#2B: Supporting Cast Members in the Addiverse

 Pre-Preface: The timing for the final posts of this blog could not be more perfect. We are closing one chapter of our lives and opening a new one. We are selling our house and moving. The Addiverse started here and it shall retire here. Another great sign from the Universe.

Preface: The time of this blog has come and gone. The influencers have crushed blogs beyond recognition. Let’s face it--the caboose of the Boomer train has arrived at the station. I’m going out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing the 16 years of blogging.

Here is 2B--Supporting Cast members in the Addiverse, a conglomeration of several old posts to tell the tale of those who have visited the Addiverse.

“MJagger had a GREAT idea—she suggested that I have a “blog party” and invite everyone who has been mentioned in the blog. Supporting cast members. I thought that sounded fabulous and thus started digging through the archives to see who would be on the guest list.”

Family & friends,
clients and pets,
stuffed animals and spirit guides,
co-workers and TV stars,
poop lovers and religious icons—
Baby and Adult Jesus.
Peruse the blog and you find them all.

Those who have moved on…
Harvey the one-boob-wonder,
Cloudy the Hamster,
Grover, my spirit guide.
Mr. Winkle,
Stella the 72 year old Xanax addict,
Mary the merry-go-round-riding smelly-crotch girl,
Gert the smoking bra babe,
Slim Jim Triathlon Friend.

Those who have changed my life…
my appendix surgeon,
the doctor who performed my colonoscopies,
they mystery pooper at work (always look after the toilet flushes),
My Beloved Lady Chiropractor,
The turkey of 1996,
My hair-a-pist.

The wife gets top billing on the guest list, as she is probably the most mentioned person in the Addiverse, quite to her dismay….and, she’ll get stuck cleaning up after the party, so she best be at the top of the list. To keep her company, I’ll invite Dr. Pasture and Frieda Fibroid.

Wild mama and Lady Di read this blog, so they will be guests of honor.

Since it was her idea for the party and because she is a friend extraordinaire (who just happens to have a stalker mentality about Madonna & still speaks to me when most people would not), MJagger (the professional seat-hopper at concerts) is also at the top of the list.

Since we’ll need something to do at this party, we’ll go bowling. Wild Mama and Father John (who made the Addiverse possible) will lead the bowling brigade. Lady Di, Chief BIL, Nieces #1, #2 and #3 are mandatory attendees. Hitting the alleys with us will be The Gaybors, Bitty Bichon, our friend the Warrior; Griffin-door, Three Hawk, Argo Warrior Princess… and, My Work Children.

Rounding out the guest list are friends hiding in the wings…
Blue Eyes and Master Reiki,
Patty Party Pecs and Phalange-a-slam,
Pee Peeker and Ingabor Logjammer,
Ms. UConn, Ms. Tennessee,
Spotted Owl and Einsteina Vagina,
Rita Rulebook (formerly known as Little Debbie Sneezeclumper).

For good measure, I’ll invite HotDiggity (the anal gland-impaired dog) and the racoon that laid the killer poop that almost killed Lucy after she ate it. I figure a few famous blog-mentioned people should do me the honor of attending--Jillian, Jackie (mentor of my 2007 hairdo), She who must not be named, Madonna, Gaga, Xena, the cast of Grey’s Anatomy, the current Doctor Who and Brett Favre.

Of course, there are things and events that made this blog what it is. Such topics deserve recognition as we reflect on the closing of an era. Thus, I sing praise of (1) lemon cake, (2) an appendectomy and, (3) a Thanksgiving dinner.

(1) Ode to a Lemon Cake 

Anyone who has known me for more than 20 minutes knows that I am a raging chocolaholic. I'm one of those people who gladly puts M&Ms on a slice of pizza (you don't??), includes chocolate with breakfast every day (breakfast of champions), bypasses a "real" meal to leave more for chocolate-infused anything (life is short). So, it may seem rather strange--misplaced or misguided, even for me to sing praise to something other than beans of cocoa. This cake with tiny bites of tangy lemon heaven—leaves my mouth watering and my heart happy.. 

The first time I ate this lemon cake was at a dinner party. Color me skeptical. It wasn’t chocolate but it was pretty—after all, yellow is a happy color and the blueberries made nice contrast. I reminded myself that comparing a lemon cake to a rich, dark, gooey chocolate cake isn't really a fair comparison--it's like comparing apples to.....lemons. 

That damn lemon cake was so good that I announced I would like this cake for my birthday. I then continued to eat morsel after delicious morsel, immediately forgetting that I ever spoke aloud about the birthday cake. I might have had three pieces. Might have.

