tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7096295002201998862024-03-13T23:24:38.830-07:00Aviva O'Byrne's Melting PotAviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-26128307023139135502018-05-13T21:36:00.000-07:002018-05-13T21:39:42.871-07:00Dear Grandma 1Dear Grandma,<br />
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I wonder what you would say to me right now. I wonder if Mother's Day will forever be a source of pain and tears. Last night I wrote in my journal that I have to turn every negative thought into a positive one, but I cannot. I wonder if you were ever able to do that. In the last few years I noticed how negative you were about everything and I found it so hard to talk. You kept asking me if I was mad at you because I didn't visit as much. In fact, I barely made time for you in spite of being so close. I'll never forget the day I promised to take you out around noon on a Sunday and then I didn't realize that I forgot until after my yoga class. By the time I came over I caught you changing clothes back into comfy home clothes. It was 1pm-ish, and I tried to get you to go out anyway, but you declined. It was the most beautiful day in Chicago. I wanted to take you to Lake Michigan and push your wheelchair around so you could get the breeze on your face. It is one of my biggest regrets that I didn't try harder to get you out there. I couldn't even take you to the damn lake. How pathetic is that.<br />
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I wonder what you would say to me right now. I wonder if you would tell me to make peace with mom even though she is dangerous. I wonder how you would have reacted if you could have seen her last year in her largest manic episode yet. I wonder what you would have said to Uncle if you heard him scream at me the way he did. I wonder if you knew you had 2 sick children and you hung on for so long to help them. Or to help me.<br />
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I wonder what you would say to me right now. At particularly low points I often ask for your guidance. I think of your voice and imagine you here with me. I realize that there isn't anyone else that I could talk to the way I talked to you. What would you tell me? Would you tell me to give up and go home like mom did? Would you tell me that someday I'll be somebody, like you used to? I always wondered what that meant. What is "somebody."<br />
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I wonder what you would have said to me last year when I got laid off. You would probably tell me about the time you lost your job and you cried all the way back home on the 2 buses and the long walk. Maybe it was 3. 3 busses. I can't remember now, isn't that sad? Am I confusing your story with mom's? She got laid off from Jewel and cried and couldn't find anything for a few months, but then they asked her back. One of your bus stories in particular stuck in my mind. You had a little time and a small bit of money left at the end of the month and you decided to stop at Carson's downtown on your way home from the South Side. You picked out a dress and was so happy to have something new. But you fell asleep on the bus, and it slipped from your grasp. You woke up in time to get off the bus, but you forgot to check for the dress until you were walking home and realized it was gone.<br />
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I wonder what you think of my life compared to yours. I wonder what you think of my debt, my lack of work, my inability to establish stability and save. I wonder where it all went wrong.<br />
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I wonder what you would have said to me if you could have seen mom scream at me the way she did. I wonder if you knew what abusive behavior is. I wonder if you would have saved me from her if you really knew what she was, or believed in it. I wonder if there was an incident in mom's life that triggered her illness. She told me a story about how shortly after arriving to this country, she was in gym class and had to swim in the pool. She couldn't swim so she just splashed around. She said that back then they gave you swimsuits to wear when you didn't have your own. But when she got back to the locker room, some mean girls, she called them: greasers, had taken all her regular clothes as a prank. She didn't know what to do, so she left and walked home in winter in the swimsuit and tried to cover herself so her nipples weren't exposed. She said that you were home when she got back and she just cried and cried. So you went to the school the next day and reamed the principal out, and I wondered how you did that with limited English.<br />
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I wonder what you would say if you realized that your granddaughter is just unsuccessful. I didn't meet the success expectations at all, by any stretch of the imagination, in any category of normal adult experience. I wonder what you would tell me right now if you knew that. I was somehow, supposed to make up for all of this. I thought I could help you. I thought I would make you proud. I thought I would realize the dream. And I failed. It feels like I failed at everything I have done. And I have done a lot, more than you could imagine. But somewhere, I failed. And now I am in a deep bind and lost and seeking advice again. And it seems like I am doomed toward this cycle of bad, despite trying. I know that it is not very yoga-like of me to view things this way, but here we are, facing the same problems over and over. Broke, alone, no income, no prospects, need to find apartment, in tears. I wonder why it has been so hard for me to just land something decent.<br />
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I wonder if you saw me teaching last year. I wonder if you thought I did well. I wonder if you would think it's worth it. All the time and effort and agony. Funny how after only 4 years I could barely bring myself to apply for more teaching jobs. After all that, I spent the entire summer looking for work, and being so desperate I ended up at a restaurant along with some of my students. After all the weekends and late nights and all the grading. And all for what? To be broke again. All that effort. For nothing. I wonder if you would tell me to keep going, or to try something else. And what else? What else is there that would just keep me and let me grow?<br />
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I wonder what you think of my yoga/dance business. I wonder what you think of how I'm running it. I wonder what you would say if you could see it and see what I've done to make it better. I wish you could be here and see it. I wonder what advice you would give me. I know you would say: "Don trust nobody." You told me over and over how much you wanted a little restaurant, but Grandpa wouldn't support you in the idea. I wonder why he didn't. I wonder why he never opened his own bakery. I wonder if maybe I will.<br />
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I wonder if I was ever thoughtful or nice to you on Mother's Day. I hope so. I wonder what you would say if you could see me right now. <strike>'</strike><br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-19648636477729666172013-05-27T21:44:00.000-07:002013-05-27T21:44:20.778-07:00A Princess Dare<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">Korena of </span><a href="http://korenainthekitchen.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px; text-decoration: none;">Korena in the Kitchen</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"> was our May Daring Bakers’ host and she delighted us with this beautiful Swedish Prinsesstårta!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">I can't believe I made such a pretty cake! I've seen pictures of the Swedish Princess Cake before and wanted to try it so this recipe was a welcome surprise. I actually made it for Mother's Day thinking I would shock everyone with the beauty and flavor of this masterpiece. Unfortunately due to the mound of whipped cream and my mother's sensitive digestive tract, I guess you could even say I gave her a stomach ache for Mother's Day. The cake was meant to be fit for a princess but alas, we all can't have such extravagance in our diets.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Still, it was a beautiful and fun cake to make. I ate far more of it than I should have, which is a real problem in doing these challenges. I do enjoy getting ideas and the desire to change things around once I've tried something like this. Next time I would prefer more cake to whipped cream, and maybe a rectangle shape over a dome.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-11246430115025229802013-05-13T17:05:00.001-07:002013-05-13T17:05:51.411-07:00Necklace<br />
It's amazing how so many things can change in such a short amount of time. I've been away from home for a while but I visited recently didn't I? Why does it all look so different now?<br />
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Home is always a culture shock and cause for anxiety. I'm doing my best to make the most of it, and have certainly noticed the far superior comfort of the bed here, and the lack of quarters needed to do laundry.<br />
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Shortly into this trip I needed to run some errands and took my old car out for a spin. First I went to the bank's drive up area to use the little shuttle for money. I sent up the deposit slip and cash through the shoot and waited. The attendant inside asked me how I was doing on the intercom and I said fine and continued listening to my music. Then she said: "Excuse me, Aviva? This slip is for Wells Fargo. Did you want to make a deposit here or with them?" It turned out that I had driven automatically to my old old bank in Skokie, IL which I haven't used in five years.<br />
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I got the money back and realized she would laugh about me all day with the rest of her work mates while I drove around seeking a Wells Fargo. There are only two in this area as opposed to the ten I can walk to in Seattle. One of them is quite near my parent's place here but since I was already pretty far west I figured there shouldn't be any problem finding the one on Touhy street....but I got lost. In my hometown! Everything was so much more traffic-y then I remember and it must have been hidden in some awful strip mall I've never been to. Thirty minutes later I made a U-turn in some weird industrial parking lot and drove to the location I knew of all the way back in Evanston. It took me an hour to deposit money.<br />
