Well, so much for Judaism. I'm your Hopi Kachina doll now. The drug works. We have yet to determine exactly how much, but it works.
I went down to the subway this afternoon from the doctor's office and some guy was playing on a guitar and harmonica "ob la di, ob la da, life goes on la, la la how the life goes on..."
And so it does.
beth
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
To Honor Kokopelli
Back when I was in medical school my parents returned from a trip out west with a gift for me. On my own trips I am wracked with guilt as I shop at the airport Discovery Channel store for a stupid stuffed animal remembering all the lovely jewelry and clothing my parents brought home from their trips. On this particular trip the gift was a pair of earrings. They were a little unusual in that one was an image of the Native American deity, Kokopelli, and the other was the inverse, the square of silver from which it was cut.
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
No pain, no strain just sit and...oh nevermind.
Best to leave that title alone whether you know how it finishes or not. I have received some awed congratulations since my surgery for how well I am coping with my new, um appliance. Those would be hastily withdrawn if you heard the decibel level at our house this morning. Luckily since today is my day off I was still in pajamas while I helped get the kids ready for school. Luckily I was also standing on the easily cleaned tile floor of the kitchen when the clip let go releasing a torrent down my leg.
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
No news is good news...
I know, I haven't posted for a while. I'm back at work and doing fine. A little busy as you can imagine. Still knitting and hoping to publish a paper in an allergy journal soon. So if you have guessed that no news is good news, you would be right. I'm still flying back and forth to Sloan Kettering on a weekly basis. It's a drag. I'm a little bored with the JetBlue terminal. Maybe the corporate geniuses did focus groups which told them blasting Lionel Ritchie loud enough that I can't talk on my phone is somehow soothing to passengers but I'm not seeing it. Nor do I understand why a rock band of kids in the central hub seemed like a good idea around Christmas time. A bunch of ten year olds singing "I see a red door and I want to paint it black..." is just wrong. It's just...wrong.
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
All quiet on the western NY front.
Not much to report. I went back to work today. Endless popping of pills is going fine. It's actually 8 capsules twice a day. It beats chemo and it, um... beats dying. Really, I'd swallow a Yaris daily if you told me it would work.
My brother's culinary exploits have generated quite a few comments. Yes, growing up Ted was almost constantly eating. Usually some place he wasn't supposed to be. When taken by surprise Ted would engage in caching behavior very similar to grey squirrels and stuff his prize into the nearest orifice or dark space. Unlike a squirrel he had no intention of going back to retrieve the morsel. At least I don't think so judging by the number of mummified bagels and dried up cups of yogurt my mother found under the couch.
Of course he was not the only one to engage in clandestine eating. Let's face it we all do it. After a roast chicken my Dad would take all the meat off the bones and put it in a food saver (it was not pretty to watch --let's just say Happy Hal had all the surgical precision of a paper shredder). No chicken pot pie or chicken a la king made from that mess of meat tasted nearly as good as fishing out a nice piece of thigh while standing at the fridge and stuffing it in my mouth. Yes, you've done it. Admit it.
Here are a few other delicacies that come to mind beyond the obvious smear of icing off a cake:
-No casserole tastes as good after baking as it does waiting to go into the oven. My favorite is Mac and Cheese but I'll eat raw tuna noodle casserole in a pinch. No making faces. It's all cooked. It's just going in the oven to brown! Get over yourself.
-Licking the lid from any can of creamed soup tastes better than the actual soup.
-Handfuls of cereal taste better than bowlfuls.
-Ice cream tastes better in the carton. I got caught once and told my mother I was just "saying hello."
-The best part of a jar of peanut butter is that first swipe with your finger through the unbroken pristine surface.
You have a better one? Post it in the comments.
These tales all pale in comparison to the undisputed master of clandestine eating: Uncle Bill. That is a story so legendary, so epic, it deserves it's own entry. I will need some time to prepare...help me Obi Bill. You're my only hope!
