Check this out:

OK! So I had to buy this for a few reasons:

One: The socks.

Two: Age 2.

Three: The bags under my eyes are growing increasingly more envious of my double-chin. I just needed proof. I have it now.

Four: It appears I’m molesting my left nipple.

Five: My KT Tape is showing. (Proof I should not have “run” on Sunday. Run is in quotes because I hobbled through this race. It was a 4-mile race. Four miles is pretty easy for me these days. I welcome a 4-mile run. But I’d run a pretty decent 10K the day before so my legs were screaming. I needed to recover. Also: I got my period on Saturday morning.)

Six: It looks like I might be having an allergic reaction to shellfish.

Seven: I look like The Joker.

Eight: I apparently have gills.

Overall this image is a whole lotta unawesome, which makes it thoroughly more awesome. So I had to buy it and share it.

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• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

What a weirdo. Babies are weird.

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In New York City, the public school thing is brutal. I am sure you’ve heard it all before, so I won’t bore you with the mundane and awful details. It’s a damn joke. I can’t believe the conversations I have had about my 4-year-old’s education. I also can’t believe the number of times I’ve gotten worked up over it, sent myself into an absolute frenzy.

He’s four. These kids are 4.

Just last week I had the following conversation with a mother on the playground.

Her: “Where is your oldest going in the fall?”

Me: “P.S. ____.”

Her: “We are going to P.S. ____. It’s the cool thing to do right now.”

She may have been joking. But she’s not wrong. Let me explain.

There’s a Yahoo Group set up for families living in my area. I wouldn’t hesitate to say that 85% of the moms I see every day visit this group. I know this because I am often asked, “Did you see what so-and-so wrote on the baby board?” And I always answer with, “I”m not on the baby board.” And so they fill me in on the details of whatever took place on the baby board.

Many local families are members of this baby board where all sorts of topics are discussed. I reckon most of it is very helpful. I’m not going to sit here and slam it. I’m sure it’s very, very helpful to some. But it’s also been very detrimental in the past. (A local personal trainer’s livelihood was nearly ruined thanks to one very bitter, resentful parent. My pediatrician said a number of parents are refusing vaccines and the board feeds directly into that.) Like with most forums on the Internet, there is a great deal of bitching and complaining, and then bitching and complaining about the bitching and complaining. Sometimes people get banned. It can be helpful. It can also be an absolute shitstorm. I know what happens because people tell me about it. (I assure you; I don’t even lurk. I’d rather go to the gynecologist or read comments on YouTube.)

Of course, schools have been discussed in great detail, scrutinized to the point of exhaustion. And mention the words “CHARTER SCHOOL” and you’d better run in the opposite direction. Fast.

Last year, a bunch of parents got together on the baby board and decided to take over a local school (we’ll call it P.S. Donut) known for being, at best, a so-so school. And so the word spread: “Send your kid to P.S. Donut!” And parents did! And it was nothing short of awesome. It was inspiring seeing a movement take place right before my eyes. Many of Em’s friends got accepted. Basically, every kid that was zoned for that school went to that school. We weren’t zoned. And although we tried to get in, we weren’t accepted. (We were rejected by all 6 of our requests, but that’s a story for another day.)

P.S. Donut was indeed being revitalized.

So, fast forward to January. News began to spread that one school was shutting down entirely. We’ll call that school P.S. Union Skirt. P.S. Union Skirt was performing so badly, the board of education said, “No more!” It was a notoriously bad school. So, they shut it down. But! Get this! They’re opening another school (let’s call it P.S. Dog and Pony) with a different number in the exact same location. This way, thanks to Bloomberg, they can fire up to 50% of the staff and hire new teachers. (This was what I was told by someone working for the NYC BoE. Don’t hold me to this number.)

But here’s the catch: P.S. Dog and Pony is still in the same zone it was before, which means ALL the same students from P.S. Union Skirt have first dibs on P.S. Dog and Pony. While there may be 50% new staff, the same kids are likely to attend that school. And if it lacked a sense of community before, what makes anyone think that will change? Also, won’t the families who attended P.S. Union Skirt for years feel resentment toward the families moving in?

I’m not sure. Only time will tell.

I mean, I get it. Things change. People can do whatever they wish when it comes to their children. It’s none of my business. But what gets me is that everyone got online again and, just like we saw with P.S. Donut, rallied together and suggested everyone move their kids to P.S. Dog and Pony. And nearly every person who rallied together to get their kids into the P.S. Donut a year ago are moving their children to P.S. Dog and Pony.

What’s next? And why should I believe any of them?

A few months ago, Toby and I entered into the mix and began looking at schools for Em. I shamefully got swept up in the frenzy. Back then, people were still rallying behind P.S. Donut. So we pushed to get Em into P.S. Donut. And he was accepted! And then I find out that many of those who’d rallied to get us all interested in that school are leaving for another.

In short: Screw that.

I do not feel comfortable following a group that is so easily swayed. Their word means nothing to me now, not that it should of in the first place. I should have made my own decision from the get-go. Shame on me, really.

So we went in the exact opposite direction and decided to send Em to a school known, among this particular group, as being too strict, military like, hard on the kids. I don’t agree. But that’s fine. (A little aside: we did not feel this school is any of the above. But if I blindly defend the school we chose, right now, given the fact he hasn’t yet attended, I will look like everyone I’m upset with. So I’ll withhold my comments. We are quite pleased with our choice. This school is a lot like every school I went to—every school everyone I know went to—growing up.)

Why is our generation like this? The school frenzy has become the new Thing. But it’s always going something. If it’s not breastfeeding vs. formula, it’s organic vs. non-organic. Why? Does this come from having TOO many choices? Is that possible? Would Brooklyn parents be acting this way if they lived nearly anywhere else in America where choices aren’t as plentiful? Is this some retaliative move against our parents’ generation? Or was it always like this and I was blind to what my mother and father were going through while I was growing up?

I can’t stand inane competition. I just want to cover my ears and scream, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU! LA LA LA LA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” You know, speaking of kindergarten and all.

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Anyway, here it is! I’m smiling because I’m listening to the sickest song ever. And because the race is over! IT’S OVER!

Damn was that ever difficult. I can’t imagine running 26.2 miles. I am having trouble picturing the 13.1 I’m supposed to be running through Brooklyn in a few weeks.

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Missy wanted deep purple tulips to match her wedding flowers. The white ribbon is what she’s using for her bouquet. There was also the suggestion of using twine, but it shed a bit and I’m not sure what was used to treat it, so we left it off. In retrospect, I may have liked to try and create edible twine. Next time!