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On my second errand I went through the downtown Skokie area because my mom gave me disturbing news that I needed to check out for myself. She mentioned that the art school I attended on weekends as a child went out of business. I thought surely she was mistaken. They had been around since the 60's! There was just no way that this economic downturn would take them out. I drove by and saw the darkness within and a closed sign up in the middle of the day. It was true. I parked and went up to the door still hoping that there was some reason to believe it was temporary, but the place was mostly empty. A few frame samples and glass fixtures remained along with unopened mail shoved under the door. While I hadn't been inside for at least a decade, I believed some things are part of a neighborhood and will never change. It never occurred to me that my lucky little Village Art Gallery in Skokie, IL would be just a tiny memory someday.<br />
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I wasn't going to come on this trip. Hiding under my kitchen table was preferred to getting on the plane, but so far it hasn't been as terrible as expected. I've managed to make it to places that I like to go and catch up with some great friends that wonder what the hell I am doing, and that is always fun. People have called to invite me to salsa dance and go for bike rides and see comedy and go to board game night. Friends of mine have opened their own yoga studio and I already got to take classes there. I made it to The Moth story night, which I dearly love. It's a complete change from Seattle where I am constantly the ringleader of social activities, and hardly ever getting asked to hang out.<br />
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I've also noticed how much some of my friends in Seattle are pretty depressed and always seeing reasons not to do things. I am so tired of it. I felt that if I didn't invite people over or ask people out to happy hour, I would never leave the house. And plenty of people never called back, so I gave up on them entirely. I see their facebook updates but I really don't care. The change in myself from just being around happier more productive people in Chicago is significant. I want all sorts of new things. I want to join beach volleyball in summer, go kayaking, take salsa lessons again, paint, help remodel my dad's basement, go to the Lyric Opera, maybe finally finish that grad degree I started, etc. Who is this positive girl?<br />
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I even had ferocious anxiety about taking the red line train in Chicago. I always promise myself that I will not take it, but end up needing to anyway. Last time I was on the red line a man harassed women and scared them into giving him money. By the time he got to my car someone called the conductor. The authorities were alerted and we had to wait there until he got arrested. He was replaced by a woman screaming obscenities. Well, for the first time ever, this suburbanite has been commuting by Metra train on this trip, which is a far nicer ride. The red line train and I are officially divorced. The Metra is faster, cleaner and more efficient, but pricier and much farther away from places I normally go. It's worth it. I can walk the twenty minutes. It was time I did some things differently if I wanted to have a better experience.<br />
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Some things, however, will never change.<br />
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The first day I visited my uncle and grandma I was hit with a barrage of annoyances, and had no escape that being on the phone could provide. I had no where to go and no where to be, and they knew it. I went willingly but nearly lost my mind.<br />
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GRANDMA: Avivitcha, you see vhat's goin in Boston? Terrible. Dey should hang zem.<br />
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AVIVA: It is terrible Grandma. Maybe you should turn off the news.<br />
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GRANDMA: No no. I not turn off. You no vatching Aviva?<br />
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AVIVA: I'm trying not to. You'll get sick with the same stuff over and over.<br />
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UNCLE: Hey Aviva. Aviva. Why you never telling me about Netflix?<br />
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AVIVA: Huh?<br />
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UNCLE: Netflix. Why you not tell me to buy them?<br />
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AVIVA: Ok. Well you can get a membership if you want to. It's easy to set up.<br />
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UNCLE: No. I very angry wiz you Aviva. You wanna know why?<br />
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AVIVA: Ok.<br />
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UNCLE: You don't know why?<br />
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(I shake my head)<br />
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UNCLE: Because! Netflix has doubled in stock! They're at almost 200%! We could have bought from the beginning! Why you didn't tell me???<br />
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AVIVA: I don't know about stock stuff Uncle.<br />
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GRANDMA: I tink dey terrorists. Al-Qaeda.<br />
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AVIVA: I don't think so Grandma.<br />
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UNCLE: I can't believe you knew about Netflix all these years and you never explain to me about them.<br />
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AVIVA: What do you mean? I just watch movies. That's all. I didn't even realize my account offered streaming until recently. I'm no expert.<br />
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UNCLE: What's streaming?<br />
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GRANDMA: Dey Al-Qaeda. I telling you.<br />
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AVIVA: I think they were working on their own Grandma. If they were in an organization they would have taken credit for it. They would have bragged.<br />
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GRANDMA: Wanna bet wiz me?<br />
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AVIVA: No, no thanks.<br />
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UNCLE: If you bet on Netflix you'd have a lotta money now!<br />
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GRANDMA: Vhat is necklace? You found necklace? Vehre?<br />
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UNCLE: NetFLIX. NetFLIX.<br />
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GRANDMA: So? Vhat is a necklace? Vhat so important.<br />
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AVIVA: You can rent movies with them Grandma.<br />
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UNCLE: It's a company. Tell me about more companies you use Aviva. Now I know you're holding information from me.<br />
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GRANDMA: Ach. Who care? Necklace shmeklace. Avivitcha. I bet wiz you. Tventy dollahs. Dey Al-Qaeda.<br />
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AVIVA: Let's not bet.<br />
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GRANDMA: Because I right! Tventy. You gonna owe me. You see.<br />
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The troubles of having the family I do are many and mountainous. I'm glad they can be endearing and provide some entertainment once in a while. Going home is actually really nice sometimes. In the rare occasions that these people are on your side, it's a great feeling. It's a relief to take a breather and not feel my stress in Seattle apartment life and difficulty finding enough work. I'm glad to know the family all want to see me progress and do good things in the world, and they don't see me as a floundering fuck up anymore. I may help put up a new ceiling in that basement and stick around a while.<br />
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Grandma at first claimed that she won the bet, and I promised to take her to lunch. Then the sneaky woman slipped me an envelope with far more than a twenty in it.<br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-72202449739352620742013-04-27T17:59:00.001-07:002013-04-27T18:10:10.360-07:00Savarin from The Daring Bakers<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">Natalia of </span><a href="http://gattifiliefarina.blogspot.it/" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px; text-decoration: none;">Gatti Fili e Farina</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"> challenges us to make a traditional Savarin, complete with </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">soaking syrup and cream filling! We were to follow the Savarin recipe but were allowed to be</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">creative with the soaking syrup and filling, allowing us to come up with some very delicious </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;">cakes!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98tSPXBKuY3CQ5dKoxUQqdtcmrv5aPdT3yrrHwCBAZUW9WOwxAgvk4EkDD031FCuHHlVej1lvnm94r4QAOhcXRQ_ZLmZPizXXlgbasCm2QWLtrtGnOVA42v_mNSRFL_vGgg6WvwwGgdo/s1600/IMG_0426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98tSPXBKuY3CQ5dKoxUQqdtcmrv5aPdT3yrrHwCBAZUW9WOwxAgvk4EkDD031FCuHHlVej1lvnm94r4QAOhcXRQ_ZLmZPizXXlgbasCm2QWLtrtGnOVA42v_mNSRFL_vGgg6WvwwGgdo/s320/IMG_0426.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5gfcYmU9E1XNWe-Wvqc6iQ_qEonxEiG4ahSq36AwL6r2vzQO623UoyuHGAihS4iiyiyh6DxZoWq4JuyG6kEJmEB44z8MtLXsVFViJZAiBiD6woXs3JbCrjtyMr3dYqfXSISFggsraVE/s1600/IMG_0430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5gfcYmU9E1XNWe-Wvqc6iQ_qEonxEiG4ahSq36AwL6r2vzQO623UoyuHGAihS4iiyiyh6DxZoWq4JuyG6kEJmEB44z8MtLXsVFViJZAiBiD6woXs3JbCrjtyMr3dYqfXSISFggsraVE/s320/IMG_0430.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Well folks, despite how nice this may look, I assure you it was a total debacle. The Savarin is actually a really interesting cake and challenging recipe to play with, but somehow it didn't work out properly for me. All the elements were wonderful: bread-like cake, blackcurrant liquor to soak it with, apricot glaze, lemon cream, and fruit on top. Yum, yum, scrumptious. Except that despite how amazing each section was, they didn't go well together at all.<br />
