Happy 30th, Dr. Carli

It’s my best friend’s birthday today.  She is the big 3-0, thirty, middle aged, one foot in the grave, half-baked, what have you. 

I’m going to blame my own approaching senility when asked why I didn’t get her a gift, or even a card in the mail on time.  Sure, we’re still settling in from moving, we have a 4 month old teething ball of spit in a crib, and I started a new job recently…but still, those are no excuses!  I did call her, and I sent her a bunch of text messages…but before this becomes a post about me let me remind you! that this post is about Carli, who is 30 today.

Carli and I have shared a lot of things over the years.  We’ve known each other most of our lives.  We got chicken pox on the same day.  We shared tears over dead pets and accidents involving banana seats.  One day, we nearly got eaten alive by a German Shepherd.  I gave my first motivational speech on her behalf in the third grade (it was a massive failure, I might add).  We made up our own language, spied on the neighbors (all Communists and Nazis), and melted huge piles of crayons in the middle of the street.  We rode our bikes through town, blatantly disobeying stop signs and our parents.  We warred with the neighborhood boys, always victorious.  I have more stories about Carli than I could ever write down in this single post, so I will just hit on some of the highlights.

Meeting Carli

The first time I saw her, really saw her, was the first day of the first grade.  I was playing in the front yard, jumping down onto the sidewalk, when I heard someone call “Hi Maleesha.”  I looked down the street and there was the little brown-haired girl whose desk was next to mine in Ms. Dienstman’s class.  She was waving from two houses down.  For some reason, I remember she was wearing an orange lifejacket, but this could be a nostalgic mind-prop added for color.

The next memory takes place soon after.  For all I know it could have been the same day.  Carli came down the street and invited me to sleep over at her house.  I’d never been to a sleepover before.  “You can come to the circus with us too,” she said.  I about died of excitement.  I’d never been to the circus.  I went inside and begged my mom to let me go.  My aunt from Wisconsin was there too, and she was very eager to help me roll my Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag and find my toothbrush.  Carli and I jumped up and down all the way to her house.  The circus!  A sleepover!  The impending fun to be had! 

Carli’s mom greeted us at the front door, looked me up and down, looked at my sleeping bag, and said “What the hell is this?”  As luck would have it, little Carli didn’t actually ask permission for a sleepover, nor did they have an extra ticket to the circus.  I wailed all the way back home, I wailed like the dying I tell you.  The devastation…my only friend, and now no circus.  No sleepover!  The Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag was now in the corner of my room, crumpled and lonely.  Through tears, I watched Carli’s mom drive their black Toyota down the street, headed for three rings and elephants.  

It’s been a love/hate relationship ever since. 

Jealousy

The town of our youth is solidly Irish Catholic, with a few oddballs scattered here and there.  Carli, being of Serbian descent, was one of those oddballs.  As was I, with my Russian roots and Russian sounding name…well neither of us fit in with the O’Sullivans and the Sullivans and the McSullivans.  But we had each other and sometimes that’s all you can ask for.  Since we couldn’t compete with the rest of town in the “Who’s Got The Most Relatives In Town” or the “Whose Parents Work for the Power Company” contests, we would often act like competitive little jerkettes to each other. 

“I know what a boy’s thingy is really called,” she told me one day.

“So do I,” I told her.  “It’s a pee-pee.”

“No it isn’t,” she said.

“What is it then?  Tell me!  Tell me!” I begged. 

“Nope,” she said smugly.  “I asked my mom, and you’ll have to ask your mom if you want to know.” 

So in retaliation, I made her walk behind me on the way to school for the rest of the year. 

When we were eight, we both lost a tooth within a few days of each other.  I dutifully placed said tooth under my pillow, and woke up the next morning to…a tooth.  “Try again,” my mom suggested.  “I’m sure the tooth fairy just forgot.  So I placed the tooth there again, and slept with my head to one side to ensure that the tooth fairy had adequate access.  The next morning, the tooth was still there.  “Put a magnifying glass over it,” my mom said.  “The tooth fairy probably can’t see it.”  So I did.  The next morning I flipped the pillow to find a shiny quarter.  Carli lost her tooth, and the tooth fairy arrived promptly the next morning and left her seven dollars and a fancy hot-pink combination lock shaped like a heart.  Even her teeth were worth more. 