Fast forward a few months to my day of birth.  I hadn't thought much about my birthday and wasn't expecting anything. I certainly didn't think about a lemon cornmeal cake. Imagine my surprise when I returned home after a long, stinky, sticky, hot day of work only to find the wife had made me the "Lemon Cornmeal Cake with Lemon Glaze and Crushed Blueberry Sauce" (from Bon Appetit, for those of you who are wondering). I was stunned. Overjoyed. Excited! 

I love that cake. I love it so much that I want to weep when I eat it. It's not a cake everyone will like. It's not a cake I'd associate with me in any capacity. But, I love it. I love it so much I am going to write an ode to it I love it so much I deem it necessary to write an ode about it. Thank you, dear wife, for remembering my comment of how I wanted this cake for my birthday. Thank you for taking the time to make it.

Bright little ball of sunshine 
beaming from the plate 
tangy yet sweet
glaze glimmering,
inviting sifted powdered sugar and lemon juice 
simple beauty,
simple elegance. 
How can something so sour be so sweet? 

Rays of sunshine 
Bites of heaven Morsels of love
My lips pucker with the first sour but sweet bite. 

The tanginess whets my appetite for more 
I shut my eyes to enjoy every golden mouthful. 

Cornmeal texture
 buttermilk delight
Lemon peels oozing zest 
I am in love with you, Lemon Cornmeal Cake!

Bright yellow swims in a sea of blue berries
bobbing on the surface 
sauce slo-o-o-owly dripping 
sauce slowly seeping in 
sauce bringing just the right balance of color, of taste, of texture, of love. 
Called a rustic cake with zing from lemon glaze 
I know you will make a great companion to breakfast, lunch or dinner 
I picture you next to ice cream 
I picture you in my bowl of cereal 
I picture you with whipped cream... 
who dares not love you? 

Lemon Cornmeal Cake
such an earthly delight.
I still love you, beans of cocoa but,
for this moment in time 
for this moment of sunshine 
for this glorious mouth-watering moment 
lemon outshines the wrapper of a Dove Dark chocolate square and I cheat on you.
I feel no guilt, no remorse. 

Bright little ball of sunshine 
beaming from the plate
tangy yet sweet simple beauty,
simple elegance. 
How can something so sour be so sweet?

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(2) The Appendectomy.

It's 2003. For creative blog purposes and in homage to one of my favorite TV shows, I’ve combine the true story of my appendicitis with the characters of Grey’s Anatomy. If you don’t watch the show, you will still be able to glean the true facts of the appendectomy, but it won’t be half as fun. BTW, this was in the days before we all carried cell phones. I think I had a pager. So, I couldn’t call the wife. I was stuck at a bookstore until she physically returned.

And yes, I really did get pictures of my ovaries and cervix out of all this.

Scene One: Feel like shit
[Arrive at home, early afternoon.]
The Wife: What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?
Me: I dunno—I don’t feel right.
Me: [plop down on couch. Ugh.]
Izzie: You look like shit.
Meredith: You’re home early. It’s only 2 PM on a workday.
The Wife: Don’t forget we have dinner plans with Phlange-a-slam, Little Debbie Sneezeclumper and Suzuki Di Franco.
Me: [The thought of food makes me nauseous. How the hell am I gonna eat?]
Me: “Perhaps it’s just a gas bubble.”
Izzie: Maybe a muffin will help. Eat a muffin. That might help.
Meredith: A gas bubble. I don’t think it’s a gas bubble.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin. I’ll bake some muffins.

Scene Two: Refuse Dinner
[At the restaurant, with wife and friends.]
The Wife: Aren’t you going to eat?
Me: No, something is wrong in my gut. I must have a giant poop stuck somewhere in my colon.
Me: [Always go with constipation or a gas bubble when experiencing gastrointestinal distress, that’s my motto.]
George: Are you going to eat that? I’ll eat that.
Izzy: You look like shit. You should have had a muffin.
McAddi: Are you pregnant? If you’re pregnant, I can help you.
Me: I am SO not pregnant.
George: Are you wearing clean underwear? You know, well, in case it’s not a gas bubble. “
Me: Of course I have clean underwear on.
George: My mom always preaches how important it is to wear clean underwear.
McAddi: Are you sure you’re not pregnant?
Christina: She is SO not pregnant.