I hope you enjoy. If you have any questions, let me know. I hope to give a brief tutorial (for total beginners) in the future.

I have known Missy for 15 years. We both once lived in Washington, DC and that seems like a lifetime ago. I adore her. She is one of my closest friends. We don’t see each other as often as we used to, even though we live within a few miles of one another! But we always pick up right where we left off. She’s a lifelong friend. This I know.

Anyway, I love her. I’m lucky she’s in my life. And so I jumped at the chance to do this for her and I would do it again in a heartbeat, even though I was nervous as hell and lost some sleep!

Overall, I’m proud of the cake. Thanks, Missy and Adam for the opportunity to do something special for you.

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What else? I signed up for the Brooklyn half, even though while I was running the DC half I said to myself, “Don’t do something stupid like sign up for the Brooklyn half.” I started saying this at mile 10 and I continued to say it repeatedly up until mile 12.50 when Ludacris’ P Poppin came on. And then I just started sprinting. I will forever remember that song as the one that saw me to the finish line. It’s so far from being work safe. You’ve been warned. Hell, I’m not even sure it’s human ears safe, perhaps not even animal ears. But it worked! I got a much needed boost of energy and hit the ground running.

Truth be told, I don’t think I was quite ready for a half marathon. Or maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be? Maybe it’s supposed to be difficult. Because it was. Granted, it was also 80 degrees and humid and DC is hilly! (SHUT UP, SAN FRANCISCO. AND RYAN!) But I don’t want to sit here and make excuses, even though I have them! I have a list of them. (For example, ladies: what do you do about planning? You know what I’m asking without having to ask it? What do you do about that?)

This is what I keep coming back to: I am not injured! I finished injury free. In fact, recovery time was almost nonexistent. So, that’s good, right? If I truly wasn’t ready, or if I’d done something wrong, trained improperly, wouldn’t my body be injured? I did take it easy, but still.

People often ask, “When did you know you were ready to have kids?” And the answer is usually something like: “You’re never ready to have kids. If you wait, you never will.”

I keep telling myself the same thing when it comes to running.

So. I signed up for Brooklyn. Whether or not I do it, that’s another story entirely. But I signed up. And it sold out within 9 hours. 15,000 spots and it done sold out. So, I guess it’ll be a popular one.

That’s all for now.

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The tear is all drama. He’s doing his best Johnny Depp impression.

An aside: while at the Cracker Barrel I ran into Des “The Cat Man” of Rescue Ink. I didn’t recognize him, but he and the guy he was with were both wearing Rescue Ink t-shirts. Naturally, I had to bug them, express my gratitude for their work.

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Yesterday a blogger (who I had never heard of before) was brought to my attention through a series of ReTweets. It appears her child had a serious medical emergency and was being taken away in an ambulance. Terrible. That goes without saying. But what upset me even more was that there were pictures taken of the child while in the ambulance. They were posted on Twitter while it was happening. (Reality Internet?)

Here’s where I’ll admit to something out loud that I will likely come to regret. This upset me a great deal. I didn’t particularly want to see pictures of her child suffering. I don’t want to see pictures of any child suffering. Ever. The images upset me a great deal. But what upset me more was that I don’t understand, as a mother, how one is capable of doing this while it’s taking place. Naturally, I’m going to try and relate. That’s what I do. I do that with everyone. The soldier who recently murdered 16 people in Afghanistan, 9 of which were children? I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to understand how and why he could do such a thing. (No, I’m not comparing these two people even remotely. I’m merely pointing out that I try and comprehend even the ugliest of actions.)

This is where I keep ending up: if one of my children was suffering, hooked up to wires, unconscious and in an ambulance, I can’t imagine taking pictures of him and posting them on the Internet. I’m not suggesting that in doing so she is a terrible person. I know that people deal with stress differently. It’s that I don’t understand it even a little bit. I keep trying to and I just can’t relate on any level. And I want to so I can stop thinking about it.

I don’t know this person. So I’m trying to figure out what I would do if it had been a very close friend of mine, someone I know extremely well. Would I, assuming everything turns out OK, ask her about it? Would I ask, “How were you able to post that picture online while it was taking place?” Or would I bite my tongue because ultimately it’s none of my business.

One blogger, several years ago, tweeted seconds after finding her 2-year-old drowning in the pool. She asked for prayers. People watched the entire event unfold on Twitter. She faced so much backlash, but even more compassion. People prayed. They came together. Sadly, her toddler didn’t make it, and that fueled even more intense backlash. It was a mess, the whole thing was a terrible mess and at the heart of it all, a child had died.

I’ve read many, many reasons and justifications behind why people do this. Many bloggers, journalists, even psychologists have weighed in, and it always seems to boil down to this: people deal with stress and sorrow differently. Judging how anyone reacts under these circumstances isn’t fair, nor possible.

I so get that. I do. I do. I do. Reading that back. I get it. I saw this firsthand after 9/11. One woman I worked with was in such shock, she paced our office that day asking everyone where she was going to shop since the stores she regularly shopped at were in the World Trade Center. She was hysterical, out of her head. And I totally understood why she’d think that. Humans are complex creatures. It isn’t fair to judge how they deal with stress.

But yet.

I just can’t stop thinking about it this time.

Help me?

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I’m damn proud of myself too. I’ve only felt this proud three times before. (This is the first time it was all about me though.)

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My friend Mikal came up with that one.

For what occasion would one use this cake? A Sweet Sixteen birthday party? A cake for your son (or gay daughter!) celebrating the loss of his virginity (or your gay daughter’s!) after paying a prostitute to sleep with him (or your gay daughter!)?

Did I just write that? I’d like to apologize to both of my sons. I love my sons (and your alive gay daughter!). No disrespect here at all.

Actually, this cake may have lapped itself in badness becoming perfectly awesome.

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I never anticipated it ending this way. I always thought I’d get irritated by some other blogger (or whatever) and be done with it once and for all. Or a lurker would send me some hateful email, which has happened many times over the years, and I’d say, “This ain’t worth it! My skin isn’t thick enough!” and finally mean it. But like this? I never thought it’d end like this, like I’m backing out of the room slowly, hoping by the time I let the door close behind me, no one will be left to notice.

I just never thought it would slowly fizzle to nothing. And writing that down makes me feel a little blue.

So! Enough.

Here’s a picture of me after falling asleep with wet hair. Sexy.

