The Annual Christmas Tragedy

It happens every year.

Before:

After.
Merry Christmas.

It is His Birthday After All

This year's look in "holiday" wrap chez moi.

Aphorisms I've Uttered Today

There's little education in the second kick of the mule.
Luck favors the prepared.

Introducing Art Underfoot

I would like to introduce you, faithful reader, to my friend KR. KR is new to the blogosphere and I think her blog will have the feel somewhat of this photo which I took at her establishment. Check it out.

Winter Light

One recent wintery morning I slept in and this is the photographic record of that momentous event. For more click here.

Where's my hat?

Some days I'm like a schizophrenic who's lost his aluminum foil hat. All that evil crappola out there in the world get super pointy all of a sudden and goes straight to my heart. Usually the badness out there just makes me want to work harder at fixing the bits I can get my hands on. Maybe it's because I don't feel too good. Maybe it's hormonal. Maybe it's the short and cold days of winter. But the last little while I just haven't found a constructive response to it all. This is painful for a natural born problem solver like me. I just can't figure out what to do with that criminal we call a president. I can't figure out how to make my dream of being a parent happen. I can't figure out how not to work myself into the ground and end up like my predecessor who retired too late and found he had nothing left of himself. I can't figure out how to help those shelterless Pakistanis who are slowly freezing to death in the rubble of their homes. I can't figure out how to get my colleagues to care about addiction and do something about it. Right now all I can do is throw bits of Milkbone for the dog to chase (Why should he be deprived? None of this is his fault after all.) and cry a little into my knitting. Once I find my hat maybe I'll organize some knitters for afghans for Afghans.

Lunch at Broadway and Bleeker St.

Lunch
Originally uploaded by still just me.

Clearly I need to get out more.

Escarole is Good for You

I'm slowly teaching My Beloved a few new dishes. He likes to cook but his repertoire is what you might call limited. As of last night I believe he has finally mastered my version of Pasta Fajole. First you chop up and saute a whole bunch of garlic in olive oil. For us it's an entire head since My Beloved smokes and can't taste anything but for you that might be a couple of cloves. Add cooked white beans. About a can of them if you are wondering where the "cooked" comes from. Salt and pepper to taste. Add what you are sure is way too much basil. Simmer a little but not too long or the beans'll go to mush. Now pour in a large can of peeled whole tomatoes which you have ripped into bits. While that simmers nicely start a large enough pot of water on the stove for about a pound of rigatone or penne. Next it is time to clean the escarole. Clean it. Dry it and tear it into shreds. Compost the really tough white parts. They taste fine but have the mouth feel of shoe leather. Once the tomato sauce is still just a little too watery load in all the escarole and squash it with the lid. In not more than ten minutes that stuff is shrunk down to nothing. Hopefully you've cooked and drained the noodles by now and can toss them inna bigga bowl, top with Parmesan if you aren't a vegan, and serve it up.

Nessie the Reindeer

Nessie the Reindeer
Originally uploaded by still just me.

A new arrival.

The Strand

While I was in New York City for 5 minutes last week I poked my head into The Strand for the first time ever. I was dazzled. Amazed. Euphoric even. I strolled around the first floor only and had to leave before I got delirious and embarrassed myself. I can't remember the last time that I've seen so many books that I've never heard of before. I'm not the most well-read nerd on the planet but the blinders placed on me by the best seller pabulum served up at the ubiquitous Barnes and Noble and Amazon.com fell off in that moment. The place was abustle with apron wearing bookinistas and bookinistos. It took me back (doesn't everything take me back somewhere?) to my happy if hungry days at Stacey's Book Store in San Francisco. We wore similar burgundy aprons with name tags we made with a labeler. We were not required to put our actual names on the tags. I was Zelda for a long long time. The kids at the Strand were busily looking things up on computers and tracking down just the book for just the person. Once upon a time I was as fast and efficient with a microfiche reader as they are with a mouse. But I date myself. I plan to use the Strand's website for all my purchases from now on. The only nerdy quibble I have with the place is their ultimate New York pretension of selling books by the foot for the purposes of DECORATION. It's enough to make nerds everywhere turn over in their graves or their book laden beds.

Courtesy of KR

We've been getting lots of compliments on the appearance of the waiting room these last few weeks thanks to KR. We like to keep things fresh out there since so many people spend so much time sitting there waiting for their session with Dr. C. Click here to see the current soothing and homey decor.

Princess Hijacks the Blog

I don't know what those stupid humans see in that damn dog. Stinking, poop-eating, whore for attention that he is. He is just way overboard with the wiggling and the jumping. And don't get me started on the yapping, Lord. Then there's the kitten! They think she's so cute. Retarded little midget tromps around the house with all the grace of two humans in a cat suit. It's beyond embarrassing. Poor Killer is so misunderstood. He is the epitome of discretion and dignity. There is no other cat that even comes close to his skills as a stalker and hunter. Those humans had better straighten up and fly right. And turn the space heater back on in the kitchen because between Killer and I we've got all the dirt on them. Oh boy the things I could tell you. So the space heater and some Iams Catfish Formula canned food pronto or I'm letting the cat out of the bag. Hahahahahahahahaha.