Scene Three: Moment of Insight
Me: A caffeine/chocolate-laced product might be a delightful way to feel better. Let’s go to “Books at Barnes.”
Suzuki: I’ll go.
The Wife: We’ll drop you off at the bookstore and come get you when we’re done shopping
Me: [Yeah, yeah. Jesus, just go already! I need a Frappaccino.]
Me [bent over, just about crawling to a table, start sipping on the drink of the gods. Hunch over the table.]
Suzuki: You don’t look so good.
Me: I’m sorry I’m such lousy company. But, this is a tasty frappaccino. [take a slurp from the straw]
Me: I’m gonna do what all good nerds do: Go get a medical textbook and bring it to the table.
Why go to the doctor when you can find the answer yourself? I’m going to get a medical textbook.
Bailey: What the hell are you doing in the medical textbook section? You don’t look so good.
Christina: I didn’t even know you knew how to read.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin.
Me: [grabs a copy of the Merck’s Manual, flips through the pages. Flip, flip, flip. Damn, it sure does look like it’s appendicitis—at least it is according to this book. NO!]
Me: It HAS to be a gas bubble! Maybe an egg shooting out of an ovary.
McAddi: I can help you if it’s a problem with an ovary.
Me: I hope it’s not my ovary.
[I waddle back to the table, book in hand.]
Me: “I think it’s my appendix.”
[The guy at the next table overhears this and looks horrified. He scoots his table a few inches away from us.]
Me: I hope I’m wrong but…
Me [Continue to drink my Frappaccino. The wife—who has the car—has yet to return.]
Me [quietly]: I need to go the emergency room.
Cristina: I am scrubbing in for this surgery.
Meredith: I had my appendix out in season three. It really wasn’t that bad.
Me: There is NO WAY I am having my appendix out. I am TOO OLD for this nonsense! Don’t like ten year olds get their appendix out?

We wait. And, wait. The wife and friends finally arrive at the bookstore. At this point, I’m pale and no longer joking around.  
Me: Please take me to the ER.
The wife: [silent and horrified] Get it. Let’s go.

Scene Four: Crawl to ER
Me [Crawl/hobble/waddle to the desk]
Receptionist [looks at me]
Me: [literally bent over] I’m not sure what’s wrong but…
[She waits to hear no more, brings me right in.]
(Hint: always clutch your chest or bend over with an appendicitis, and there will be no sitting in a crowded ER waiting room.)
Enter wife and shoppers.
Me: If I’m going to have to be in an ER, we are SO going to have a good time.
[Hear laughing. See us laugh, tell jokes, talk about stealing the cross off the wall, decide this is not a good thing to do when possibly facing surgery—you don’t want the ol’ J.C. pissed off at you.]
Meredith: I’m going to get some blood for bloodwork.
Cristina: Duh. That’s what blood is for.
Izzie: Can I draw the blood?
Bailey: NO! You are under psychiatric care and can’t do a thing. DO…NOT….TOUCH….THIS…PATIENT.
Wife goes green, almost passes out.

See Suzuki, Phlang, Little Debbie and the wife telling poop stories, having a delightful time
Bailey: What the hell is going on in here? You are going to get thrown out of that ER if you take that crucifix off the wall.
Me: You know you have true friends when they are willing to sit in a boring ER with you, hours on end.
Cristina: ER s are not boring. Do you need surgery? I want to do your surgery.
Izzie: Can I scrub in?
Bailey: NO!
Me: What about that McAddi? Can she scrub in?
Alex: I am not doing an appendectomy. How about a rhinoplasty while you’re in there?
[Pain. Laughter. Pain. Laughter.]
Me: There is NO WAY this is my appendix. I’m just constipated. Or an egg shot out of an ovary the “wrong” way.
Bailey: Get a CAT scan. STAT.
George: You’ll have to drink volumes of luscious chalk shakes over the next two hours.
Me: Now, THERE’S a boring way to spend time late in the evening.
[See wife, the poor thing, looking like she needs medical attention more than I did. See Suzuki watching me choke down the chalk.]
Cristina: The CAT scan was an utter failure—why? Because you are so damned constipated, we literally can’t see anything but a bowel full of shit.
[Shows me the xray.]
George: Wow, that is a giant intestine of white matter blocking out the view of everything else. That’s a lot of shit.
ME: I TOLD you was constipated! And, for this I took out my belly button ring?