Let’s see. I’ve been running. A lot. And then I got a little hurt. I did an 11 miler a week and a half ago and BAM! two days later the outside of my left foot hurt. I haven’t run on it since. I’m hoping that it will heal entirely by this Saturday’s race. This past weekend, things weren’t looking so good. But it’s better today and has been for over 48 hours. So I’m going to give it a shot. The worst that will happen is I’ll get out there, start running and find I’m still injured and can’t finish. But I have to try. I must. And I’m excited about it. I love DC. When I found out I hadn’t made the lottery for the NYC half, I jumped at the chance to do the Rock ‘n Roll half in Washington, DC.

We rented a hotel room right downtown. It has a pool AND a hot tub, which I’m sure I’ll be using assuming I finish the race. It’s also near the Air and Space Museum. And I can’t wait to take Emory. He’s going to love our nation’s capital. I am so excited for him. I’m excited to see my friends, and to run through the streets of a city that means a great deal to me.

What else? I’ve been baking. A lot. I have been baking cakes, muffins, galettes and eclairs (to name a few). And I plan on sharing some recipes, specifically the eclair recipe, because you would not believe how easy it is.

I’m practicing cake combinations for future wedding cakes. This has been oddly fun. The only downside is I’m eating too much of my work and therefore my waistline is expanding. All that weight I lost last fall is inching its way back. Not cool. I felt so awesome back then. So I’m doing Weight Watchers again. I am 10 pounds above my ideal weight and, no, it’s not much, but it’s so easy to slip up and have that rise to 15 and then 20. I don’t want that to happen again.

I’m rambling but at least I’m writing! Something. Anything. Filler? Oh god. No.

We moved! I love our new apartment building. It’s fantastic. We gave up our personal view, but we gained a super patio, a gym, a roof deck, a massive playroom which is often filled with kids. We have a nice kitchen and a bit more (definitely more useable) space. I’m happy here. And we’re right on the East River. So the views from outside (and the roof) are spectacular. I go to the gym during the day while Elliot naps. I wheel him down in the stroller and work out while he sleeps next to me. The view from the gym is of the entire skyline. It’s pretty great.

That’s all for now. I have a bunch of pictures I need to upload, pictures of the new place, all my cakes, the kids. And I’ll do that soon.

And I’m sorry I haven’t written much.

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Also: for the record? I think hoarders are terrifying. I think I fear them more than cockroaches, clowns and Pillsbury dough cans.

So, we’re packing and moving. And we have this big bag of change living with us. We’ve had this big bag of change since we lived in San Francisco, if I remember correctly. And every day for about 7 years, we’ve tossed our extra change into this bag. Never much at one time, a dime, a nickel, a few quarters. But it kept adding up and adding up and we kept ignoring it. One night, before we had kids, we sat down, opened a bottle of wine and wrapped some of it up. We wrapped 360 bucks back then. Instead of cashing it in, we just put it back in the bag. We’ve added more since then.

This bag of change has some loose change, some wrapped change and some half-wrapped change because we discovered one day that Emory was stealing from our bag of change to fill his piggybank. SMART KID!

But we still have a lot of change.

My parents came up last Sunday so Toby and I could have dinner and celebrate my 38th birthday. As they were leaving, I pushed the giant bag of change onto them. I’m not sure why, really. Because it weighs about 60 pounds. (It weighs 45 pounds. My father weighed it!) But my father slung that bag over his shoulder and walked out of our apartment with the big bag of change.

He called yesterday to let me know what he’s discovered thus far. In loose quarters we have $208.00 dollars. Add that to the wrapped change, and we’re over $500.00 bucks. That amount doesn’t include all the dimes, nickels, or pennies.

At the end of the day, we should have about $700.00 worth of change.

Now, a smart person would use that to cover the move. But I’m not a smart person. I’m a person who looks at that 700 bucks and thinks, FREE MONEY! I suggested we either go out and get a really nice meal OR take it to Atlantic City and put the whole lot of it down on one a hand of blackjack. I also suggested we buy a flat screen TV for our new bedroom.

What frivolous thing might you do with 700.00 extra dollars?

And don’t bore me with things like, PAY OFF MY BILLS! or DONATE IT TO CHARITY!

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I love that my kids like animals so much and got used to them from day one. Just yesterday Em asked if we could get 97 more cats, making it an even 100. But I kind of want to keep my husband, so… after much thought I had to tell him no.

Elliot is 11 months old! Hard to believe. He took his first steps a couple of weeks ago, but much prefers to crawl and/or do this strange knee walk I’m trying to get decent video of. I can’t say I have ever seen a baby do this knee walk before. More to come!

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“So sad for JoePa. There aren’t many like him – inside or outside of football. I blame the vultures as much as the cancer.”

I hope he died peacefully. I hope he knows he is still admired and adored by many.

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Currently, I run four times a week, with long runs on Saturdays. I am training for two half marathons next year. I’m following a novice runner’s schedule. Basically, a variation/combination of this one and this one. It’s a little tricky for me since I’m a full-time mother. Em goes to school, but Elliot is with me every day, all day. So I run at night after Toby gets home from work. And holy crap! It’s been tough!

Y’all. It’s cold out there. And at night it’s even colder. Part of my running route is alongside the East River and sometimes the wind rips at you like a million tiny daggers, like Manhattan is purposefully slapping my face for residing in Brooklyn. Yes, I could change the route, but that would make sense. Plus, have you seen the view from Kent Avenue? It’s awesome! I’m not going to change my route. If I change my route, I wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask myself, “Why are you doing this? You’re just stupid.”

Here’s the deal: I believe to be a decent long distance runner one has to be a lot crazy and a little stupid. People say it’s about endurance, but I think stupidity has a lot to do with it. Why else would you plan on running during a snowstorm? (I’ve got an 7 miler tomorrow during a snowstorm.) Why else would a person come up with something like this to make sure you don’t miss one single mile? Why else would you dress like this? Because you’re a runner and you’re stupid.

Take Stuart Calderwood, for example. As of today, he’s been running every day for 25 years. If he’s not a lot crazy and a little stupid, I don’t know who is. Every day for 25 years. That’s insane!

I kid. A little bit.

In all seriousness, when asked why I run, the answer is simple: I run to beat me out of me. Running is my antidepressant. It has been for years. I outrun my demons. I let thoughts come and go freely. I don’t judge any of them. I don’t hold onto any of them. I don’t let them go too quickly if they’re troubling. It’s my therapy. And it works every time.

I love running.

So! Rain or shine, hot or cold, snow or ice, I make sure to embrace my inner crazy and make her go for a run. And while I’m a little less crazy with every run I complete, there seems to be enough of it to fuel the next one. And I’m totally OK with that.

Or maybe I’m just stupid.

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“It’s at 13, Michele.”