In the meantime, I'll finish by telling you I went to the grocery store today and walked by the Christmas baking supplies. The only candied fruit sold are the neon cherries or a tub labeled "fruitcake mix." I couldn't make myself buy it. I just couldn't distinguish what the bright green squares were. I will check out the other supermarket chain. If they have the pure stuff I will make some mini-fruitcakes and then I will hold a lottery. You'll need to send me your address if you want to be entered. I will randomly pick out three winners to receive a little loaf of heavenly, brandy-sodden goodness.
Dr. Bif
My brother's culinary exploits have generated quite a few comments. Yes, growing up Ted was almost constantly eating. Usually some place he wasn't supposed to be. When taken by surprise Ted would engage in caching behavior very similar to grey squirrels and stuff his prize into the nearest orifice or dark space. Unlike a squirrel he had no intention of going back to retrieve the morsel. At least I don't think so judging by the number of mummified bagels and dried up cups of yogurt my mother found under the couch.
Of course he was not the only one to engage in clandestine eating. Let's face it we all do it. After a roast chicken my Dad would take all the meat off the bones and put it in a food saver (it was not pretty to watch --let's just say Happy Hal had all the surgical precision of a paper shredder). No chicken pot pie or chicken a la king made from that mess of meat tasted nearly as good as fishing out a nice piece of thigh while standing at the fridge and stuffing it in my mouth. Yes, you've done it. Admit it.
Here are a few other delicacies that come to mind beyond the obvious smear of icing off a cake:
-No casserole tastes as good after baking as it does waiting to go into the oven. My favorite is Mac and Cheese but I'll eat raw tuna noodle casserole in a pinch. No making faces. It's all cooked. It's just going in the oven to brown! Get over yourself.
-Licking the lid from any can of creamed soup tastes better than the actual soup.
-Handfuls of cereal taste better than bowlfuls.
-Ice cream tastes better in the carton. I got caught once and told my mother I was just "saying hello."
-The best part of a jar of peanut butter is that first swipe with your finger through the unbroken pristine surface.
You have a better one? Post it in the comments.
These tales all pale in comparison to the undisputed master of clandestine eating: Uncle Bill. That is a story so legendary, so epic, it deserves it's own entry. I will need some time to prepare...help me Obi Bill. You're my only hope!
In the meantime, I'll finish by telling you I went to the grocery store today and walked by the Christmas baking supplies. The only candied fruit sold are the neon cherries or a tub labeled "fruitcake mix." I couldn't make myself buy it. I just couldn't distinguish what the bright green squares were. I will check out the other supermarket chain. If they have the pure stuff I will make some mini-fruitcakes and then I will hold a lottery. You'll need to send me your address if you want to be entered. I will randomly pick out three winners to receive a little loaf of heavenly, brandy-sodden goodness.
Dr. Bif
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A jet setter? Me?
Hello bloggers,
I've made it into the clinical trial at Sloan Kettering. I have also been randomized to the experimental drug which means I will not be on chemo and I will be taking a pill a day. My blond dye job gets to stay. In about an hour I leave for the airport to start racking up my frequent flier miles. I have to fly to NYC today just to take a pill.
This heralds my entrance back into the real world. I go back to work next week for a half day or so. I'll ramp up pretty quickly I think. The original purpose of this blog which was to keep you updated and let you know if we needed anything is probably past. I think I'll keep writing though because it's fun. Of course, the new drug may not work and I may end up getting chemo (think good thoughts now).
In other news, I've been issued a challenge by my mother. I complained that fruitcakes are too easy these days. When I was a little kid my mother would round up the three of us kids into the kitchen for the annual ritual of slicing the candied fruit for her fruitcakes. I don't know when she started baking them. It's not a long family tradition. She tried the recipe out when we were very young. Within a few years she had escalated to a small factory with us employed as child labor. Well, she has seven other siblings, one for our neighbor, some for us. I think she made at least a dozen.
My favorite job was cutting the citron. Citron is a citrus fruit that is essentially all peel. It's candied and it used to be sold in big blocks. I loved the stuff. Mom was very particular about the size. Not too small, not too big. Didn't matter to me, I ate my mistakes. We also chopped candied orange and lemon peel (not as good as citron) and cut up rings of candied pineapple which would do in a pinch if the citron was all cut up. Neither Kate nor I liked the cherries too much until they were in the cake. Even as a kid I was deeply suspicious of a neon green cherry. If you put a red cherry in green food color you get...brown. What unspeakable thing does one need to do to a cherry to turn it neon green?