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Something went wrong with this sucker and I don't know what. I followed the recipe exactly but either the pan I baked it in was wrong or the yeast wasn't good or I over-beat the batter or didn't do the envelope fold enough, I don't know. Something.<br />
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My mom tried to help me with this but mostly said: "Why don't you just make a banana bread instead? That's easier. I never bother with yeast dough." She did manage to find a Julia Child recipe for the Savarin which recommended that I pierce the cake several times over before soaking it in the liquor. It made sense to me, but this did nothing for the cause. The cake felt extremely heavy and drank nearly all the liquor I bathed it in, but it all sunk to the bottom or clung to the sides. The middle barely got tipsy. This was a huge disappointment, especially considering that surely Julia would know how to get a cake drunk.<br />
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My cake really turned out to be bread, no doubt about it. Bread, not cake at all. That is why I don't see how smothering it with cream would help the matter. I'm glad to learn bread baking but this wasn't supposed to be the lesson I'm sure. Still, the bread part was pretty awesome. It was soft and flaky and tasty with the bits of orange zest in there. I just wish I didn't put liquor or cream on it!<br />
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As for the challenge this was a really good one. This is something I've never heard of or would have attempted otherwise, and I definitely want to improve on my first try. Since no one wanted more than their first bite, the cake ended up being taken to it's land fill doom. Initially I was upset about the time and ingredients wasted, but now I feel like I must know what Savarin is supposed to taste like. If all the pieces of the puzzle are beautiful then I must find a way to fit them together. I was hoping to do 2 this month, but alas the 27th comes so soon.<br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-70477260878885172892013-04-16T18:03:00.002-07:002013-04-16T18:03:45.933-07:00Teach A Woman To Fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznCNJei7E9hlKaXCvf_YTQ-Y5kzikpvW2o7elsAfipyG9jkPpK6uagg_ZhqkPMgskzUZVZ2wyEgkqBmU0VfPYH_Apc6U-uIKZKnbYSNzbP9sMdB4ilawHJyMlOd00lvcb5IivQhOXfOY/s1600/Crab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznCNJei7E9hlKaXCvf_YTQ-Y5kzikpvW2o7elsAfipyG9jkPpK6uagg_ZhqkPMgskzUZVZ2wyEgkqBmU0VfPYH_Apc6U-uIKZKnbYSNzbP9sMdB4ilawHJyMlOd00lvcb5IivQhOXfOY/s320/Crab.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There I was wildly excited to make a seafood dish of great ingredients and expense. I had no idea what I was doing in this attempt at a Crab Louie. The guy at the store offered to clean the crab and pull out the meat for an additional charge, but what did I need that for? I could do it. I am me. I am a domestic diva capable of conquering any kitchen challenge even without the necessary nutcrackers and tiny forks. I figured I could rip the crab open with a knife and use my fingers to pull out the meat. Luckily I told this plan to a neighbor who immediately lent me the tools required for this endeavor. Still, I made an impressive mess and had crab guts everywhere, and was totally unimpressed with the amount of meat I got for all the work. Eventually the fridge stunk because we didn't eat it all in time and I felt like the apartment had fish funk for days.<br />
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I would like seafood to be my forte, but as of now I am not sure this is meant to be. I had high hopes for a recipe I found in Ina Garten's book for Seafood Gratin. The picture looked scrumptious and I couldn't wait to try it. Thinking that her recipes are simple and come out well, I embarked on my next seafood debacle.<br />
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My first problem was that I expected the ingredients to cost around $40 for everything. This was because a friend of ours had recently gone fishing and gave us incredibly beautiful pieces of halibut. All the seafood I needed to buy was 8 oz of shrimp and 8 oz cooked lobster.<br />
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I wanted to buy fresh shrimp that I would peel and de-vein myself. I had done this before and apparently had amnesia regarding the disgusting nature of this exercise. So I went down to the market to compare prices and talk to the flirtatious fishmonger guys. Everyone had a say in my seafood gratin. They all wanted to change the recipe and suggested monkfish and all sorts of other things I had no idea how to make. I explained that I needed to stick to the recipe.<br />
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The shrimp was priced as expected, but when I wanted cooked lobster, no one had it. They told me that the couldn't sell me anything short of a lobster tail, which was $27.99. Whoa. One of the fishy guys told me to buy these really weird looking enormous shrimp which he swore up and down tasted very similar to a lobster, and they had just got it in today. I bought two of them and already was up to $35 in my budget. I felt a little swindled when I left there but I was up for an adventure so I tried to remain positive. <br />
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Next on the list was Chablis, so I went to DeLaurenti's to pick out a bottle. I've never heard of Chablis but I guessed I could find something comparable. I asked the wine guy to help me out and he immediately said, "You're going to cook with Chablis? That's crazy. You don't want to do that. Let me show you something affordable." Turns out the damn wine went for $40+ a bottle. Thanks a lot Ina! Geez, it says right on your book: "Everyday recipes you'll make over and over again." I don't think so! I bought a $10 bottle of white and got out of there.<br />
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There were still a ton of items I needed on this list. The market seemed to be the place to get everything, as I luckily blundered into Market Spice for saffron. I was short on all the usuals at home so I figured I should just get everything while I was out there, but the excursion quickly turned into an unexpected cost of $80. I think I even lied and told my partner that I spent $50 on everything so he wouldn't think I was a total idiot. The gratin needed seafood stock, tomato paste, heavy cream, butter, parmesan cheese, panko, and various veggies. I went home thinking this had better be the most delicious dinner on earth.<br />
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I made the cardinal mistake of inviting a friend over for a dish I've never attempted before. We wanted to do something nice for the friend that gave us the fish, but the gesture was probably lost in the inevitable slop I made of it. I wonder if he was sad to think of how I butchered his poor beautiful halibut, when we could have just put the damn thing on the broiler with some lemon and dill. I misjudged the timing of the gratin, and possibly even read part of the directions wrong.<br />
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Professional photos of food in cookbooks should not be the reason you try a recipe. I admit being enticed by its beauty and allowed it to create a mouth watering desire for Ina's Seafood Gratin, but mine was definitely not worth capturing for a viewing audience. The only way to describe my version is to say we ate chunky pink vomit that night, and I was heavily disappointed. The guys were nice enough as they always are when something isn't my best, but no one had seconds which was a sure sign of failure. Those weird enormous shrimp had a terrible texture and even made me gag a little. Bites of halibut were the only good taste in there, but they were drowned in all the muck. I thought all that cream and cheese and sauce and carrots and shrimp just didn't go together properly.<br />
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In the beginning of the recipe you had to bathe the seafood in stock, which cooks it pretty well right there. I really felt like there was a better recipe somewhere in that moment when the kitchen smelled nice and you could see the ingredients before my sauce took over. It's possible that we have to have epic disasters in order to find the right recipe for our own taste buds. I just wish my experiments weren't so damn expensive. <br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-58733747538359426192013-04-07T08:39:00.001-07:002013-04-07T08:58:00.278-07:00Living TogetherI recently heard something that sent me into shock. My friend's wife has proposed to her in-laws that they all move into a two-flat apartment building together. She thought it would be good for everyone to be closer. Her argument is that they can care for my friend's parents as they age, and the parents can help them with future children and their first home owning responsibilities.<br />
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I'd hate to interject my opinion but I happen to have first hand knowledge of this arrangement. Obviously everyone has their reasons for doing the seemingly crazy things they do. But let's face it, no good can come from this situation. I know my friend's wife sees the good in everyone and is a calm lovely person, so my take on this could seem overly cynical or downright nasty. I don't mean to be that way but I simply can't recommend anyone do this. I've let my friend know what I think but I haven't really come out with the brutal honestly that lies in my brain. There can only be one way for me to explain how I feel about such a concept. Harsh as it may seem: THAT IS A TERRIBLE FUCKING IDEA. THAT MIGHT BE THE WORST IDEA EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE FUCKING UNIVERSE. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MINDS? OH MY GOD.<br />
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Now I understand that somewhere out there families might be normal and get along and prefer to be ulta-involved in each other's lives, but that has not been my experience at all. I mean, I've been so traumatized by my family that I blog about them and share rude details of our lives with the world. How mean is that? Honestly though, the only real reason to enter into this is if you're broke and need help getting started, or you're new to the country and need support. The deal has got to be for 5 years only and then you need to split. If that is not in the contract then forget it.<br />