“Thirteen?!” I asked, shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

Earlier that day, I’d been to the ear doctor. I don’t like visiting the ear doctor. It’s the only medical professional who consistently gives me bad news. My ears have been a problem since I was a baby.

We went over my history. I have a long one. We did the usual song and dance. I tell him what I’ve had done. He looks into my ears and comments about how damaged they are. There was so much wax in the left ear, he couldn’t even see my eardrum. So he suggested he clean it out with water. I said NO WAY. He tried to suction it out. That didn’t work. That made my ear feel funny, which he took to mean that the previous operation had worked and the hole had indeed sealed shut. He convinced me to clean it out with warm water.

I haven’t ever willingly let water into either one of my ears. Ever. Every time I’ve accidentally gotten water into one of my ears, I’ve ended up in pain and with bloody pus coming out of the sides of my head. So, no. No water. But I let him. And it felt AWESOME, like being touched for the first time after spending decades on a deserted island talking to nothing but a soccer ball.

After he cleaned out the left side of my head, I went in and failed my hearing test. I’m used to that. But this time I failed terribly so.

“You need a hearing aid.” He told me. “Soon.”

“Really?” I wasn’t convinced.

“Yes. It’s time.”

I’ve been saying no to hearing aids for over a decade.

Here’s the thing about hearing loss: it happens over time. You adjust. You read lips. You turn the TV up so loud your neighbors bang on shared walls. It’s a slow deterioration. You adjust so well, you don’t know how bad it really is. I know I am hard of hearing, but I can hear, even if it’s just a little bit. It’s easy to pretend it’s not that bad.

But now I know how bad it is. I’m terribly hard of hearing. And all it took was a piece of rolling paper to make me realize just how much so.

Let me explain.

After we went over my test results, he suggested a temporary fix for the right ear, the one still with the hole. There’s a technique they use for people who have accidents where their eardrum is suddenly punctured, they go from hearing to not hearing in an instant. Their hearing is still there, and will return once the eardrum heals, but they need a temporary fix, basically a band-aid. (Whereas the hole in my eardrum won’t heal because it’s surrounded by scar tissue.)

“I’m going to put a tiny piece of cigarette paper over the hole.”

“Like, actual rolling paper?”

“Yes.”

Some might find this odd, raise an eyebrow or two. But I’ve been hearing about strange aural procedures all my life. This? This was just another possible cockamamy procedure in the long list of procedures. The difference this time was there was no general anesthesia involved, it only took a few minutes, and it couldn’t cause any more hearing loss. So what if it’s temporary and the moment the paper slips away from the hole, I would lose any hearing I’d gained? Why not hear for a few weeks or months?

Now, this next part is crazy still to me. But I could hear! INSTANTLY. I mean I could actually hear! Like a normal person! I could hear the fan above my head, the hum of medical equipment. I could hear his staff breathing. I could hear the traffic outside. I think I even heard outer space, which is weird since I don’t think sound travels in outer space. But it did for me!

HI SATURN!

What’s more? I was totally and completely freaked out.

I am not sure when I stopped being able to hear like a normal person. Maybe I never could? But, this little piece of cigarette paper put my hearing loss into great perspective. For the first time ever, I realized just how much I couldn’t hear. And if this is what it was like to feel normal, I am very hard of hearing.

Once I hit the Midtown street, I became even more freaked out. I had NO IDEA how loud New York City was! My thought: Why aren’t even more New Yorkers going crazy from this?

I called my mom. “I finally understand cats!”

“You’ll get used to it.” She reassured me.

Thirteen, y’all. Which is, incidentally, my favorite number. The TV volume was at thirteen.

Normally it’s at 25.

Thirteen.

I stood at the kitchen sink, my back to the TV. House Hunters International was on.

“I can hear what they’re saying. The TV is on 13 and I can hear them.” I began repeating what I was hearing to Toby Joe. “I can hear them! And I’m not looking at them! You have no idea how insane this is.”

“How do you normally hear people?” He asked.

“I usually hear a bit and fill in the blanks, like a puzzle. And I do a lot of guessing.”

“My god.” He whispered. “You must be exhausted at the end the day.”

I’ve since lost that temporary hearing boost. And it was great while it lasted. I could hear things I never knew were there. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wept that night.

(Man! I’m wordy! If you’re still reading this: I’m sorry!)

Anyway, I’m finally getting a hearing aid. After thoroughly making fun of the Widex naming convention, I chose the Widex Clear Passion. I am only getting one, because I’m not ready to give up on my right ear. Knowing all it takes is one tiny piece of rolling paper to fix the hearing in my right ear, means there is still hope.

And, yeah. I do hope I’m less exhausted, not that I was aware of how much work I’ve been putting into just getting by. But I reckon I might be able to put that brain power toward more important things—like talking to Saturn.

And I hope I’m able to hear better, and that I don’t totally freak out and dart into oncoming traffic. Because, I learned something recently: THIS CITY IS LOUD!

Related posts:

• I Have No Shame.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
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Favorite Moment In Time

I taped it. Only I didn’t know it would become a favorite moment. It was taken at 5 AM on February 21st, 2011. Toby and I were waiting for a car service that would take us to the hospital in order to welcome Elliot into the world. He was already two weeks late. I’d been having contractions all night long. We were about to meet our second son! Everything was perfectly still and eerily quiet. I felt at peace. So I shot a few seconds of what that morning looked like.

I could have stood in that moment for a while.

Anyway, here’s that video:

Favorite Recipe

Galette dough. I chose this because of how versatile it is and how often we use it at our house. It works with both sweet and savory. We’ve filled it with apples, pears, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, sweet cheese (like a danish), ricotta and broccoli, veggie meat with onions—just to name a few. It’s amazing. And it lasts for two days in the fridge. The recipe listed below makes five, decent-sized galettes, so feed your family or yourself for days.

Here’s the recipe:

• 10.5 ounces all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/5 ounce of sugar
• 8 ounces unsalted butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 ounce water

Prepare using flaky dough mixing method.

What does that mean? Well, sift all your dry ingredients together. Cut cold butter into small cubes. Rub the butter into your dry ingredients. Keep it visible! You want to see chunks of butter. That’s what makes it so damn flakey. Add eggs and water, mix it up. The dough should look messy. Form it into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for several hours or overnight.

When ready, cut up into 4 ounce pieces. Roll each one out. It can and should look rustic, so don’t bother forming a perfect circle. Add your filling, fold the sides up over the filling leaving an opening. Coat the top with a layer of milk. I use a pastry brush, but you can use whatever you want, even your fingers. Finished piece will look something like this:

Favorite Post:

Probably this one. I had been writing that in my head for months. And I was quite pleased with myself for actually taking “pen” to “paper” finally. :]

A Few Of My Favorite Tweets (in random order):

Favorite Tweeter:

Discount Dracula. She makes me laugh almost daily.