I responded by taking a bingo ink stamp and stamping out all the future days on her new Fraggle Rock calendar  (It might not have been Fraggle Rock.  It could have been Care Bears).  I also gave her a rather silly nickname that stuck for several years.

The Bad Perm

I wasn’t allowed to get perms.  I wanted one though, really, really bad.  I wanted a perm and pierced ears and a jean jacket more than anything in the world, so I could look like this girl in my class named “Penny.” 

Carli was allowed to get perms though, and one day she got one.  A bad one.  So bad, in fact, that she was going to run away from home. Think “electrocuted poodle.”  I’m pretty sure I laughed about it a lot (I wasn’t raised to be sympathetic).  Someone must have made me apologize because we have a picture of us together that day looking reasonably happy.  Sorry about that, Carli.

By the way, now that I look back, “Penny” looked like an eight year old two-bit hooker. 

Bob-A-Louie’s

I skipped classes in high school quite regularly.  By my senior year, I had perfected the art of skipping class to the point where I was still pulling off a GPA in the very high 3 points.  One day, I managed to convince Carli to join me.  She was a “good kid” and very hesitant.  But it helped that the class we were about to ditch was taught by Mr. P., who would never notice, and would believe us when we said we would just be in the courtyard studying the behavior of Kentucky bluegrass on a sunny day, at which point he would offer us extra credit.  So we started taking an extended lunch and spent most of our time hanging out at Bob-A-Louie’s, a bar/burrito parlor across the street from the high school.  It was there at Bob-A-Louie’s that Carli, another friend, and I decided to do our assigned science project together. 

Someday I will make a separate entry about that science project, but I can’t do it right now. 

The Rebel

The day Carli turned eighteen, she marched into her parents’ living room at curfew, ten P.M., and announced that she Would Not Be Coming Home That Evening.  The look on her mother’s face, oh boy…I hadn’t been listening to my parents for years and even I was afraid of that look.  We got into my car (the ‘93 Excel) and tooled around town.  “I don’t care what we do,” she said.  “I’m just staying out all night.”  And we did.  We drove to Rocker and had peach cobbler at the Flyin’ J amongst the truckers and the travelers.  I don’t really remember what else we did, I just know that it had an Alanis Morrisette soundtrack and didn’t involve anything remotely illegal. 

The Doctor

Carli’s a doctor.  And not a love doctor, or a plastic surgeon, or even a chiropractor.  She became an anstheez…annisteezo…one of those doctors that puts you under before you get the knife.  While the rest of us swilled cheap liquor and ran half-dressed down the streets of New Orleans and Panama City, Carli stayed up into the wee hours of the night reading the MCAT study guide.  She also spent a lot of time living around the grasslands of Montana, capturing mice and poking them with needles to find out if they carried hantavirus.  It’s all good though…when she’s clearing three hundred grand a year, we’ll have someone to ask if they can spare a few bucks for bail money.

Carli is really the only person I’ve ever met who said she was going to be a doctor when she was shorter than corn, and actually said that every year since, and then actually became a doctor.  If that’s not “stick to your guns” quality, I’m not sure what is.  And since going to medical school, she’s been other cool things like “Chief Resident” (not just a role on Grey’s Anatomy!) and “Recipient of Important Cardiac Anesthesiology Fellowship.” 

This coming from the girl who once read a map of Africa and pronounced a certain country as “Eggy-pit”, well, we should all be very impressed.  I know that I sure am. 

Happy Birthday

So happy birthday, Poo-head. 

I hope someone makes you a lawranchencake-free birthday dinner. 

Here’s to another thirty years, and to a hydrogen-powered RV.

 

Eyegrains

Did I ever tell you about my first migraine?  I was on a plane that was about to land in Detroit when bam! a stabbing, ice-picklike somethin’ or other popped right in the middle of my forehead.  I passed out on the plane from the intense pain (I thought it must be my brain exploding) and woke up to a lovely blonde flight attendant holding oxygen to my face. 

I’ve had a couple migraines since then, but they’ve never been as bad as the first.  My migraines start with twinkles, magic-looking sparklies that hover off to one side.  It’s pretty annoying because I try to turn my head to look at them and they’re gone.  Since I get these headaches so rarely, it always takes me a bit to figure out that the “sparklies” are precursors to “ouchies.”