[We are now into the wee hours of the morning and there is little I can do but come to my senses and admit that my appendix needs to come out. My friends are more than exhausted. They are true troopers. Everyone should have such good friends.]
McAddi goes home because her shift ended.
Me: Damn.
McDreamy: You need surgery.
Me: Um, aren’t you a Neurosurgeon?
McDreamy: Yes. Why do you ask?
Me: So, why are you doing my surgery?
McDreamy: It’s a holiday. Besides, my hair looks so good, I want to show it off.
Meredith: You always look steamy. Even at 3 AM.
Burke: Derek, are you really going to waste your time with an appendectomy?
Me: Um, I can hear you!
George: She can hear you.
Burke: Shut up, queerbait.
Meredith: Really. I had my appendix out. It’s really nothing.
Cristina: Did you just call him a… queerbait?
Izzie: Can I scrub in now?
Bailey: NO!
Meredith: I’m sure he didn’t mean to call George that.
McDreamy [pushes on my belly….holds it…and, when he lets go, I see stars. White light. Searing pain. The pain was absolutely horrific].
Me: I read about “rebound pain” being the hallmark of an appendicitis.
(Side note: see? Those medical text books at the bookstore do come in handy)
Me: I’m convinced! PLEASE take the damned thing out…. Please rip it out.
Chief of Surgery: Burke, did you just call George a derogatory name?
Burke: (and I quote) I can neither defend nor explain my behavior.
Cristina: I so want to have sex with you.
McDreamy: Burke, any tremors? If not, I can make sure you have some.
George: I am gay, so what?
Burke: Queerbait.
Me: Can we just take the damned thing out?
Wife passes out.
End scene.

Scene Five: Machine-gun-diarrhea
See them rolling me to surgery. See me beg them to stop. See me jump off the gurney. Literally. See me drag my IV bag to the bathroom. Suddenly, see shit flying out of my butt. Serious amounts of shit.

Meredith: Uh oh, that barium chalk stuff is deciding NOW is the time to come out.
Cristina: THIS is why I want to be a cardiothoracic surgeon. No shit. Literally no shit.
Bailey: Izzie, clean this up.
Me [in bathroom, projectile, machine-gun diarrhea flying out of my butt]
Bailey: Are you stalling in there?
Me: No, I’m having serious poop problems.
(Side note: you know, I have always wondered how my clients at work miss the toilet…how does one miss the toilet when pooping? Now, I know. I know because I shot shit everywhere. It was an explosion matched by no other. Shit hit the toilet, the floor, the wall, my gown…..it was a veritable shit fest.)
[See me doing the best I can to clean everything up. I’m wiping the walls as fast as I can and there is nothing I can do about my gown except get back on the gurney will the poop-stained gown and go to surgery like nothing is wrong.]
Cristina: Is that poop on your gown?
Meredith: I’m sure her poop-stained gown won’t be the talk of surgery.
Ales: Hey, she forgot to take off her undies—allow me.
See Alex remove my dirty undies and place them in a garbage bag by my head on the gurney.
(Side note: See how important it is to wear clean undies?).
Izzie: There’s poop on her gown. Can I scrub in?
Bailey: NO!

I’m lying on the gurnee in the freezing-cold operating room. I look up at McSteamy.
Me: I want photos of my insides.
McDreamy: Photos.
Me: Yeah, photos. You’ll be doing the scope-thing-with-a-camera; the least I can get out of this is some pictures.
Meredith: Izzy, aren’t you glad she didn’t eat any muffins? She would have aspirated on them.
Enter Dr. McSteamy, plastic surgeon.
McSteamy: Someone need a nose job?
Me: No, an appendectomy.
McSteamy: that is one big honker you got there. Sure would look better with plastic surgery.
Enter Callie. (For no reason but because I like her and it’s my story.)

Scene Six: Recovery
Cut to me laughing and I’m talking to some nurse in the recovery room. See me looking at my very-ugly-red-black wormlike appendix. See me having a good time.
See me realize I am awake and the surgery is over and it’s…..hey! It’s like 9 AM!

Me: What the hell happened?
McSteamy: I gave you a nose job.
Me: No way!
McSteamy: Just kidding. Too bad, though. You could use one.
McDreamy: I couldn’t find your appendix--A simple surgery took over three hours long because your appendix was somewhere hiding by a kidney. I had to open you up the “old fashioned” way, remove your intestines, plop them on your belly, dig around, cut the pup off and shove your intestines back in.
Meredith: He looks so handsome while shoving those intestines back in you.
McDreamy: Meredith, You snore.
Meredith: Derek, you have bad breath.
Me: Can I eat? I’m hungry.

Fade to black.
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(3) Thanksgiving, 1996.  

It all started out so innocently. I decided (for some very unknown reason) to invite my family to the house for a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner. This was in the day that I was not welcomed at the wife’s family dinner, so I must have thought it a good idea to have my family of origin over for the day.