Most Played Band:

Okkervil River. I have worn this band out. They are often my running partner. (Along with Marc Maron and his WTFPod.)

Favorite Movie

I don’t get to see many movies anymore, and this year was no different since we had a newborn around. But I did see a few! My favorite was probably Melancholia. I don’t know. It was just so damn haunting! Not a film I’ll shake anytime soon.

Favorite Photo:

Favorite Accomplishment:

Dudes, I had a baby AND I graduated from pastry school. And if you missed my final cake, come check it out. I was pretty proud of that, too.

2011 has been a pretty kick ass year. If 2012 is even half as awesome, I’ll be happy.

Much love to you all! Happy New Year!

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What can I say? I was bummed.

So I tweeted about it and a bunch of people wrote back with suggestions, including my brother, who always cheers me up. (Thanks, Ryan!) So I signed up for the DC Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon on March 17th, which is the same weekend I had put aside for the NYC Half. Ryan is going to do the full marathon. We’ll have a great time. And I love DC.

Anyway, sorry I haven’t written much lately! The holiday season hit us hard this year and I was scrambling to fulfill a bunch of lollipop orders. This is my biggest season for lollipop sales.

I will write more in the upcoming year. I have goals: to run a half marathon and write more. Also: BAKING. But that’s a given.

Lastly, and more importantly: Happy New Year, my friends!

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Need a last minute stocking stuffer? Maybe Santa is gluten-free and needs something other than cookies? I’m offering 5 lollipops (of my choosing*) for 5 bucks. Enter coupon code “HOHOHO” to receive the discount. Stop by, dudes. Offer ends Tuesday at noon.

* You’ll definitely get one or more of the following: Double Dog Dare, Sweet Tea and/or Rise and Shine.

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OK. So, there are a few things that are kind of funny about this. I will start by saying, I’m grateful. Of course I’m grateful. Who wouldn’t be grateful for any sort of recognition, big or small? But! (And, yes, there is a but!) I barely wrote this year.

I have been blogging for 11 years. Eleven. That’s a long, long time. And I’ll be super honest with you, there were times over those 11 years where I became disgruntled about the whole blog ranking, award thing. To be frank: I worked my ass off on this blog in the past. I typed and typed and typed. To quote one of my favorite emo bands: “I typed for miles”. I put my heart into every post during some of those years. I wrote almost every day. I spilled my guts out about postpartum depression, Emory’s birth (which didn’t go too well!) and my miscarriage. Many suggest that if you write decent content, you’ll get noticed. I decided I must not be writing decent content. And then something kind of broke inside of me, unrelated to blogging entirely. I became sort of withdrawn online. (Hello, infertility!)

Now here is where I’m going to sound like an arrogant asshole AND an ungrateful bitch. Year after year I worked my ass off blogging and then some blogger award list would come out and no one ever paid me any mind. Not even a “Yeah! We see you, but no thanks. Others are better.” And I’d ask Toby, “Why doesn’t anyone notice at all?” And usually he’d reply with something about “playing the game”, which is how this post was born. And then I’d get really mad at myself for caring even slightly, because I’d like to think I’m above all that (even when I’m not).

Listen, I am seriously grateful. And it has me feeling a little rejuvenated to write. But, dude.

Why now? Why this year, a year I barely wrote at all? A year I have told Toby, on several occasions, pretty much every time we get a receipt from our hosting company, “Let’s pull this car over once and for all and get out.” Two things stop me every time: the archives that I never, ever want to lose. Backing everything up takes time. And we don’t have much in the way of time these days. The second thing (and the most important) are you people, the regulars who continue to visit, comment and email me.

SO! Thank you, Babble, for noticing me. There are probably other mom bloggers out there who worked much, much harder this year than I have, and I’d like to give those moms a nod and a noogie. And if you’re one of those people and you’re reading this now, send me a link to your site, because I want to read what you have to say. Lastly, as a blogger (hell, as a human being) I know how it feels when these type of lists come out. Believe me! I know. But keep writing, people. Don’t give up. Because who knows, after 11 (or never) years, someone may finally throw you a bone. And if they don’t? You’re still a bad ass motherf*cker.

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As of yesterday, I’d gotten all but one: the skateboard. You see, I’d been putting off the skateboard because of where I’d have to go to get the skateboard. Normally, I’d have just gone, thought nothing of it. But I’ve been going through something lately that has me acting strangely.

I wouldn’t call it a midlife crisis; I’m not thinking of joining a roller derby team. It’s that I’m aging faster these days, faster than I’ve ever aged before. I have a lot more wrinkles, wrinkles that weren’t there last year. I’m noticing grey hair, new aches and pains, my inability to do things I used to do. It’s becoming a minor obsession of mine, actually. I always have something to obsess over. Whether it be infertility, weight, pregnancy, or running, I have something. And, if all goes well and nothing truly tragic happens (please god, no) 2012 is going to be The Year Of Obsessing Over My Age.

I worry about everything now, from wrinkles to hair loss, from aches and pains to tumors and cancer. I was never a hypochondriac before. I never worried about my health even when I probably should have worried about my health. Now, suddenly, everything is bothering me. The fact that I used to smoke? Yeah, I’m dying. And that weird skin thing? That could be some “bad” cancer. Is this what it’s like getting older? Hypochondria, nasal strips and tiger balm?

Maybe this is due to my having two kids and being responsible for the both of them. And buying the 4-year-old a skateboard yesterday sure as shit ain’t helping. What if he gets hurt? He will get hurt! Of course he’ll get hurt! He’s an active little boy! They’ll both get hurt. They may even break a couple of bones. OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT DARK SPOT ON MY NECK?

Anyway, my new obsession with aging is manifesting itself in strange ways. At first I was becoming a little too concerned about fitting in—or not fitting in. I realized this only recently while at my externship. Most of my coworkers were right around 24-years-old. I’m not 24 anymore. I don’t want to be 24 ever again. I hadn’t even really thought about 24-year-old me until I started hanging out with 24-year-olds. And I think I needed that, to go back in time. In truth: at age 24, I sure as shit didn’t believe I was a kid. But I was. I know that now. Had you told me that then, I’d have wanted to punch you in the throat and then I’d have fallen from my barstool.