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I want to give you a glimpse into this life by providing some details from mine. My grandma and uncle have lived in the apartment underneath my parents since I was six years old. My mom has wanted to move out for as long as I can remember, but the pull of obligation and guilt and lack of opportunity has kept them stuck there. She used to say it was because she had to take care of my grandmother, but if that was really the case then she has been doing so for the last twenty years and may continue for twenty more. It's a ridiculous notion really. My grandma and uncle guilted them into staying and my mom herself had an unrealistic expectation for where they could move to. I don't know where my dad's head was in all of this, but I know he didn't want to move in with them in the first place and they should have listened.<br />
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Because my mom and grandma communicated daily by opening the door and screaming down the hall until the other would scream back, my dad installed an intercom system. (one bad system replaced by another.) My grandma would hold the buzzer down until someone would run over and yell into it. Sometimes they would argue into it as if to amplify their problems for everyone else. A common occurrence went like this: (although it was all in Polish/Hebrew)<br />
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MOM: EEMA, (Mom in Hebrew) I BOUGHT BREAD!! CHALLAH. RYE. YOU WANT?!<br />
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GRANDMA: I DON'T WANT IT!<br />
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MOM: EEMA I BOUGHT ALL THIS BREAD. I BRING DOWN FOR YOU.<br />
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GRANDMA: I DON'T WANT IT. I NO ASK!<br />
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MOM: I BRING DOWN BREAD FOR YOU NOW OK?<br />
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GRANDMA: I DON'T WANT IT! WHY YOU SPENDING MONEY?! I DON'T WANT IT!!!!!<br />
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MOM: WHY YOU SO STUBBORN? I'M BRINGING IT DOWN NOW.<br />
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GRANDMA: NO.<br />
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MOM: YES.<br />
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GRANDMA: WHY YOU BUYING ALL TIME? STOP SPENDING MONEY. I NO ASK.<br />
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MOM: YOU DON'T WANT CHALLAH? IT'S FRESH.<br />
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GRANDMA: I DON'T WANT IT!!!!<br />
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This exchange was followed by my mother laying various breads, often far too much for my grandmother to eat, on the stairs by her door. That act was followed by my grandma coming upstairs to throw money on our kitchen table. The money would land back on my grandma's table until she found a way to put it in my mother's purse or her coat pocket and it would stay there forgotten. One day Mom would find it and think it was there all along. The first phrase I learned in Polish sounds like this: ya neeiktsa. It means: I don't want it.<br />
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There was never a conversation or decision or aspect of my life that wasn't discussed among all four of them. My grandma didn't want me to learn to swim at a young age, but my mom did it anyway. My mom did not want me to eat sugar during the week, but my grandma gave me all kinds of crap all the time anyway. I never had a babysitter, only my grandma. My parents never went out on many dates or out much at all because my grandma and uncle would judge them for leaving me. As a young child I went to every curtain selection, every chair and countertop purchase, every boring ass adult house and home need there was instead of having play dates with kids my age. I developed an imaginary friend named Catherine Nicola that I talked to regularly and still remember aspects of today.<br />
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My uncle always berated my mom for spoiling me and still tells me that I never do anything right and am an ungrateful child. He has yelled at me while I was on the phone for ignoring him, and one time it happened during a job interview. He doesn't have children of his own and he is not American, so I don't know what he expected out of me but he didn't get it. It was impossible for him to fathom that when he came into my parent's apartment I didn't rush around making sure he had something to drink and serving his every need. He has a 1950s version of womanhood stuck in his mind and voiced concern that I am just a lazy brat for most of my life.<br />
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My grandma fought my mom on everything, and in turn my mom fought me on everything. I was to take ballet, even though I wanted soccer. I was to play piano, even though I wanted drums. When I took on a part-time job in high school my mom told me I was never going to be anything in life because I didn't care enough about school. My grandma reported my every move to my mom, and my dad always took their side in each battle. I never had an ally of my own. Everything had to be just so, and it had to involve us all. Life was all about pleasing someone else, and I always felt as though I had four parents in the same house.<br />
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I hate to blame family for my personal failures, but you have to admit that their influence can lead to some terrible life decisions. A while back I was offered a job at a vineyard as the tasting room manager. I had wanted this job so badly. It was perfect on so many levels. I was 26 and it was a chance for me to get out of Chicago and see and do something new. It seemed like the perfect age and time to have an adventure and take a chance. It was also the light at the end of a tunnel of a bad relationship I was in and had no idea how to get rid of. It was a real chance at starting over, with a real job with real health insurance, and real people who were willing to help me. I had a plan that I would work there for a few years and then start classes at The University of California in Davis. I visited, got hired, found an apartment, and quit my job in Chicago. I announced to my family that I was going to move, and then they got involved.<br />
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Each of them told me it was a stupid idea. Why would you move for such little money? What are you going to do all alone in California? You don't know anyone there. You won't be able to handle it. You should just move to a new neighborhood in Chicago if you want a change. Your car is too old to go. Who is going to help you move? They won't pay for your move? What kind of a job do you think you got? It's not a good job. It's not worth it. If they're too cheap to pay for your move then why would you want to work for them? What happens if they let you go? You'll be lonely and miserable you'll see.<br />
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So, I chickened out. No one would help me pack and move, they all thought it was a big joke. I wrote a lengthy email to all my friends saying that I never lived in a small town so I wouldn't know what to do with myself anyway. I ended up commuting over an hour each day in awful traffic to a stupid receptionist job in the city instead. I got 3 tickets and into 1 accident that I got sued over years later. To this day, losing the job in California is my biggest regret.<br />
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If you want to invite constant scrutiny and second guessing into your life then by all means please go ahead and move in with your family. Every job, purchase, vacation, clothing choice, piece of mail, and any decision at all will be up for debate or at least discussed whether you want it to be or not. And if you live in the same building, you don't even realize now what kind of arguments could be had. Just wait until screaming matches ensue over who uses too much water, and if fixing something is really necessary, and the state of the storage in the basement, or which color flowers are acceptable to plant. These arguments occur DAILY at my family's place. DAILY.<br />
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Even if you are a calm, rational individual that doesn't mean that combined with your in-laws or your own parents you will remain that way, especially when child rearing is involved. Imagine for a second your future child's point of view. She will move 2000 miles away because she feels like she feels suffocated by everyone. She may grace you with a call once a month and sound like she can't wait for the conversation to be over. She will have commitment phobias and be forever indecisive because nothing will ever be good enough. She will cower under the shield of relationships rather than find coping mechanisms. She will fail over and over and feel sorry for herself and be very selfish and vain. Her allies will tell her she is too hard on herself.<br />
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And you will use this future child as a bargaining chip or negotiator in several disputes over stupid things. She will not care one way or another but try fruitlessly to make peace. During the first year I lived in Seattle I received a barrage of phone calls from each of them complaining about a remodel project.<br />
(example one)<br />
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GRANDMA: Avivitchca, tell your mama I no vant it fence.<br />
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ME: Grandma, it might be nice in the back. You can have privacy.<br />
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GRANDMA: I no vant. Vhy she money spending?<br />
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ME: Well, I think it's important to her. Change is good.<br />
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GRANDMA: Your uncle no vant fence eiber. You tell your mama not do this. Vhy she vant it?<br />
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ME: I don't know. I like parking back there so I don't know where the car would go.<br />
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GRANDMA: No make sense. Your uncle no vant. He very angry. He feel like he not own building. She do vhatever she vant all time.<br />
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ME: She does, but sometimes she has good ideas.<br />
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GRANDMA: You tell her not building fence here. She listen to you. Don tell I said you do dis.<br />
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(example two)<br />
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ME: Ma, you're really upsetting Grandma and Uncle about the fence. Maybe it's not worth it.<br />
