Category: Datin’

*whimper*

How Did I Not Know About Kale Until Now?

Sauteed shrimp, with a side of crispy baked kale.

Not a side of sadness.

I ate a whole bunch of kale. And I don’t mean “a whole bunch”, like “a lot”. I mean a whole BUNCH of kale. When you buy a bunch of kale at the grocery store, how many people is that supposed to feed?

Actually, who cares? It was delicious. I dropped some on the kitchen floor and shouted, “Five second rule!”

And I live alone.

In related news, I broke my heart

-covered mug.

Dear Violet, Part 5

I want you to know some things.

I want you to know you have an appointment this morning at the NC State vet school. They’re going to take a look at your wonky knee, which Dr. Purcell thinks you’ve torn. I’m sorry you’ve had to limp around on it for so long, but this was the first appointment they had, and I didn’t think I could afford the orthopedic vet in private practice in Cary.

(I kind of hoped, between when I made the appointment a month ago and now, that it would work itself out like all the rest of your creakiness. But no, the limp has persisted. You won’t even jump up into the car. It’s a good thing I’ve been going to CrossFit so I can squat-clean you into the Outback when I need to.)

I want you to know that this injury is my fault. I saw you walking gingerly on that leg before Christmas. I should’ve kept you on the leash. But scampering up Swift’s hill is one of the great joys of your life, and watching you scamper, well, that’s one of the great joys of mine.

Most likely, the vet school folks are going to say you need surgery so, most likely, you’re going to have surgery. I know you’re not even four yet and Mom said they might not even put you fully under, so it’s highly unlikely that anything bad will happen to you.

But I want you to know I’m fucking terrified that you’re not going to wake up from the anesthesia or there will be a complication. What does that even mean, a complication? I guess a complication makes things more complicated, more difficult, and I can live with that, as long as it doesn’t make you dead.

I’m having a difficult time right now. Work is hard. There are great changes afoot in my life. You and Redford are the only thing that keep me sane sometimes. Your needs are so predictable, so simple: food, water, play-dates, walks, and belly-rubs. My needs are so complex: I need my students to be compliant but not robots. I need to feed my body but not too much. I need a mate, but I don’t know how to find him.

So you’re going to be fine. For me. There will be no complications. Because—and I really want you to know this—I love you so, so much.

Do you hear me, Violet? Don’t die today, OK?

Love,

Amy

No Such Thing as TMI, Part 2

I’m kind of a sweaty monster.

I always have been. When I get hot…which is often, because of the…you know, the extry insulation…because I’m a little bit of a chubster…

Anyhow, when I exercise or get nervous or even just experience a day in Durham between March 1 and December 1, beads of sweat pop out on my upper lip and my forehead develops a sheen and pretty soon I’ve got pit-stains the size of pancakes. Shortly thereafter I’m on the train to Stankonia.

I should say, I used to get pit-stains. And I used to visit Stankonia.

You see, I tried all the different underarm products:

The natural deodorants. What a crock. That shit deodorizes about as well as crossing your fingers and hoping you don't stink.
The ones so effective you could supposedly skip a day. Lies.
The ones that are strong enough for a man but made for a woman. Not for this woman, apparently.
The ones that are actually made for a man. But the cologne smell was so strong, I would find myself hearing Daddy Yankee songs and looking around for the guy following me*.

So about two years ago, I did some research. On the interwebz. Which is magical in its offerings. And I found

Klima. Works like a goddamn dream.

How does it work? Remember how that lady died in Goldfinger?

She asphyxiated from being painted gold.

That was baloney—you can’t die from asphyxiation if you can still get air in through your mouth and/or nose…where air usually goes—but you can block pores by painting the skin, or in my case, spraying a little ethyl alcohol cocktail on it.

The negative: (1) It’s one million dollars a bottle. (2) If you spray it on before your underarms are completely dry, it’ll itch like crazy. And (3) it, like many antiperspirants, is chock-full of aluminum, and I hear that when they autopsy Alzheimer’s patients’ brains, they’re just lousy with the stuff.

So basically I’m spraying Alzheimer’s directly into my armpits.

But, hey, no pit-stains! No stank!

*Just so we’re clear, I’m pro-Latino dudes. I nearly married one. But many of them really like their Old Spice**.

**Just so we’re clear, I’m also pro-Old Spice. I like a man who smells good. Just not bathed in it so that the inside of my nostrils feel all burny.