A Southern Fried Girl

You Want Me to Drink What?

All that acidic wit of mine has apparently taken up residence in my stomach. The doctor informed me yesterday that my handy trick of burping fire on people who offend me is not technically a good thing. He wants me to take a pill to make it go away. I argued long and hard against his little pill (I don't look good in purple), but he then went and threw that "C" word up in my face. He fights dirty, that doctor of mine. He ordered me to the local chop shop to have pictures taken of the baby dragon I keep in my stomach.

After starving myself for 12 hours, I reported to Our Lady of Imaging. I knew things were going to go downhill when the tech handed me a bright pink hospital gown to wear. What the hell were they trying to say about me, making me dress up like a raspberry? In a matter of minutes I was transformed from normal person to hippy freak, with my hot pink gown, yellow birks, and my mismatched socks (green and blue).

The doctor came in and we exchanged pleasantries but things quickly turned ugly when he gave me the fizzy lifting drink and then told me not to burp.

"BURRPPP." I giggled nervously. I hadn't burped like that since a frat party in 1997.

"Ms. Jones, you need to try not to burp because blah, blah, blah," I have a tendency to tune out when authority figures are lecturing me.

"Dr. Cranky, I promise I won't burp again. burp Uhm, that one didn't count."

I was dismayed when moments later the tech drove the barium in on a forklift. Before I knew what hit me, I was being force fed a 300 pound strawberry shake and told to roll around like a big, raspberry whale. There I was, drinking a portion of the periodic table and flashing my panties at the doctor and all I could think was, "Thank god I wore my fancy pants today."

After liquoring me up and taking pictures of my stuff, I was sent home. No kiss or anything. Ten to one, me and my baby dragon are already being gawked at by teenagers on the internets. I feel so used.

BURRRPP... what?

Well Butter My Biscuit!

It's been almost eighteen months since I was diagnosed with celiac disease. I am finally starting to get comfortable with eating. I never get sick anymore and I have pretty good handle on eating both at home and in the wild.

Today I was craving biscuits. I don't want biscuits often, usually only a few times a year. My lack of biscuit interest is strange considering I had biscuits all the time when I was a kid. My Grandma Stumpy used to make them for breakfast everyday. Whatever wasn't scarfed down, she wrapped in foil (along with the leftover sausage or bacon) and sat it on the kitchen table for snacks. If you got hungry before lunchtime, you went to the kitchen and had a room temperature biscuit with a piece of sausage.

Looking back, the idea of biscuits with room temperature pork products seems like a flirt with the food poisoning fairy, but I never got sick. Hell, until recently, I could eat any damn thing and not blink an eye. Sea slugs? Bring it. Chittlins? Oh yeah, baby. Back in the day, my intestinal fortitude was the stuff of legends.

These days, not so much.

But man, sometimes you just want a biscuit, and today was my day for biscuit lust. Since I don't quite have a handle on gluten free baking yet (don't even ask, you don't want to make me cry again, do you?), I went down to Whole Foods to see I what I could find. Whole Foods has been a lifesaver since The Diagnosis™, and I figured if I was going to find a gluten free biscuit in this 'burb, Whole Foods would be the place.

I flounced myself right over to the frozen foods section and immediately spied a package of gluten free cream biscuits. The label proudly proclaimed that it was "produced in a dedicated gluten free facility." A phrase that is music to a g-f girl's ears. I flipped the package over and was immediately dubious. The second ingredient was rice flour. Uh oh, I thought, what good could possibly come of this? But I was biscuit-jonesing something fierce. And when a junkie needs a fix, standards get lax. The ingredient list was downright biscuit blasphemy, but I was hurting.

I hurt again when the bastards rang up $3.99. Yeah, $3.99 for 6 effing biscuits. I'm fairly certain the string of obscenities that tumbled out of my mouth scarred the little gothy cashier girl for life.

But whatever. Biscuits were achieved.

I came home, popped three in the oven, and immediately gathered my biscuit accouterments: honey, butter, crucifix (you can't be too safe these days). The timer went "Ding" and out came three nicely browned biscuits. I poked them a couple of times to make sure they were dead and then proceeded to slather them up right and proper. Then came the moment of truth... I took a bite.

I'll be damned if the things weren't kinda good. The texture was questionable, think slightly spongy instead of flaky, but the taste was pretty good. Now, a biscuit connoisseur likely disagree and would probably pull out a shank and cut you if you served one up without fair warning, but for me, they passed muster.

Biscuit mischief managed.

Am I short? I don't feel short.

I went to the doctor for my physical yesterday. I am 5'2, even.

In my discussions with the doctor about my walking, he asked how high I have the treadmill set. I murmured something about 2.5-3 miles an hour. Hell, I never really paid much attention to the speed. He responded, "Well, you're short and you have little legs, so 3 miles per hour is a pretty brisk pace for you."

*blink*

I have never thought of myself as short. I have little hands and feet, sure. Micro-hands, they've been called. My arms are kinda wee, too. I have to have all my jackets tailored. And well, pants are usually too long. But, I never thought those things made me short. I just figured I was difficult to size.

I asked Brian's opinion. "Carrie,"  he said, "You use kitchen tongs to get dishes out of the cabinets."

"That doesn't make me short. It makes me an inventive problem solver." I retorted.

He snorted. "Yeah, and the problem is that you are short."

Whatever. What does he know? He's bald.

Licensed to Drive

Now that The Spawn is preparing to be licensed driver (*sputter*gag*), she has started to pay an inordinate amount attention to me when I am behind the wheel. At first, I didn't really mind her knit-picking. It's great that she is paying attention. I'm glad that she wants to be a good driver. But, for god's sake, the constant criticism of my finely honed driving skills is cheese-grating my nerves.