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MOM: Are you nuts? Do you know I had to get every god-damn neighbor to sign off on a waiver so that I could build it here? You think I'm going to let it go after all this trouble?<br />
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ME: I don't know. Listen, they don't want it. Why waste your money?<br />
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MOM: It will bring value to this place. You don't understand. I'm doing it. They're always against everything I do.<br />
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ME: Then why cause a problem? If they don't want changes then why bother?<br />
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MOM: Because this place would be a fucking dump if it wasn't for us. Don't listen to them, they don't like anything until after you do it. You know years ago when I painted the doors in our unit white? Your uncle screamed bloody murder at me that I was stupid and making the place ugly and I didn't know what I was doing. Then a few months later, he loved it and did the same thing downstairs.<br />
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ME: Well I don't know what to tell them. She asked me to convince you not to do this.<br />
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MOM: Tell them you would like a fence. You can sunbathe out there and no one will bother you. And we can have parties and it will be nice not to see the alley back there. Tell them.<br />
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It's not fun being in the middle of every mundane issue, but I'm not sure it can be avoided. People take sides and rarely in these circumstances can you all agree or even make your voice heard. How will you avoid your child's involvement in each squabble?<br />
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And you know, you have to make this future person, or adopt or whatever. Either way, you as a couple need alone time. And you will be having alone time above or below your parents who may hear you and may even comment about it. <br />
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A few years back my mother was complaining to me about my grandmother. She was in tears describing every assault my grandma throws at her. She even told me that my grandma complains about my parent's "lovemaking," which obviously made me very uncomfortable. She apparently would come upstairs and make rude remarks regarding whether or not my mother had a good time last night.<br />
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So besides your alone time, your parents will also be having alone time. Due to the closeness of the living arrangements, they may feel like discussing things with you.<br />
(example) <br />
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Last summer when I was in town, my mother casually said that she was dusting in my old bedroom and happened to find a small bottle KY in a drawer. I didn't ask what she was doing in the drawer but I was disappointed in myself for leaving that laying around. It's a perfectly normal thing to have of course and often used for non-sexual related matters, but still. I was heavily embarrassed that she brought this up. And that wasn't the worst of it. She went on:<br />
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MOM: Aviva, you know you're not supposed to use KY. It causes problems. They don't want you to know about this, but it's true. I had a problem and my doctor told me not to use it. So I threw yours away.<br />
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ME: Uh huh.<br />
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MOM: I'm serious Aviva.<br />
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ME: Ok.<br />
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MOM: There is a better product. Your dad ordered for me on the internet. It's called Probe. You want me to write it down for you?<br />
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ME: I think I'll remember. Thanks.<br />
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MOM: It's much better. And you know what else the doctor told me? You have to get up right away after sex and urinate.<br />
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ME: I know Ma.<br />
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MOM: You do? I didn't know that. Usually right after I am like boom! Asleep. But you have to get up and go to the bathroom so you don't have problems.<br />
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ME: I got it Mom. Bathroom. Good.<br />
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Throughout the course of writing this blog post I was trying to think of any benefits that have come from this situation. Obviously I am extremely close with my grandma despite all the drama because she was always around. However, I remember spending time at her place in Roger's Park nearly every day before this insane move. Closeness just depends on how you handle the relationship, not necessarily how close your living quarters are.<br />
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I can't explain enough how growing up with four parents is too stressful an environment for a child. I don't want to be too hard on anyone really considering this, but as my grandma would say: "Tink good on dis. Tink good."<br />
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Or, take it from one who knows: try your best to have a normal, healthy family life. Let your parents or in-laws retire to Arizona. Visit on the major holidays, and all will be well. Give yourself a chance to miss them. Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-91493079454237850952013-03-30T20:17:00.001-07:002013-03-30T20:52:37.127-07:00Hidden VeggieI'm a little late on blogging for this month's Daring Bakers challenge. The reason being that I didn't know what to say about it.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Ruth from <a href="http://makey-cakey.blogspot.co.uk/">Makey-Cakey</a> was our March 2013 Daring Bakers’ challenge host. She encouraged us all to get experimental in the kitchen and sneak some hidden veggies into our baking, with surprising and delicious results!<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i></i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Now, the way I feel about this is that it's very silly business. When Jessica Seinfeld came out with her book I thought it was the dumbest shit ever. All I remember about eating veggies as a kid was that my mom made me do it. Period. She swears that I didn't develop any dislike of anything until I heard someone else complain about it. She even swears that I LOVED Gefilte fish when I was a kid. She never, ever made me a separate dinner from the family, and she never allowed me to skip her prepared dinner for mac and cheese or a PB&J. She told me once that she saw a friend of hers make her rather large daughter a PB&J for dinner and was utterly appalled. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Now you're probably thinking that she stayed at home and had all the time in the world or something, but no. She worked full time my whole life and came home and made dinner. She didn't grow up with alternatives so neither did I. My mother is very formal about dinner and is often nauseated over things like how Americans switch their knife over to their right hand when it belongs in the left. I had to sit up straight, use all the correct silverware, have a napkin on my lap, stay for proper tea and biscuits after, ask to be excused, and if you slurped....god help you. We ate in the style of Downton Abbey, except my mother had come home cranky from being a grocery store clerk and dealing with assholes all day, and my dad walked in the door and sat down for dinner still wearing his pocket protector. We ate in a tiny kitchen nook, the news was blaring from the tv, and my parents were so tired they just stared off into space the whole time. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Now she swears up and down that coming home and cooking from scratch every day is an exhausting, unappreciated enterprise that smart women should avoid if at all possible. At the same time she doesn't believe in fast food, so maybe her version of things is a little unrealistic. When I was growing up, she made the type of ethnic food that required hours and hours of standing, stirring, chopping and so forth. Of course she eventually learned the marvels of pasta and taco nights, but that took a while. My dinners now can be experimental, but I save the rigorous ethnic stuff for holidays when I have all day to torture myself, or have fun making a huge mess.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">While I remember always having to eat what was on my plate, I also remember my mother having to be satisfied if I just tasted her Russian beet salad or Borscht with sour cream. I did not like beets as a child and still do not like them. I do eat them now if they're shredded on a salad that consists primarily of other things and I have developed a sort of mild interest, but in general I am not a fan. My mom</span> might have just had to pick her battles on some of the veggies. </div>
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If you're going to hide veggies to get your kid to eat them, <span lang="EN-US">I have little to judge this on. I do not yet have children and have no idea of the demands or frustrations whatsoever. But, I also don't know if by covering beets in chocolate and sugar you still retain nutritional value, or if kids would be willing to eat the real thing afterwards once they find out. I was pretty reluctant to do this challenge for this reason. I simply don't see how covering something with sweets counts as getting your kids to appreciate vegetables. But, hey if it works then why not?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I did some research to find recipes that I actually wanted to try. Little did I know that there were hundreds of recipes hiding beets in various ways. Clearly, this was the thing for me to try. Will I taste them in a chocolate cake? Will it make the cake better? I decided to find out. </span></div>
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Mixing batter with beets in it is kind of gross. It looks all bloody and you can't imagine this will make a fine cake, but it does. It really does.<br />
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Recipe: <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/857644/chocolate-beet-cake">http://www.marthastewart.com/857644/chocolate-beet-cake</a><br />