Mom made the batter and monitored quality control (stop eating!). Ted would eat anything, even the cherries. That batter was good too, like liquid brown sugar. Sometimes a mixer bowl of batter and fruit would be left on the counter while another batch was in the oven. There's a reason some of those cakes were smaller than others...
After they came out and cooled (and had any large pieces of fruit sticking out removed-purely for quality control purposes, you understand) they were then prepared with all the ritual of an egyptian mummy. They were wrapped first in cheesecloth and then in tin foil. Before being sealed up in their little sarcophogi they were annointed with that blessed liquid, brandy. And plenty of it.
I actually hate brandy to drink, it's like drinking gasoline. However, a magical transformation happened to those cakes as they rested in their dark little wrappings and soaked up the amber goodness. If you don't like fruitcake it's because you haven't put in enough brandy. This ritual was referred to as "watering the fruitcake." It would be repeated several times during the fruitcakes ageing period. Even after the thing was aged enough to eat it would get a little dry. After all the thing was dense; I mean black hole dense and a whole slice was a lot to get through. Although Ted could manage it just fine. Let's face it anyone who used to eat in the shower probably wouldn't have a problem with one whole slice of a fruitcake. "Mom, the fruitcake needs watering!" It would be annointed again and sent to rest in it's cheesecloth for a day or so.
Not everyone had the same response to the fruitcakes. Some of my mother's sisters made cracks about them. Uncle Bill held his in a sacred place in his freezer carefully doling it out until the next one arrived. One year my mother got sick of the jokes and didn't make any. You'd have thought Frosty the Snowman had been killed by a salt truck.
Nowadays you can go to the supermarket and buy little tubs of pre-cut fruit. Where is the challenge? Where is the sticky paring knife and tacky finger tips turning green and red from the cherries? The uncut stuff isn't even there if you wanted it. That's when I told my mother it was too easy these days and she issued the challenge, "oh yeah?" I don't think I have enough time to age anything before Christmas rolls around. They'd have to be New Year's cakes but I do have a secret weapon: mini loaf pans.
Dr. Bif
I've made it into the clinical trial at Sloan Kettering. I have also been randomized to the experimental drug which means I will not be on chemo and I will be taking a pill a day. My blond dye job gets to stay. In about an hour I leave for the airport to start racking up my frequent flier miles. I have to fly to NYC today just to take a pill.
This heralds my entrance back into the real world. I go back to work next week for a half day or so. I'll ramp up pretty quickly I think. The original purpose of this blog which was to keep you updated and let you know if we needed anything is probably past. I think I'll keep writing though because it's fun. Of course, the new drug may not work and I may end up getting chemo (think good thoughts now).
In other news, I've been issued a challenge by my mother. I complained that fruitcakes are too easy these days. When I was a little kid my mother would round up the three of us kids into the kitchen for the annual ritual of slicing the candied fruit for her fruitcakes. I don't know when she started baking them. It's not a long family tradition. She tried the recipe out when we were very young. Within a few years she had escalated to a small factory with us employed as child labor. Well, she has seven other siblings, one for our neighbor, some for us. I think she made at least a dozen.
My favorite job was cutting the citron. Citron is a citrus fruit that is essentially all peel. It's candied and it used to be sold in big blocks. I loved the stuff. Mom was very particular about the size. Not too small, not too big. Didn't matter to me, I ate my mistakes. We also chopped candied orange and lemon peel (not as good as citron) and cut up rings of candied pineapple which would do in a pinch if the citron was all cut up. Neither Kate nor I liked the cherries too much until they were in the cake. Even as a kid I was deeply suspicious of a neon green cherry. If you put a red cherry in green food color you get...brown. What unspeakable thing does one need to do to a cherry to turn it neon green?