She is the worst sort of passenger driver. Everyday, every single time she gets in my car, I have to listen to her litany of complaints:

* Mom, put your hands on the wheel!
* Does my side have air bags, too?
* Red light. Red Light! RED LIGHT!!!
* Quit messing with your lipstick.
* OHMYGAWD! Did you see how close that truck was?!
* Mom! Stop driving with your knees!
* My seatbelt is choking me again.
* WE'RE GONNA DIE!

See what I mean? How fussy can you get? I've been driving for years. I think I've got a fairly good handle on what I'm doing. Hell, I've never even been in a wreck when I was driving. Except, of course, for that time I was driving in the car with Brian's ex-wife and she yanked the wheel to swerve us into oncoming traffic when I told her Brian and I were moving in together. But I learned two valuable lessons from that incident, 1) Don't panic and accelerate when you are flying into the other lane; braking is a much better option and 2) Don't deliver bad news to a crazy woman when your are operating a motor vehicle. And since that wreck wasn't technically my fault, it doesn't count.

Yesterday I offered to take the Spawn out for a driving lesson. She promptly burst into tears.

"Can't Dad take me?" She wailed.

I blinked. "You know he isn't feeling well. Man up, kiddo. We'll have a grand time."

She ran off into her room sobbing about how she wasn't a boy and how I was trying to kill her.

I looked at Brian. "What did I say? And more importantly, why would she want you to teach her? You yell."

Which is true, you know. Once, Brian tried to teach me how to drive a manual transmission. The whole thing got so ugly that I stopped the car in the middle of the road and walked home. In my haste and tears, I didn't realize that I took the keys, too. Yeah, he didn't speak to me for a week. In fact, every time he looked at me, he turned this amazing shade of purple.

"I may yell," he said, "You teaching her to drive is like asking a blind man to direct traffic. It's just plain stupid."

He had a point. The bastard.

You Salty Dawg!

Being in a long term relationship with me has Brian's blood boiling. Quite literally, apparently. He went to the doctor this week and his blood pressure was 152/90. He came right home and accused me of driving him insane. Medical proof, he bellowed. He went on to mention about how I should "settle down" and be more "composed."

I got your composure right here, you ox!

Of course, this is my fault. I FORCE him to eat greasy chili fries. I hold a gun to his head and demand he eat canned tamales. Most of all, I regularly put his fat ass in a wheelbarrow and tote him around. I NEVER let him exercise. It's all me. There you have it. It couldn't possibly be because he is 39 years old, 270 pounds, and has a diet that would make a cardiologist lose bowel control.

He blustered a whole lot. He threw this major tantrum over dinner. "How can you sit there and eating your salad and acting like nothing is wrong?"

"Well, my salad is why I don't have hypertension, Salt Pork." I went right on crunching.

He looked down at his frozen Indian dinner and then stormed out of the room.

Perhaps I shouldn't have called him Salt Pork. But it was apt.

I started him on the DASH diet this morning. He didn't like the oatmeal and fruit, but by god, he ate it. He muttered the whole time he ate and I think I caught "granola eating hippy" and "psycho diet nazi." But whatever, I have too much on tap in my life for him to up and have a stroke. If he keels over, who in the hell will get crap out of the top of the closet for me?

Blogging 101, or Another Way for Carrie to Fail

I guess this is the part where I talk about how cool I am and why you should totally read my blog. Well, I am not much of a self-promoter so there won't be any of that. Let's just say that I'm just a 30-something chick who has too many irons in the fire and likes to publicly embarrass herself. 'Cause dontcha know there's no kinda shame like web-based shame.

Ok. So me. When you get right down to brass tacks (tax? I never can remember and I'm too lazy to google) I'm multifaceted. I like to do a little bit of everything. I like to cook. I like to knit. I like to bitch. I like to moan. I like to take pictures of myself bitching and moaning whilst knitting when I should be cooking.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I am given to mad tangents. Most other days, I am tolerable.

Surprisingly, I have a family that puts up with my crap and only occasionally threatens to institutionalize me. Why yes, they usually do mention it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What's your point?

Anyway, I have a domestic partner of 14 years. His name is Brian and I regularly fray his nerves. I don't even choose special days either. I irritate him every damn day. I also have a kid. A teenage daughter to be precise. She frays my nerves. I suspect this is payback for my wild ways in the days of yore. At least that's what my mom says. Whatever, Mom.

I share a house three dogs whom I love more that most people love their children. There's Brian's dog Fiona. She feisty chihuahua who has designs on world domination. She'll shank you if you don't give her the attention she wants. And then there's the Spawn's chihuahua, Squeakie Jean. She squeaks. A lot. Saving the best for last, is my minpin, Bubbles. He's my little codependent pumpkin. That dog would shower with me if he could and I'm not ashamed to admit I've let him a time or two.

Now for the lightening round. Here are the five things that pretty much make up the sum total of being me. I may be multifaceted, but I am not at all complicated.

1. I am a Buddhist. My biggest struggle is Right Speech. You wouldn't believe the mouth I have. Geez.
2. I have celiac disease. I don't bitch about it and I don't let it define me. It is what it is.
3. I drink an obscene amount of tea. If I don't boot up my caffeine operating system within 20 minutes of waking blood and fervent cursing will follow.
4. I despise labels of any kind. If someone tries to pigeon-hole me a certain "kind" of person, I'm liable to become violent. I refuse to fit into anyone's box.
5. I am solution oriented, both professionally and privately. It's a great thing in my job, but it irritates my friends. They want comfort and I want to "fix it."

That's me in a nutshell. I'll now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging. Thank you, please drive through.