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As usual, I had a couple mishaps along the way. The cocoa disaster of 2013 landed triumphantly on the floor while I was making a cake I had little interest in, as if to say: this will suck because you thought it would. And then there was the glaze disaster. I really don't know what to say about that. But I recovered. And I recovered the cake. And it was good. It was really, really good to my total shock. </div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">The strange thing about the cake itself was that it wasn't good the day after I made it. It was just ok. It was like any kind of "lighter" chocolate cake you could make. But after three days the moistness really took over and the beets really did inspire a deeper chocolate flavor. They turned out to be a pretty nice compliment to cocoa. I never would have thought this to be the case but it's true but I didn't really taste any beet flavor or texture. Still, I'm not sold on the idea that eating cake is good for you just because veggies are hidden in there. But I did think it was a good cake and I was pleasantly surprised with the results. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Then I went out on a bigger limb and made Cardamom Parsnip cupcakes. I got both of these recipes from Martha Stewart's website. I'm not sure that I would make the chocolate beet cake again, but let me tell you, the cupcakes were out of this world. These I intend to make over and over again and feed them to everyone I know. </span></div>
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Weirdly, parsnips have never interested me at all. I don't dislike them, but I also find little use for them at all. I don't use them for stock because I think they make the flavor too bitter. I have only really enjoyed them once before, which was when I sauteed them with carrots, butter, and whiskey for Thanksgiving. That was incredible, but nothing compared to these cupcakes.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP6XGReFzrN1Dx9MivQzi8fnKX6grLVbrd2h0Uz0QiiL0EzAJGn4LcP6Bddj1QU3Xz1rmYs61TcgBgfo87e7ie8hkqH7Y2M3JgkCFADemlvsH-93NaFOaBTcqj5mUk0tToIplDE1hKUo0/s1600/IMG_0352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP6XGReFzrN1Dx9MivQzi8fnKX6grLVbrd2h0Uz0QiiL0EzAJGn4LcP6Bddj1QU3Xz1rmYs61TcgBgfo87e7ie8hkqH7Y2M3JgkCFADemlvsH-93NaFOaBTcqj5mUk0tToIplDE1hKUo0/s320/IMG_0352.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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Recipe: <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/933517/spiced-parsnip-cupcakes">http://www.marthastewart.com/933517/spiced-parsnip-cupcakes</a></div>
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It never would have crossed my mind to make these if it wasn't for the Daring Bakers. So, even if I was reluctant and uninterested in the challenge, I found out something new and exciting that really delighted me.<br />
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The cupcakes were a hit at a party I brought them to, and no one guessed parsnips were the secret ingredient. It was fun to surprise people and I think I understand the benefits of hidden veggies a little better. I saw some of the other Daring Bakers came up with sweet potato butterscotch blondies, avocado brownies, spinach cake that was really green, and an awe inspiring Swiss roll with purple yams. I finally feel inspired to try out more of these recipes! Yum!<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">I called my mom to tell her about these incredible cupcakes, but when I said that I made them with parsnips, she said: "No you mean carrot. Carrot cupcakes."</span></div>
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No Ma, parsnip.</div>
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Parsnips go in soup.</div>
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Yeah but I made them into something sweet. You've got to try this recipe. I tried to make dessert with vegetables.</div>
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Oh ya, I heard people are doing that now. </div>
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It makes sense to be apprehensive about this at first, but I highly recommend giving it a try! </div>
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Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-4487053717314459592013-03-20T14:39:00.003-07:002013-03-20T14:39:49.016-07:00The Rain In SpainI don't think any fiction writer can come up with the shit my uncle says. There are many tv characters that are the stupid/funny stereotype I hate, or the characters that have some type of ADD, ADHD, Asperger, Dyslexia problem and we are stuck hearing the laugh track follow their every sentence. That is not at all my type of humor; I've never thought stupid=funny. Granted, the Andy Dwyer character in Parks and Recreation is at times endearing and cute and other times just plain stupid. But in real life, people who speak in this manner are not cute or stupid they're incredibly confused and lost and their every sentence can be followed by frustration and annoyance rather than laughter.<br />
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Or at least this is the case with my uncle. My grandma does not know how to use her cell phone so each time I call I have to talk to both her and my uncle on speaker for 1-2 hours. The experience has made me consider gouging out my eyeballs with a fork. I just thank goodness that they don't know how to use Skype or Facetime yet because I wouldn't know how to control my facial expressions.<br />
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Our latest conversation was on St. Patrick's Day. I asked them if they knew what day it was and they didn't know. I told them it was the 25th anniversary since I had my appendix taken out. Since my grandma is a bit morbid, she went into the retelling of every surgery she's ever had and every traumatic experience that went along with it. I made an attempt to keep it light and brought the conversation back to my story.<br />
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AVIVA: Grandma, do you remember that day? You made me swallow baking soda!<br />
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GRANDMA: Oh yes. I pray to God that everytink go vell in hospital. I scare very.<br />
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AVIVA: I can't believe it was 25 years ago. I remember that day pretty well.<br />
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UNCLE: What day?<br />
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GRANDMA: How you vemember it vas today? You write down or somethink?<br />
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AVIVA: It was on St. Patrick's Day!<br />
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GRANDMA: Oh! St. Patrick's today dat's right. I no vemember it vas St. Patrick's Day.<br />
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AVIVA: I was upset because I wanted to wear my green sweatpants to school and mom bought awesome cupcakes with green sprinkles.<br />
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GRANDMA: You vas eight vhen it's happen. Really tventy years goin?<br />
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UNCLE: You went to hospital? For what?<br />
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AVIVA: They took my appendix out Uncle. Twenty five years ago. Remember? I was there for a week. I was nine Grandma.<br />
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GRANDMA: Oh nine.<br />
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UNCLE: You no have no appendix?<br />
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AVIVA: Of course I don't have an appendix. You were there, remember? You bought me Donkey Kong.<br />
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UNCLE: But how you no have appendix?<br />
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AVIVA: They take it out. So you know they do it more easily now. You only get a tiny scar. Mine is huge.<br />
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GRANDMA: Tventy five years.<br />
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He might have been joking about not having a clue but nothing was funny so I don't know what to believe. He might have thought that I had some sort of mystery surgery but they didn't take anything out. My patience was wearing thin within the first few minutes of the conversation. I tried to turn things to St. Patrick's Day.<br />
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AVIVA: So did you watch the parade or anything on tv?<br />
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UNCLE: What parade?<br />
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GRANDMA: Patrick, Patrick. People vearing green lotsa.<br />
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UNCLE: Aviva, is Patrick the same name as Peter?<br />
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AVIVA: What?<br />
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GRANDMA: You eat corned beef today?<br />
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AVIVA: I didn't Grandma, but that would be nice.<br />
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GRANDMA: I like it. Good corned beef.<br />
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UNCLE: No no. Peter is same as Patrick.<br />
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AVIVA: It's two different names, Uncle.<br />
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UNCLE: But in Ireland, if you're name is Peter they call you Patrick right?<br />
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GRANDMA: Vat you talking? Not same Peter.<br />
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UNCLE: I never see corned beef in stores. They don't sell it.<br />
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AVIVA: Of course they have it, they probably have two tons of it in stores right now.<br />
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My uncle frequents an electronic store in the far suburbs called ABT. The store is an authorized retailer of various products like Mac computers and Bose speakers. Years ago I got my uncle Bose earbuds because he is a runner and needed them. About a year ago, he lost the covers to the earbuds. This is no big deal, he can easily replace them at the Bose store for a few dollars. I must have told him this five million times.<br />
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AVIVA: So Uncle, did you get the earbud covers?<br />
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UNCLE: What's earbud?<br />
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AVIVA: You know for the headphones for your ipod.<br />
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UNCLE: Oh ya ya. I order dem.<br />