I was a kid. And I have no desire to be a kid again. But I enjoyed talking to my coworkers, and since I’m still not totally over-the-hill, I went back and forth between “friend” and “mother”. It’s not that I acted like their mother, at least I hope not. It’s that I started to think of my coworkers as my future sons. They became my educators, in a sense, glimpses into my future. What might my sons be doing one day? How hungover will they be on a Saturday morning at work? Will they still be drunk? Will one of them jump the turnstile in the subway and get arrested? Will they be doing drugs named “Molly”?

(I had a first skateboard once. My mom took me to get it when I was 13-years-old. I was just getting started, dipping my feet into my teenage years. There wasn’t a tomorrow. There definitely wasn’t any grey hair.)

Lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself of how cool I used to be, which is dorky on so many levels, I can’t even begin to describe them all. I might as well be the kid hanging from the tree by her underpants. Or the shitfaced aunt at a wedding who does the Electric Slide better than ALL the bridesmaids put together.

(This weekend, while at an event, a couple told me about a party they catered and how the people were trying to act like they were 24 again. But they weren’t 24! They were old! Like, 40!)

Perhaps it’s that I don’t want to let go of 24-year-old me. And there’s a part of me that wants people to know who I used to be and how cool I was, (or thought i was). I used to be able to drink all night, show up for work the next day without totally and completely wanting to kill myself because even that would be better than an adult hangover. And while I never did any drugs named “Molly”, I think made out with one under a table at Galapagos (before it moved to Dumbo).

But now? Now hangovers last two days. So I can’t do much in the way of drinking. And if I’m up past 10 PM, I get twitchy. I have wrinkles and grey hair. I’m getting older. That is a fact. And no one cares if I think I was once cool. None of that matters anymore.

So I strapped the baby to my chest and walked into our local skate shop to buy a board for my 4-year-old. The guy behind the counter could not have been any nicer. He helped me decide what to get and helped me pick out a helmet. And just as I was finishing up he said, “The first board is a big deal. You’re doing a really cool thing. My mom just sent me a picture of me on my first board. I was six. Make sure you take a picture of your kid on this board.”

What’s wrong with getting older anyway?

Related posts:

• I Have No Shame.
• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

These are my boys:

Here’s another one:

Rest assured, Murray still gets to chase Em around as well. No one here will ever forget about Murray even if Murray wants us to forget about Murray. He’s a VERY popular kitty cat these days.

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• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 132) A Video.
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 129) Murray Scares Emory. A Video.
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 128) A New Diet.
• Tuesdays With Murray: Chapter 119 (A Video)
• Wanna See My Kid Eat Dirt?

He’s now 9 months old! Why does time fly so fast after you have kids? SLOW DOWN, LIFE.

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But it’s also been a buttload of work! I work every weekend all day long. (Thanks to Toby Joe for being full-time dad.) I’ve also been working every Tuesday. My mother drives up from South Jersey every Monday, spends the night surrounded by stuffed animals, Thomas trains and found objects, watches the kids all day Tuesday and then drives back home that night. Yes, this is insane. And I can’t thank her enough. I couldn’t have done it without Toby and my mom.

Anyway, this is my last week at Mast Brothers. I’m done next Tuesday. And I’m going to miss these guys. They’ve made me cry several times from laughing so hard. And the weekend crew tells the most insane stories. I guess you could say I live vicariously through them. And I tell them that. Every Saturday and Sunday morning I get the lowdown on what took place the night before. Sometimes they come in hungover, sometimes still a little drunk. They remind me of 26-year-old me who had just moved to New York and had the energy to do all of that and then some. Their stories have me reminiscing about my own life. And last week it occurred to me: I’m pretty happy at age 37. I want to hear all about their lives, even bake them hangover biscuits, but I don’t wish to return to those days. I’m pretty OK with being done with all that—laughing along or just listening.

Anyway, it’s a bittersweet farewell, you see, because I’m finally going to have my weekends back. I haven’t really had my weekends (this goes for Toby too) since starting pastry school back in July of 2010. I’m not sure what people do on the weekends anymore. Spend time with their family? Go shopping? Sit around in their Saturday pants? Watch football? Blog?

YES! I will blog more. And make lollipops. And I will try and figure out what I’m going to do with my culinary degree.

P.S. I guess it’s a good thing I have a new alma mater since Penn State is going down the shitter. :[

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“Yeah. So?” I scoffed.

Back then, he was just a customer. I didn’t give a shit about football. The only reason I knew who he was at all was because of hundreds of cardboard JoePas I’d seen in windows all over Penn State. I didn’t care about football at all. I only wanted Penn State to win because of the tips. Sad, drunk fans left terrible tips.

Joe was just another customer.

The Penn State Thing.

When it happened, when everything unfolded, my emotions were all over the place. At first I was in shock. Then that wore off and I became obsessed. I read everything. I dug up Sports Illustrated articles from 1998 looking for hints, something. I read it all. And I tried to write about it. The more I read the more I wanted to write about it. But I bit my tongue. There would have been some pretty intense posts had I let myself write about it last week. First of all, I would have stated that I don’t agree with the firing of Joe Paterno. And I would have backed up why and that would have started a few fights. But I knew it was too soon. I knew that I would have written something I would have regretted. My emotions were raw footage; I needed an editor first.

Things have settled down a bit since then.

But not before I canceled everything.

I was supposed to meet up with a friend and her new baby. I canceled. I was supposed to meet a few moms at the playground. Canceled that too. I was supposed to go out for drinks. Canceled. I even canceled a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t want to do anything. I couldn’t muster up the energy. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wasn’t going to be very good company. So, I quit. Everything.

Last Thursday night, as I combed through even more articles and (stupidly) through comments sections, something finally occurred to me: I am depressed.

I don’t live with depression. I have written that before. I go through ups and downs like most people. My downs are manageable, and they don’t come out of nowhere; there is almost always a catalyst. My miscarriage was a catalyst. Our move to San Francisco, another. My infertility, yet another massive catalyst.

So last Thursday when I realized I was experiencing depression, I knew right away the catalyst was The Penn State Thing. But I couldn’t figure out why it was hitting me so very hard.

A Bit Of History

I moved to State College from Raleigh, North Carolina when I was 15-years-old. I didn’t want to move even though we’d been moving my whole life. I can safely say now that I was headed down a very wrong path in Raleigh, but I didn’t want to leave. I considered State College boring, lame, pathetic, loser-ish—all normal angsty teenage things. No one worth a damn could possibly live in a town called State College. And who names a town STATE COLLEGE? What a stupid name for a place to say you’re from.

I met a boy. A boy who broke the shit out of my heart. REM helped me get over that.

I got a job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I got fired a month later.