Mom made the batter and monitored quality control (stop eating!). Ted would eat anything, even the cherries. That batter was good too, like liquid brown sugar. Sometimes a mixer bowl of batter and fruit would be left on the counter while another batch was in the oven. There's a reason some of those cakes were smaller than others...
After they came out and cooled (and had any large pieces of fruit sticking out removed-purely for quality control purposes, you understand) they were then prepared with all the ritual of an egyptian mummy. They were wrapped first in cheesecloth and then in tin foil. Before being sealed up in their little sarcophogi they were annointed with that blessed liquid, brandy. And plenty of it.
I actually hate brandy to drink, it's like drinking gasoline. However, a magical transformation happened to those cakes as they rested in their dark little wrappings and soaked up the amber goodness. If you don't like fruitcake it's because you haven't put in enough brandy. This ritual was referred to as "watering the fruitcake." It would be repeated several times during the fruitcakes ageing period. Even after the thing was aged enough to eat it would get a little dry. After all the thing was dense; I mean black hole dense and a whole slice was a lot to get through. Although Ted could manage it just fine. Let's face it anyone who used to eat in the shower probably wouldn't have a problem with one whole slice of a fruitcake. "Mom, the fruitcake needs watering!" It would be annointed again and sent to rest in it's cheesecloth for a day or so.
Not everyone had the same response to the fruitcakes. Some of my mother's sisters made cracks about them. Uncle Bill held his in a sacred place in his freezer carefully doling it out until the next one arrived. One year my mother got sick of the jokes and didn't make any. You'd have thought Frosty the Snowman had been killed by a salt truck.
Nowadays you can go to the supermarket and buy little tubs of pre-cut fruit. Where is the challenge? Where is the sticky paring knife and tacky finger tips turning green and red from the cherries? The uncut stuff isn't even there if you wanted it. That's when I told my mother it was too easy these days and she issued the challenge, "oh yeah?" I don't think I have enough time to age anything before Christmas rolls around. They'd have to be New Year's cakes but I do have a secret weapon: mini loaf pans.
Dr. Bif
Monday, December 8, 2008
New York, New York it's a hell of a town...
Hi Gang,
Back from the big city. Two and a half days in Manhattan have cured any illusions I have about channeling one of the Sex and the City girls. I can't handle bumper to bumper traffic at 11pm on a Saturday night! I am absolutely not kidding when I tell you that walking down 5th avenue around midtown was like trying to get to the bar at an Irish wake (I may be Jewish but I'm part Irish too lest you find that insulting).
Ok, now the news. I saw the doc at Sloan Kettering. I saw him initially for a second opinion last year. He offered me a spot in a clinical trial this time. If I am randomized to the study drug I would be taking a pill every day and going to Sloan for weekly visits (hello frequent flier miles). The other arm of the study is a chemo regimen that is much nicer than what my local doc suggested. Just horrible rashes and cardiotoxicity, no biggie, right? I find out on Wednesday which arm of the study I will be randomized to. Cross your fingers everyone. Cross your toes, your legs and your eyes. Think happy thoughts. I want that cool new drug that could make this go away.
Katie and I made a weekend of it. We stayed at Le Parker Meridien and paid an exhorbitant amount for a room. The bed was a little slice of heaven though. We ate at the Modern at the Museum of Modern Art. Very pricey. Very good. Katie and I split a half bottle of the best french chardonnay I've ever had. Their cosmos left a little to be desired though. Pretty much straight vodka with the Cointreau and cranberry just waived over the glass. Why do I talk about booze so much? I confess, I love cocktails. I like the history of the recipes, the different glasses, the big shakers, the sense of festivity it lends even to a dinner at home (let's face it, having a glass of wine from a half drunk bottle isn't all that exciting). Lest you all think this is an AA blog I dislike getting really trashed. Ugh. Hangovers are just brutal with me. My intestines pay the price and I just want to be taken out back and shot. I won't lie, it's not like I've never tied one on. I've got a good hangover story but I'll save that for another time.
So back to Manhattan. We ate expensive food and then we went to the expensive spa. Everyone should have a massage and a facial once in their lives. Every person on the planet needs one. If we had just sent Arafat and Sharon to the spa together the middle east wouldn't be such a mess. You can't be pissed off at anyone when all your muscle fibers are simultaneously saying, "aahh!"