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AVIVA: You didn't go to the store?<br />
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UNCLE: I don't know where a store is.<br />
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AVIVA: But there is one in ABT.<br />
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UNCLE: What store in ABT?<br />
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AVIVA: Uncle, they have a Bose store in ABT. You must have passed it a million times.<br />
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UNCLE: I never saw no Bose store.<br />
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AVIVA: But you bought your computer in ABT. The Bose store is right next to it.<br />
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UNCLE: I never seen it.<br />
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What can you do in these circumstances? Passover is coming up and they want me home for it. Just considering a holiday with the family puts me on edge.<br />
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GRANDMA: You buying matzoh Avivitcha? Pesach soon.<br />
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AVIVA: I didn't buy any Grandma. Not yet.<br />
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GRANDMA: Expensive very very in da stores now. I hearing da company not make so much because not sell.<br />
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AVIVA: Really? That's too bad. They should market them more like crackers. Then everyone would buy them.<br />
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UNCLE: I love matzoh. I love it for breakfast with cream cheese and jelly.<br />
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GRANDMA: Use be eight dollars for big box and now sixteen! I cannot belief.<br />
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UNCLE: I love matzoh for breakfast.<br />
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AVIVA: That's really expensive Grandma. At my grocery store it's almost six dollars for one box.<br />
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GRANDMA: (loud gasp) SIX DOLLARS for one? They thiebes. Debils.<br />
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UNCLE: You eat it for breakfast Aviva? It's good.<br />
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It's good to have patience in this world. I have some friends that are special ed teachers and they are clearly the best people on earth. I could never handle it. One challenging family member is more than enough.<br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-83110349554936070782013-03-09T02:06:00.000-08:002013-03-09T02:06:09.606-08:00Steaming HotYesterday I did something I've always wanted to do but never had the confidence for. It was my birthday and I like to do "me" type things on my special day. Usually that involves a pedicure, a museum or show, and a seafood dinner. It used to involve drinking until I woke up on the floor, but I'm pleased to say those days are behind me. This year I planned to spend the day with both pampering and hard work.<br />
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I suffer from asthma which doesn't bother that often, but whenever I get a tightness in my chest I fear a month of steroids and hell are ahead of me. The last time I had a really mean cold was last summer and I was sure to have my inhaler next to me at all times just in case. Every day I wished that I could get up off the couch and walk down to a near-by spa for women. It is a small and inexpensive place that offers a hot tub, steam room infused with lavender, sauna, and a cold plunge shower head. This type of experience is known in many cultures as the cure for what ails you, and also just excellent for your skin and breathing. In the U.S. I think many people view it as something rich women do for relaxation and luxurious self indulging.<br />
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What a ridiculous notion. First of all, it's only $15 and you can stay as long as you want. Second, it's not that easy to sit in rooms where the heat is sucking out everything you've got. It makes you dizzy, thirsty, exhausted, and sore believe it or not. You have to take breaks to rest your heart rate and get back to an equalized state. Drinking tons of water is necessary otherwise you will lose your mind or pass out. Of course, yes after the fact you do feel relaxed and luxurious and soft and fabulous.<br />
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I had wanted to do this for years and years, especially when I had trouble breathing, but the deterrent was...you have to be buck ass naked. (hence the reason this place is for women only) In gym steam rooms most people wear a bathing suit, and the whole place reeks of chlorine. But here, you've got to be fucking naked.<br />
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Now I've explained before that I'm not the most modest girl. I've changed in front of people and I've skinny dipped and I've even gone to the bathroom in front of people believe it or not. I mean come on. I've gone on a two week camping and canoe trip on the Mississippi when I was a teenager, and I briefly lived on an army base overseas, and I've even been to a god-damn disgusting ass Rainbow Gathering. So, yes I've been in several group showers and used a river as a toilet and have had to smear it, if you know what I mean. So there have been plenty of times when I've been made of tougher stuff and not the prissiest priss.<br />
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However, either I've grown more self conscious as I get older, or I don't feel like any of those experiences are comparable to laying around nude with a bunch of other ladies for hours. It's very intimidating. Years ago I attended a Turkish bath when I was actually in Turkey with my mother. It was a gargantuan room where naked chicks laid down in a circle and attendants would come by and wash you while you laid there in the steam. My mother thought it was perfectly normal for all of us to be laying about chatting with other naked chicks. I was completely mortified, especially about the bathing part, and I desperately did not want my mom to see my tattoo. She of course, is not American and stuff like this was part of her usual existence before moving to the U.S. I don't even think she noticed my tattoo, or maybe she didn't even notice nudity really.<br />
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I remember when I had to change costumes during a ballet recital and I was so frightened about my body being out there in the dressing room. She told me that it wasn't a big deal because all us girls had the same stuff, but I was so young and all I could think was that <i>this </i>didn't look like <i>that</i> at all. Laying around naked with other people is supposed to be relaxing but I couldn't get over it. The spa in Turkey didn't faze my mom but I couldn't wait to get out. It was one of the weirdest things I had ever done and I did not want a repeat experience.<br />
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Yesterday seemed like the time to get over it and go try since I knew it would be good for me, and I wanted to do something healthy for my birthday. The plan was to start with a yoga class to kick my ass, then head over for some deeper breathing at the spa. Several ridiculous thoughts ran through my head before I got there, like whether or not I'd be the mushiest woman in the room and how to talk to naked people if someone starts a conversation. I was extremely worried about the towel size and whether or not I'd wear it on all or half of me. And I worried most of all about the most embarrassing thing on earth: hair.<br />
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I've inherited my father's genes when it comes to hair and that is really one of the worst things that can happen to a girl. I'm actually a gorilla and the amount of work it takes to get that under control is insane. As of now, I've got it down to a minimum because I am flat out sick of doing all that crap and decided that my partner will have to accept me as I am. (for the most part anyway) Unfortunately, my self consciousness regarding my amount of hair down there worried me the most yesterday.<br />
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I do manage general deforestation followed by a regeneration harvest because I think it's for the best. I know it's very popular to pay someone a lot of money to rip out everything and cause a wildfire of discomfort followed by getting to look like you are nine years old again, but that is not for me. Some of my friends prefer this look and feeling and that's fine for them, but I do not and think it's pretty yucky overall. In fact it's got to be linked to a gross male fantasy/expectation caused by porn. And if so, why are you sleeping with those dudes anyway? Regardless, due to the popularity of this ridiculousness, I feared that I would be the only one with undergrowth of the naked ladies in the room.<br />
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Luckily, there were far more Janes of the jungle than Barbie bikinis and I was quickly put as ease regarding that aspect of things. It's so stupid to assume that you're the only one with anything in any situation ever. Of the handful of us that were there, no one had a perfect body because oh yeah. They don't exist! Why do we ever convince ourselves that they do? Every body out there has some type of flaw whether we can see it or not.<br />
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Of course, in this situation you do see everything. And it's weird because you want to avert your eyes but you can't really. If you open the door to either the steam or sauna, bam! There they are. Breasts and bush and everything: legs open, legs closed, legs up the wall. I started out trying to get the towel to cover my every part but of course it wasn't long enough. Something had to come out. And then eventually you'll want to lie down so the towel had to go underneath. And then you'll definitely want to use the freezing cold shower for a minute so you've got to stand there naked in front of everyone.<br />
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Admittedly I saw a perfect pair of breasts and they were completely astonishing. Obviously these weren't attached to a perfect body overall, but the boobs were magnificent and I almost didn't believe my eyes. They were the perky type that didn't fall to the sides when laying down. They weren't small but not large either. They had this amazingly circular shape. It reminded me of seeing some actress's top halves in movies and I wondered if they got cast for their breast perfection. These are the things that go through your mind when you're sweating out your brains and delirium might be settling in. <br />