If Only I Didn't Have Toes

I saw these shoes in a magazine and decided I would check out the real article while I was in the Big City. I was crushed to find that they DON'T MAKE THEM IN MY SIZE. I have had these gigantic feet since I was about 13 or 14. I used to have no choice but to wear shoes which did not fit. I didn't count wearing shoes just like Sister Leona Mary's as an actual option. I do admit that things have gotten somewhat better but I still shop for shoes by walking up to the first clerk I see and asking to see what they have in an 11. There is no real point to looking for shoes I like and asking if the gods saw fit to create them in my size. This is the sure path to damnation or meltdown. The exceedingly helpful man whose lunch I interrupted at United Nude (see the link above) gave me the card of the store's previous owner who has gone on to a higher or at least a larger calling. Unfortunately his new endeavor "Elleven Up" doesn't have a web site but you can rest assured I will go there one day. Not this trip, but surely on another visit. I am not the jealous sort so if you have the opportunity to get there before I do it is located at 12 W 57th Street in suite 1005. In the meantime I will hold tight to my fantasy of finding a drag queen having a garage sale.

City Winter

Thankfully the snowfall that had been predicted to coincide with my visit to New York City amounted to nothing but I've always disliked "back east" winters. This includes Pittsburgh for those of you who have gotten the silly notion that Pittsburgh is in the Midwest. Maybe the defining criteria for whether a place is in the East or the Midwest should come down to this difference in the winters. New York winter, the prototypical "back east winter,"is in my experience sloppy and wet. There may be frozen lumps of snow piled at the curb but basically what you've got is slush. In the Midwest, the real Midwest, there are giant mounds of snow to climb over in order to cross the street, too. But in the Midwest you don't climb over the giant mound of snow in order to land in a vast puddle of slop of indeterminate depth. You climb over the giant mound of snow and skillfully cross a vast patch of ice. If you lack this skill or fail to acquire it you must promptly move to Florida. If you have some rudimentary capability you might be able to get by with some assistive devices such as cleats. When it is a puddle of slop you must contend with your only strategies are long jumping, pole vaulting or getting rich enough to use a car service. I did find one item that makes winter anywhere a little more bearable and that is the wonderful "wonderwarmer". These are nifty little thingies that become nicely toasty when you snap a little capsule inside them. After they've cooled off their magical properties can be restored by boiling them for "just five minutes." I plan to use mine on the walk home. With a small modification these could probably be slipped into your earmuffs or hat as well.

A Minor Interruption in the Time-Space Continuum

Late last week I was invited to come up to New York City for a meeting. It concerned an issue about which I care deeply so I undertook to make it happen. Being away for the day on short notice involves rescheduling a full day of patients, spending many hours at the office on both Saturday and Sunday doing things like actually seeing the patients whose appointments had been cancelled and getting all the reports and results reviewed and properly followed-up.

Monday night I slept in a guest apartment rather than a hotel. Oddly enough I believe the apartment is in the building in which I would have lived had I done my residency up here. Isn't it interesting how time and space seem to spiral rather than go in a nice straight line?

I attended this morning's meeting with interest and found it stimulating and discouraging in turns. Not to reduce the whole thing to a mere social occassions but I was very pleased to see the French Psychiatrist who had come to my aid earlier this year on the occassion of my allergic reaction. He was accompanied by another French colleague who I had not met previously. Between them they are two Very French Fellows. Now the VFFs had me beat on travel of course not only because they came from Paris, (isn't that where all the VFFs live?) but because they had arrived the night before and were departing later today. Being a confirmed "noticer of things" I couldn't help but spot the carry-on of one of the VFFs. I hesitate to call it a carry-on since it was more an objet d'art. It was essentially an outsized black leather doctor's bag. Very outsized. A black leather doctor's bag on steroids. I expect it is quite inconvenient to carry around but I suppose when you are a VFF you must suffer these things. I found it so intriguing that I am convinced if you open it and step inside you disappear in something like a cross between Mary Poppin's bag and the enchanted wardrobe of C.S. Lewis. It must take you into a world were that unique substance that gives life to VFFs is mined by dwarves. I am only speculating but I expect this is an entirely seperate place from where Very French Females get their elixir.

Smidgen's Wishes

I may have to change the name of this blog to "Take Two and Don't Call Me" because I'm almost too busy to breathe. One little person in my life has the capacity to bring me to a screeching halt in the here and now though and that is Smidgen. You may remember her from this summer when she arrived at our house a flea bitten handful of fur. She's not a baby anymore but she is still just a little kitty. She is very very talkative. When she enters a room she announces herself with a little trill of M and R sounds. When she is being ignored and prefers not to be she chatters like a mad bird. When she is being transported against her will away from a tempting plant or other trouble she sounds like a very small fire engine. She is also very articulate non-verbally. She will lick you raw when she is content. And, she will push her box of kitten food over to you and bump your toes with it if she needs to make a point.

She is the most intensely here and now when I am trying to knit. She understands that she is not allowed to play with my knitting. She learned this through repeated lessons involving chasing, running, yelling and being jiggled until the forbidden ball of yarn dropped from her jaws. Nevertheless she loves to sit on my lap and gaze longingly at my project. The flicking arrangement of needles in my hands, the long wiggly piece of yarn that disappears tantalizingly into my knitting bag, the delectable ball of yarn that makes sudden and delightful appearances are equally fascinating to her. She stares long and hard until she is entranced into a dreaming pile of furry feet and ears.

She has made peace with the other resident animals. She and Dogzilla engage in playful run and chase games and when they wear themselves out she tries to bathe him. Princess deigns to recognize that Smidgen is useful as a Class A Food Mooch and happily shares the kitten food Smidgen wrings out of her hapless people. Killer, while lethal to rodents and birds, is essentially a pacifist and allows Smidgen to run hog over him. He prefers to observe from a distance like the fur-bearing anthropologist I've always suspected him of being. So Smidgen is a happy little thing but if she could wish for anything at all I believe it would be some knitting of her own and someone smaller than her to boss around.