Now I have some friends who are very concerned about that particular issue so I'm gonna just back off...
Before I sign off for the day I want to thank everyone so much for all the kind thoughts and deeds. Somehow I feel funny putting your names down here but you know who you are. Thank you for the flowers, cards, little gifts, donations in my name and food. It has all meant a tremendous amount to me. Hey, my family has to do this kind of thing; you don't. I am very grateful to have so many friends and I love you all. This blog thing feels very self-centered. I'm enjoying writing the stories and at some point I'll stop updating you all on the cancer thing because I don't want that to become the focus of my life. We all have crap to deal with. Mine just lends itself to drama. My recovery is going well and if there is something I can do for you please let me know. It'll feel good to get my life back into balance. Right now everything seems to tip towards me. God knows we don't need to make me any more of a ham than I already am.
Last thing, if you leave a comment on the blog and don't put your name down I have no idea who you are!
Dr. Bif
Back from the big city. Two and a half days in Manhattan have cured any illusions I have about channeling one of the Sex and the City girls. I can't handle bumper to bumper traffic at 11pm on a Saturday night! I am absolutely not kidding when I tell you that walking down 5th avenue around midtown was like trying to get to the bar at an Irish wake (I may be Jewish but I'm part Irish too lest you find that insulting).
Ok, now the news. I saw the doc at Sloan Kettering. I saw him initially for a second opinion last year. He offered me a spot in a clinical trial this time. If I am randomized to the study drug I would be taking a pill every day and going to Sloan for weekly visits (hello frequent flier miles). The other arm of the study is a chemo regimen that is much nicer than what my local doc suggested. Just horrible rashes and cardiotoxicity, no biggie, right? I find out on Wednesday which arm of the study I will be randomized to. Cross your fingers everyone. Cross your toes, your legs and your eyes. Think happy thoughts. I want that cool new drug that could make this go away.
Katie and I made a weekend of it. We stayed at Le Parker Meridien and paid an exhorbitant amount for a room. The bed was a little slice of heaven though. We ate at the Modern at the Museum of Modern Art. Very pricey. Very good. Katie and I split a half bottle of the best french chardonnay I've ever had. Their cosmos left a little to be desired though. Pretty much straight vodka with the Cointreau and cranberry just waived over the glass. Why do I talk about booze so much? I confess, I love cocktails. I like the history of the recipes, the different glasses, the big shakers, the sense of festivity it lends even to a dinner at home (let's face it, having a glass of wine from a half drunk bottle isn't all that exciting). Lest you all think this is an AA blog I dislike getting really trashed. Ugh. Hangovers are just brutal with me. My intestines pay the price and I just want to be taken out back and shot. I won't lie, it's not like I've never tied one on. I've got a good hangover story but I'll save that for another time.
So back to Manhattan. We ate expensive food and then we went to the expensive spa. Everyone should have a massage and a facial once in their lives. Every person on the planet needs one. If we had just sent Arafat and Sharon to the spa together the middle east wouldn't be such a mess. You can't be pissed off at anyone when all your muscle fibers are simultaneously saying, "aahh!"
Now I have some friends who are very concerned about that particular issue so I'm gonna just back off...
Before I sign off for the day I want to thank everyone so much for all the kind thoughts and deeds. Somehow I feel funny putting your names down here but you know who you are. Thank you for the flowers, cards, little gifts, donations in my name and food. It has all meant a tremendous amount to me. Hey, my family has to do this kind of thing; you don't. I am very grateful to have so many friends and I love you all. This blog thing feels very self-centered. I'm enjoying writing the stories and at some point I'll stop updating you all on the cancer thing because I don't want that to become the focus of my life. We all have crap to deal with. Mine just lends itself to drama. My recovery is going well and if there is something I can do for you please let me know. It'll feel good to get my life back into balance. Right now everything seems to tip towards me. God knows we don't need to make me any more of a ham than I already am.
Last thing, if you leave a comment on the blog and don't put your name down I have no idea who you are!
Dr. Bif
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