As I am not known for my cooking prowess, this should have struck all of us as extremely odd and as a very bad idea.

The wife traveled off in the wee hours toward Cheddarland, leaving me behind to create the perfect culinary delight of thanks. It was a horrible, miserable day—wind howling, dark grey clouds hovering, garbage blowing by in the cold November breeze. I was a bit worried about the wife driving on such a lousy day, but I had a dinner to worry about, so I put her out of my mind and turned to the stove.

First things first—I stared at the turkey…
looked at the belly button
read the directions,
stared at the turkey,
looked at the belly button.
Turned on the oven. 
Stared at the turkey.

I knew enough to pull the giblets out of the inside of the bird, so I had a moment of pride in the kitchen. I plopped those frozen goodies into the sink and returned to staring at the bird. I took out one of those turkey baggies—you know, one of those plastic cooking bags—and wrapped ol’ Tom Turkey in the bag. (I think I wiped him down with some butter before wrapping him up, but I can’t say for sure.) I tied up the bag, shoved the bagged bird into the giant aluminum pan and turned on the oven.

I am all puffed up because I am on schedule and I am in charge of my turkey! Then… thirty minutes later…..

….the power goes out.

No oven. Can’t open the refrigerator. No heat. No microwave.

I don’t immediately panic because there are four hours before anything needs to happen, as it’s four hours before my family will arrive. Still… the turkey has only been cooking for 30 minutes. Everything I need besides the corn is in the refrigerator and I certainly can't open that door. I pace.

I realized it was going to get mighty cold in the house without heat. So, I decided to make a fire in the fireplace as means of heating the house and giving it a warm, cozy holiday feel.

Words of wisdom: DO NOT make a fire in the fireplace on the windiest day of the year.

I start the fire even though I hear the wind whipping down the chimney and into the fireplace. It doesn’t dawn on me this might not be a good thing. I get that puppy burning and then wind whips in and FILLS the house with smoke and soot and ashes and embers. I’m not kidding. Soot everywhere! 

I look at the what used to be white lampshade and think OH SHIT! This is SO not good. I’m trying to put the fire out, I’m trying to stop the soot, I’m dumb enough to close the flue in an effort to keep the wind from howling in, but this only means ALL the smoke now comes into the house. I reopen the flue, choking through the dust.

Insult to injury, the fire alarms start going off. I now have to open the windows and doors. And, I thought it was cold before all this nonsense started.

I am in sheer panic. It’s been two hours without electricity, the house is freezing and smoky, the turkey is rotting in the oven and there is nothing I can do….

….so I call the wife, who is just sitting down to a delicious home-made dinner with her family. Like she can do anything.

Three and a half hours later, the power comes on. I leap up in joy, crank the heat, crank the oven, start opening cans and boxes like mad, put the pie in the oven next to the turkey.....

I figure turning the oven WAY up will make everything cook faster. I’m serious.

My family shows up and I explain what has happened. My father, who has been in the food service business his entire life, gives a skeptical-we-are-all-going-to-die-if-we-eat-that-turkey look to me, but I prevail. We have to wait several hours for dinner, as the turkey needed time. Of course, I forget about the pie and burn the PISS out of it. (Black crust. Mmmm. Tasty.) In the meantime, I’m heating canned corn and mashing potatoes. I peek in at the turkey and notice….

….hey! I can’t see the belly button!

Where did it go? I know it was in there when I started cooking this thing. I call my father over and point out that I can’t see the belly button anymore. We decide it must have popped out and thus the turkey must be done.

He helps take the bird out of the oven and I ask for his assistance with the carving of the turkey. We look at the bird and kind of have quizzical looks—something is wrong here, but I can’t put my finger on it. 

He goes to start carving….and nothing. There is like NO meat. I FREAK OUT. This is like a 20-zillion pound turkey and he’s carving bones. 

He looks at me,
looks at the turkey,
gives me that smirk look he has...
and flips the turkey over in the pan.

I have cooked it upside down. When he flips it over, we can see the belly button. Go figure.

Suffice it to say, it was a nightmare of a meal. 
The turkey was a hockey puck,
the pie was black,
the corn was cold,
the potatoes were lumpy,
the house was smoky,
the furniture was sooty...

Well, at least the Stove top Stuffing wasn't a complete loss. 

My father, always one to have the last word, says, “no one ever said you could cook.”

Touche.

I’ve been a vegetarian ever since. Gobble Gobble!
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