tamed. Several years ago, she killed two chipmunks and a squirrel in less than three weeks. This was after Susie's death; I imposed on three different neighbors to cart off the carcasses. A few weeks later, Miss Molly tried to get another squirrel, but somehow the beast turned around and bit her before she could assassinate it. She got a bloody fat lip for her trouble, and seemed to have learned her lesson.

And life has been peaceful since then. The occasional dead bird, of natural causes, but nothing more than that... until yesterday. Molly managed to snag another chipmunk, and I had to impose on yet another neighbor to "save me" from this palm-sized Dead Thing. Maybe she's punishing me for being a quasi-vegetarian?

*The Big Beast: For several years, I had a compost pile in "the north forty," a small patch on the far side of my garage. One day I happened to notice a very large brown furry thing had apparently died right on top. Susie eyed it from 20 feet away and deemed it Too Big; certainly much bigger than a squirrel. I recruited my neighbor Dan, shamelessly impugning his manhood if he dared refuse, and he puffed up and rose to the task. A few minutes later, Dan knocked at my front door.

"You said the compost heap, right?" he asked.
"Right."
"The one in back of the garage?"
"Right..." and I noticed he had the shovel in his hand.
"OMIGOD," my brain was doing cartwheels. "He's brought the Dead Thing on to my PORCH!"
"Then I guess this is what you were talking about..."
He started to turn the shovel toward me as I started to scream.
And then he reached over and GRABBED the Dead Thing! In his hand! And held it up for me to see!
It was a giant, brown furry...TEDDY BEAR!

He and Susie nearly laughed themselves into seizures, and never tired of retelling the story of how I was saved from a ferocious dead Teddy Bear.

Laundry Issues

#1) The Great Laundry Mystery:
Why Do My Clothes Want to be Inside-Out?

When I undress and toss clothes into the laundry basket, I turn them right-side out. But let's say I forget, maybe half the time. I take the basket downstairs, and as I load the clothes into the washer, I make sure they're all right-side out. And when the washing is done and I transfer them to the dryer... about half the clothes have turned themselves inside out again! I turn them right-side out again as I load the dryer, and when the drying cycle is finished, yes, you guessed it: about half the clothes are inside-out again.

It's one of the great mysteries of the universe. Why are we here, and why do my clothes want to be inside-out?

One Year Ago

One year ago... I hadn't started this blog yet, but I was writing regularly in a journal I started shortly after the diagnosis. I read it last night, to remember where I was exactly one year ago.

I had almost forgotten what a low point I'd reached. I'd had a $750 car repair bill, $500 of which was flushed down the toilet through an unscrupulous shop (FIRESTONE! Their name is FIRESTONE!) that did nothing but take my money, necessitating another $250 for an actual repair at a reputable shop. Before I'd recovered, I was hit with a $2,300 plumbing repair. $1,000 of that was covered by homeowner's insurance, but $1,300 was still quite a bite. My cherished Tulip Poplar tree was being attacked by something, an insect or fungus. The only hope was a hard pruning, which I did, but I didn't yet know if the tree would recover. Last year, May was #5 of 6 chemo cycles. My goal had been to avoid the food stamp office during chemo; the waiting area always sounds like a tuberculosis ward. But I managed to get a food stamp caseworker who refused to return phone calls, necessitating three increasingly hysterical personal visits to the food stamp office. I finally filed a formal complaint; I don't know if she got fired or not, but I finally got a different caseworker.

It wasn't all bad, though. In fact, many wonderful blessings were coming my way. It was like a study in proportional ratios: the kindnesses of friends, family, and a few generous strangers made up for the misery that was being heaped upon me.

A Week of Eating Phoenetically

I watched Dr. Oz on Oprah today talking about what our bodies need. Coincidentally, I read a little blurb in "O" magazine about food additives. So starting tomorrow, I'm committing to one week of eating phoenetically: I will only eat things I can pronounce.

That's going to cut way down on my convenience fare. I will be getting protein mostly from eggs and the cocktail shrimp that are always in my freezer. I will also be working my way through some ancient frozen fruit that will finally fulfill its destiny as fruit smoothies. Luckily, I had stopped at Trader Joe's today, so I have some Veggie & Flaxseed Tortilla Chips, plenty of nuts, and some lowfat Chocolatey Cats Cookies, but overall, I'm going to make an effort to reduce my snacking. I no longer have the excuse of steroids (HALLELUJAH!) so this seems like a good first step to paring off some of the steroid blubber. Wish me luck!