I made some friends. We’d drive to the Altoona Salvation Army, load up on Taco Bell and cheap cardigans. Nirvana’s Bleach was our soundtrack.

I got a job at The Diner where I would continute to work for 8 years.

I graduated from high school, something I probably wouldn’t have done had we stayed in Raleigh. Moving to State College saved my ass in so many ways. Who knows what would have happened to me had we stayed in Raleigh. I’ll leave it at that.

I was accepted into Penn State. I declared Philosophy as my major. (Ha!)

I got a second job at The Nittany Lion Inn. Eventually I got promoted and started working more important, smaller gatherings for high-ranking Penn State officials. (Incidentally, I waited on a few of the men involved in last week’s scandal.)

I declared Graphic Design as my major.

I made a lot of friends. Friends I still call friends.

I could sit here and recall every last memory, they are endless, but that’s like telling people about a dream. Boring. And I’m probably no different from anyone else when it comes to memories. But the backdrop for my memories are very much intertwined with the fact that they took place in State College. And at some point during my twenties, after graduating from Penn State, discovering (and loving) college football, and getting a “real” job, I realized something: State College is where I am from.

State College, y’all. What a dumb name for a town, right? Even the talking heads from last week’s media frenzy said it with confusion—like, who names a town State College?

I don’t know, Talking Head. But that’s where I’m from.

The Scandal and Its Aftermath

News broke. Several boys were sexually abused by a Penn State football coach. This, while not yet proven in a court of law, is likely the case. I’ve read the 23-page indictment. I believe it to be true.

Then more news came out about who may have known what and how they didn’t do enough (or nothing) to stop it. Several people were fired. Others quit. It was a shitstorm, a State College shitstorm. And the media ate it up! When 1,000 Penn State students rioted in downtown State College, the media went crazy for it even though that number represents the smallest sliver of Penn State’s student body. Suddenly every student, past and present, was guilty of some of the most heinous crimes known to man. Online, people began referring to Penn State as “Pedophile University”. People demanded the football team forfeit their upcoming game even though those kids have nothing to do with any of it. People slammed the whole lot of us. All of Penn State was guilty of something. Anything. Whatever. It didn’t matter. Fuck Penn State!

Or so it seemed to this wounded alumnus.

Twitter exploded with finger-pointing. Everyone had something to say about it. Those involved in the scandal were guilty as charged. So much for innocent until proven guilty. Hang the lot of them! For many, Paterno was the worst of all because of his allegiance to kids, because of his otherwise stellar history. He had a lot further distance to fall and a name.

Believe me, I don’t blame anyone for reacting with such intense outrage; Sandusky, and the people who allegedly did nothing to stop him, warrant your anger. I get it. I really do. It’s when you add it all up, and start to see every reaction as one big one, well, that’s when it looks really ugly.

And I couldn’t escape it.

Here’s the deal, State College has been our idealistic little town for a decade and Penn State plays a huge part in that ideal. Toby Joe and I wanted to raise our boys there. I very nearly got a job at Penn State two years ago. If it hadn’t been for the fact I would have to relocate from New York City, it would have been mine. State College has been on our radar for as long as we’ve been together. It has been our town, our little slice of heaven, an ideal. Hell, we’ve even been carrying around our dead cat’s ashes because (and I quote), “State College is his home. That’s where he’d want to finally rest.” (Go ahead! Commence with the eye-rolling!)

Basically, no matter how bad things got elsewhere, we always had State College. We knew we could make it in State College. It was safe. It was home. Even though in the back of our minds we knew we’d probably never return, it was home.

On Tuesday, a friend asked me how I was feeling about the whole scandal, putting aside my emotions regarding the crimes committed and the firing of Joe Paterno (which, I will go on the record with saying, I don’t agree with) I told her it feels like my town was bombed. My idealistic hometown no longer exists. The place I wanted to return to, the place I wanted to move my boys to, is gone. Just like that. Gone. And every time I think to explain my feelings, the thoughts come out sounding laughable, absurdly so. It’s a town, after all. Just a town. Why so dramatic?

I don’t know. But I do know it’s egotistical. This terrible story has nothing to do with me yet I’m making it personal somehow. And perhaps I’m putting State College on a pedestal. But it’s hard not to when it’s home to so many of my best memories. And doesn’t everyone have someplace they fantasize about when times are tough?

State College was my safe-haven even if it wasn’t.

In past last two weeks, I have received five emails from different business located in State College begging me, a prior customer, to come visit. Last night, I got one from my high school letting me know my 20-year reunion is next spring and that I should plan ahead! Because rooms fill up. These emails just made me feel worse. Because I know they are being sent by people who are facing unknown hardships. They are uncertain about their future. And they have their tails between their legs because their hometown was emotionally leveled. A place most people hadn’t even heard of before last week is now known as one of the ugliest, most horribly secretive places in America.

I’m even mourning the businesses of Penn State.

It feels like my town is gone, y’all. And Sandusky had a lot to do with it. But the media frenzy is to blame as well. State College is wounded and it will take years, maybe decades, for it to regain what it’s lost. The town will suffer. The university will take a huge hit. The football team is as good as done… at least for a while.

This is far from over. And my skin is thin right now. And the town I’ve been idealizing all these years, the safe place to raise my boys, it’s not there anymore. And that breaks my heart a little bit. I feel a little empty.

Related posts:

• I Have No Shame.
• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

You know how when you cut yourself, you know immediately whether or not you’re going to need stitches? There’s no question as to whether you can wrap some duct-tape around it and continue working. Well, I knew before that shard finished its slice I was going to need stitches. All the blood was just punctuation.

So Toby took out a baby bib (oh, yes!) and we wrapped it around my bleeding hand using an ACE bandage. (Note to self: buy boo-boo supplies pronto.) I called a car service and headed to the ER.

A visit to one of New York City’s ERs leaves a person with many stories. There are the usual characters: those begging for pain medication while putting on one of the worst performances of their life; those looking for some attention because they don’t get any elsewhere; the crackhead; and the homeless guy pickling himself in years and years worth of booze. You don’t see the people who are actually in need of immediate emergency medical attention because they’re off getting said emergency medical attention. You see the rest of us, myself included, bloodied baby bibs and all.

But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about my stitches.

On Thursday I was picking up Em from school and I ran into a friend. She happens to be awesome and she has a cool job. She does the art direction for the blood and guts in movies. She’s kind of like Dexter but for movies. And, like Dexter, she’s really, really good at what she does.

“What happened to your hand? Pastry knife wound? Making roach wedding cakes?” She asked.

“I cut myself doing the dishes. Nothing cool, unfortunately. Just the boring old dishes.”