I’ve graduated from migraines to…eyegrains.  I’m not sure that’s a real word, but it ought to be.  These are real “headaches” that start in your eyeball.  It feels like a “headache” in your eye.  A dull, throbbing pain.  Tonight, my eyegrain is making me see a big, chartreuse spot in my right field of vision.  Everything I look at is topped with a big, chartreuse spot that’s shaped a little bit like Alaska.   

I really shouldn’t be on the computer at all, but I had to tell you about my eyegrain.

 

The Moonbeam Clock

The description promised that I would Wake up to gentle, illuminating light. 

If you fall back asleep, a bell sounds. 

I was instantly mesmerized by its picture.  The design was sleek and retro.  It reminded me of Christmases past.  A few months later, I received it as a birthday gift. 

I plugged it in.  The face glowed a comfortable orange.  I set the alarm for 5 AM and fell asleep.  I looked forward to waking to the gentle illumination. 

Sometime in the night, I was jolted out of bed by the tearing sound of a chainsaw.  The room was filled with flashing light, and I looked around for the police car. 

Then I realized that the Moonbeam Clock was the culprit.  I stumbled around for the off button.  Finally, finally it was off.  Then I noticed it wasn’t 5 AM.  It was 4:45.  Sure, only a fifteen minute difference…but hey, that’s early even for me. 

Later that week, the power went out.  When it came back on, the ‘illuminating’ light was permanently stuck on.  Now even when the lights were out in the room, it felt a little bit like daylight.  I eventually had to unplug the clock and go back to my old, standard clock radio.

Still, the Moonbeam Clock receives high ratings from alleged buyers.  Perhaps I got a dud; the one that was dropped in the factory and tucked into a box when no one was watching the assembly line.  My dissappointment in the object is high; the gentle “illumination” was a lot like a seizure-inducing spotlight.  The “bell” was like the fire alarm in a high school that isn’t up to code yet. 

And I had such high hopes for something that sounded so nice.  How can you go wrong with Moonbeam in the name?

 

 

Red Number 40

Food dye is in the news once again.  A consumer group is urging the FDA to ban several different dyes that are commonly found in food…often rainbow-Brite style kiddie snacks.  Who knew it wasn’t a good idea to give your children blue yogurt? 

Common sense should have made this obvious.  What surprises me is that finding food dye in your food isn’t necessarily easy.  The news clip I saw yesterday showed two bags of Tostito Corn Chips.  The regular one didn’t have yellow dye, the one with “Hint of Lime” did.  I don’t make a habit of checking food labels for dye, but I think I will.  Good rules of thumb for purchasing food:

• Stay on the outside edge of the grocery store.  This is where all the fresh food is.  Once you start going up and down aisles, you’re getting into the over processed junk, the stuff that the FDA waves through the gates without really checking, even though other countries have banned the ingredients long ago.
• Check the ingredients of the food…if your eyes start to get tired from reading the lengthy additives and unpronounceables, it’s probably not a good choice. 

Did you know that Red #40 is derived from coal tar?  I think that any additive that requires intensive studies on rats isn’t a good idea in the first place. 

If you think back to M&M’s, and how the red M&M went on hiatus for many years, well that was because of Red 40.  Then suddenly red M&Ms returned.  The reason?  “Well, we thought it caused cancer, but we ran some more tests, and we think it’s okay now.”  Bring on the coal tar!  In fact, food coloring has been banned in many European countries and the same companies make food for them that doesn’t use the additives…but they keep shoveling it to us here in the USA.  Why can’t we just eat the food they give the Europeans?  We make it healthier for other countries…but not for ourselves?  Is this not maddening?

I liked reading Watts’ post about it.  The first comment made me chuckle:  The commenter wrote:

“All food additives have been thoroughly tested and shown to be safe. Do you really think that a major food company would add something that could hurt you?”

Ahh, grasshopper.  Do you really think a major food company cares if it hurts you or not?  As long as they have the government stamp of approval, thereby removing any responsibility and/or accountability, and they can sell you Kandy-Kolored food to the tune of billions, and their profit margins rise, and their CEOs vacation in Monaco each month…hmmm, I really don’t think they care if it could hurt you or not. 

After all, that’s what the PR and marketing department is for…scandal cleanup.