“Can I see it?” She asked, possibly looking for inspiration for her next project.

“Sure.” I pulled down the bandage.

“Oh, wow!” She sucked air in through her clenched teeth. For a second I thought I made the blood and guts artist feel squeamish. ”Wow!” She said with amazement. “That looks like work done by a really bad makeup artist! But it’s the real deal. Who sewed you up? Where on earth did you go?”

I laughed. “It was a 10-year-old med student with no sense of humor. Terrible, right? I thought so too. Good thing I’m not a hand model.”

“Good thing it’s not on your face! Although, that have been great for Halloween. It actually looks like you did this for Halloween. It doesn’t look real at all. Terrible work.”

“I know. I was kind of surprised he’d only given me 4 stitches. It seemed to warrant more than that.”

“Definitely.”

Then she went on to say that I needed to go somewhere else, that the scar was going to be awful and that I may even get an infection since pieces of the wound were still open.

So, my wounded warriors. Do you think he did a shoddy job as well? Have you ever had stitches? What are your thoughts on my latest boo-boo?

Taken right after I got the stitches.

Taken today.

Sorry if I’ve officially grossed you out with all my skin issues lately. Happy Halloween!

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I was 30 and living in San Francisco when I first wrote about it. I wrote about the razor rash on my legs. At the time I thought it was from not ever changing my razors due to my neurosis about sharps in landfills. That wasn’t the case.

I moved back East and it persisted, sometimes it got worse, sometimes better. But it never fully went away. I wrote about it again.

I’ve been to at least a dozen doctors over the years. I’ve seen gynecologists, fertility specialists, primary care physicians, allergists, dermatologists, endocrinologists. I even asked a psychologist about it. The best I got was a prescription strength steroidal cream from a dermatologist. That helped, but it still didn’t go away.

Not one doctor had an answer for me. No one even seemed to care. I became more miserable and they wrote my misery off as razor rash or dry skin.

I decided I’d probably live this way forever.

But then last six months things have become much, much worse. The rash and hives have spread. They’ve moved onto my thighs and hips. And have finally reached my stomach and arms. Living a comfortable life was becoming increasingly more difficult. I’d wake up at night with blood on my shins from scratching. In the evening the rash was always worse. The removal of a pair of socks or pants seemed to trigger it. Taking off my bra made my chest itch. I stopped wearing shorts or skirts.

There was no relief. I tried every over-the-counter cream I could find. I gave up soap. I used certain detergents, none at all. I stopped taking hot showers, would go a few days without one. I stopped shaving. Started using natural ingredients only. Nothing got rid of the itch. I began to think maybe I was making it all up, that it was all in my head; maybe this was the first step into complete madness.

Desperate, I asked Twitter for new dermatologist recommendations because the woman I’d been going to for years wasn’t helping. On top of that she has a two-month waiting period. It didn’t even seem as if she listened to me anymore.

Missy came to my rescue. She suggested I see her dermatologist. This doctor had answered a lingering skin question for her. I got an appointment for the following week. This time I’d go in and beg for help. I wouldn’t leave without some sort of answer, even if it was just a plan.

On Monday, a 7-year long question MAY have been answered. After running a test on my back, the dermatologist diagnosed me with Dermatographic Urticaria, or chronic urticaria. She said there’s no way of knowing how or why I developed it. Usually there’s an event that jumpstarts it. A person might be bitten by a lot of mosquitoes all at once, triggering an intense histamine response. That response is remembered and the body begins creating its own hives. It could have started from stress. No one knows.

Here’s the bitch: the more I scratch, the more my body releases histamine creating a terrible cycle. The more hives, the more scratching; the more histamine, the more itching. Repeat until I’m covered in hives.

There are some days I look like a leper.

She prescribed me a super strong allergy medication, which will turn me into a zombie. I have two kids. One is a baby. Turning into a zombie, unable to stay awake, is not an option for me.

When I got home that evening, I had the biggest outbreak I’ve had in a while. I scratched myself raw. My mother was visiting and asked me to stop and I couldn’t. We covered my legs in ice and I took a Benadryl. It helped. About 30 minutes after the itching stopped, I had a piece of dark chocolate. My legs broke out immediately. I took a picture.

That’s when I realized that I’d had chocolate right before the initial outbreak. Could this be a food thing too? And, if so, could I find a cure without using medication?

So I researched. I discovered there’s low histamine diet where one avoids foods containing high amounts of histamine. You can’t avoid the chemical entirely, but avoiding foods containing higher amounts can help. Here’s the list.

The surprising thing is, several of the items on that list have given me allergic reactions in the past—more common allergic reactions. (At age 26 I went into anaphylactic shock after eating shitty shellfish. I have had an epi pen ever since.) Cinnamon is on that list, as is red wine, cheese, chocolate and bleached flours. Most processed foods trigger high histamine responses. And preservatives are the devil. All of those items, except for cheese, have given me problems in the past. (During my allergy screening, cinnamon and lobster were my two highest offenders.) What’s more fascinating to me is that the longer shellfish and seafood has been sitting around, the worse the histamine response. This explains why fresh seafood and shellfish doesn’t give me any problems. Weird, right?

I am entering day three of this diet and my itch is gone. I have no new bumps (the old ones are still healing) and there haven’t been any hives at all. Not one.

So, I’m going to follow this diet for at least a month to see if it does indeed help. I need to go for at least that long to make sure this isn’t still a hormonal issue, which is what I thought was the case in the past. One thing is for sure, this has gotten much worse the older I get and seems to progress with every pregnancy.

This diet hasn’t been easy! I don’t eat red meat and I enjoy seafood a great deal. So the list of what I can eat has become really, really small. Even soy products are a no-no for now. And I eat a great deal of soy. And giving up chocolate might be impossible, but at least I can cut back on everything and sneak some treats in from time to time. That is, if this works. If not, I’m back to square one.

Related posts:

• I Have No Shame.
• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I mean, look at his face. Terror. Pure terror.

When he saw the picture, he said, “What’s wrong with me?”

Kid, you’re terrified. Here’s a closeup.

Terror. Yet, I still manage to laugh when I see it. (Then I immediately want to give him a hug and tell him it’s gonna be OK and then probably laugh again because, dude, look at that face! So the bigger question might be, what’s wrong with me?)

Anyway, he skipped Space Mountain, of course. But I didn’t! That’s me in the front wearing my nephew’s mask.

Underneath it, I’m screaming too.

Speaking of hilarious faces of terror, Check this out. It’s hysterical. Be sure to click the “Play button” at the top. It’s probably the best thing I’ve seen online in ages.

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