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As it turned out, nudity isn't that big a deal and you do get over it. It's possible that Americans are a little more conscious to the desires of personal space, because at this spa there was zero conversation and that added to my comfort level. There was a little bit of locker room chat but no one sat around there naked. There was one person that worked the front desk and she came by to mop or check temperature and what not, but that was it. It was a perfectly serene environment with lovely soft music playing in the background. I became unabashed with my lack of towel and felt relieved, grateful, healthy and happy with the way I spent my day. It was a fantastic birthday present to myself. I felt so good by the time I got home that anyone could have told me World War Three started and I would have said simply, "OK" and gone to bed. <br />
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Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-58949663779592732162013-03-07T23:37:00.002-08:002013-03-07T23:37:52.124-08:0034th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyu8i8CjMFqzatsi6heHaktlLCOHiD2CzRiHhv6yB_iuqY6CBADqawTpzZMhPx2HbHnNWR9UOP0ud4xbARZZTOWQtym9LJdaH9yVwKKDKoLIKm_IIUMNPZqPZnSk9ZZtgUPulE1jNBAk/s1600/P1010354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyu8i8CjMFqzatsi6heHaktlLCOHiD2CzRiHhv6yB_iuqY6CBADqawTpzZMhPx2HbHnNWR9UOP0ud4xbARZZTOWQtym9LJdaH9yVwKKDKoLIKm_IIUMNPZqPZnSk9ZZtgUPulE1jNBAk/s320/P1010354.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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Last year for my 33rd birthday I made a coconut cake from Ina Garten's book and let me tell you, this thing was just plain stupid. STUPID. I don't know how anyone can get away with a published recipe that calls for: 5 sticks of butter, 2 cups sugar, 1 pound of cream cheese, 1 pound of powdered sugar, 10 oz of sweetened coconut, and 5 eggs. She might as well have called it: Cake To Kill Yourself With. Yet, I made it for my birthday.<br />
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I was craving a moist coconut filled cake and I thought the picture in her book looked so lovely. Looks are deceiving! I was astonished at the amount of fat and sugar but felt that maybe sometimes that's what it takes for deliciousness. Now that I've made it, I can tell you that it is totally unnecessary and ridiculous. You can certainly make just as good a cake or better without blocking a damn artery.<br />
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It was so dense and heavy. It wasn't a bad tasting cake by any means, but it shouldn't feel like weight lifting just to serve it up either. I really prefer a light springy moist cake that has a slight crumble to it. This was more like a chunk of hearty coconut sustenance proper for times when you are freezing in Antarctica, or if you're in the NFL and eating two entrees plus dessert at the Cheesecake Factory really aren't enough calories for you. <br />
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Layer cakes have always been a tremendous challenge for me. I've never had quite the right tools for it but felt like they're worth a try anyway, especially when birthdays come up. I like the idea of trying various fillings and frostings, and I also like trying it without the usual amounts of fat and sugar. But in the effort to improve, I decided to follow things exactly as they are in the books first so I can make changes later. My change to Ina's coconut cake is: use far less butter and cream cheese or just use a different recipe for crying out loud. I'm glad I gave this a try and indulged in ultimate indulgence for my birthday, but this one won't be made again. Or maybe I would make it for someone else so that the temptation is not sitting around my house!<br />
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Today is my 34th birthday and I admit it has come as a bit of a shock. I can't believe that I started this blog for my 30th birthday and the time has just flown by. Instead of making a cake this time, I've received a lovely coconut pie from a bakery as a present. The best part about that is not knowing how much of any ingredient is in there!Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-9769134237730059372013-02-27T23:07:00.001-08:002013-02-27T23:07:48.713-08:00Snack Snack Crunch!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqvrXQ-h6g84f86bkmsKspU90SaHCeInCQvmXJlcx8JFGL4f0KvfusQau3B-5O6IwQU-dWaLhayvJsvs4wQfLhvpLfFV95XWierH9zAIrvLHPLkwFEPLjWJ7jtON1_RB9Lax4lKAMq5M/s1600/bowls+of+crackers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqvrXQ-h6g84f86bkmsKspU90SaHCeInCQvmXJlcx8JFGL4f0KvfusQau3B-5O6IwQU-dWaLhayvJsvs4wQfLhvpLfFV95XWierH9zAIrvLHPLkwFEPLjWJ7jtON1_RB9Lax4lKAMq5M/s320/bowls+of+crackers.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I've made crackers. From scratch. Using the rolling pin for these was enough to make me feel like I had been at the gym all day long! My shoulders ached for 2 days following this procedure. For a moment, I thought what a good idea it could be to make these for your family every so often. They were such a nice snack to have without any sketchy preservatives or coloring. I even envisioned a homemade cracker snack jar next to the cookie jar.<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://thedaringkitchen.com/users/sarah-g" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px; text-decoration: initial;">Sarah</a></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>from </span></span><a href="http://allourfingersinthepie.blogspot.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 14.957386016845703px; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All Our Fingers in the Pie</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"> as our February 2013 Daring Bakers’ host and she challenges us to use our creativity in making our own Crisp Flatbreads and Crackers!</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.957386016845703px;"> (some recipes found </span></span><a href="http://www.thedaringkitchen.com/sites/default/files/u11/76_Crisp_Crackers___Flatbread_-_DB_Feb_2013.pdf" style="color: #aa0012; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 1.3em; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">HERE</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; line-height: 1.3em;">)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTRCgBaBzpFxPpxGgCW01eUEvltOyxSBN1CchyphenhyphenR7ttvHTLStNopvdLRkQlBZI7b3EA6ochi9K1KSKTq09eLXV3q1TJeZA1uLrlfaHry0CJ9p2wuRr1z-Xy7JZvVO_wpUifQdV8R2IgzE/s1600/IMG_0214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTRCgBaBzpFxPpxGgCW01eUEvltOyxSBN1CchyphenhyphenR7ttvHTLStNopvdLRkQlBZI7b3EA6ochi9K1KSKTq09eLXV3q1TJeZA1uLrlfaHry0CJ9p2wuRr1z-Xy7JZvVO_wpUifQdV8R2IgzE/s200/IMG_0214.jpg" width="150" /></a>I currently work with kids and I can tell you, those hot cheetos really are all the rage. The giveaway neon redness on their fingers and smudges on papers everywhere couldn't go unnoticed. I've even caught a few kids sneaking them to friends during class, even though they are certainly not allowed. And while Tostitos, Goldfish, Cheez-its (which is scary enough in name alone,) and Doritos are fun snacks once in a while, I actually thought these crispy, crunchy crackers I made for the Daring Bakers this month would be a delicious alternative. I generally try to avoid foods with un-pronounceable ingredients anyway. <br />
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However, now that I've gone through the trouble...I can't imagine making these that often, or maybe even never again. It was quite the task, especially since I managed to try three different kinds! If I scheduled in making only one type of cracker at a time, then it could be done. I suggest all the parents out there try this once so they can have special snack time and taste the difference. Of course, I'm not crazy enough to tell you that your kids should avoid the hot cheetos altogether! They have to enjoy themselves after all, no matter how neon the color of their food. What do I know about parenting anyway?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8H94iHZVIP1EXWTepCDz2LU9Q6H050LiBA_lowueENB7s69EuZ-zTrSGTM1VWRmwugo5pIAGRkZrHVzvLrNBFznl13bwhjGhTMihuNJcl4WW0UwbfSdOpJBKG4xja1Fsl3YUCdh5mWo/s1600/IMG_0220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8H94iHZVIP1EXWTepCDz2LU9Q6H050LiBA_lowueENB7s69EuZ-zTrSGTM1VWRmwugo5pIAGRkZrHVzvLrNBFznl13bwhjGhTMihuNJcl4WW0UwbfSdOpJBKG4xja1Fsl3YUCdh5mWo/s200/IMG_0220.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
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I'm very pleased with the way my crackers turned out, despite the fact that the texture wasn't perfect on all. Texture is a tough thing. For these crackers, the dough must be super thin and when I achieved that it often broke apart.<br />
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Most ended up perfectly crunchy but some were soft. Most were nice and thin and others were lopsided and way too thick. Timing was an issue as well. I wasn't sure how long to bake each type for and it was pretty hit or miss. I burned a bunch or took plenty out before I should have. This was a pretty useful was to get to know my oven better, and test the strength of my shoulders with that rolling pin! Somehow I managed to make the onion poppyseed, yellow corn, and cheddar cheese crackers.<br />
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And now...for the cutest kids in the whole world:<br />
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<br />Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-73856297573053875212013-01-27T21:29:00.002-08:002013-01-27T21:36:23.572-08:00Daring Once Again!<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">It's still January and I have a right to talk New Years Resolutions if I want to. The first one of mine was to teach a yoga class to other humans, instead of just doing it in front of a mirror at home. I have been wrestling with my self-confidence in this matter, even though I finished yoga teacher training over a year and a half ago. Somehow, with the assistance of very good friends, I finally muscled up the courage to research and rent a proper studio, plan a full class sequence, and choose soothing music to play along to it. As of last Friday I felt like a real yoga teacher, and I got my friends to stick their ass in the air like they just don't care. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">Other resolutions were: </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">1) to stop being a broke ass</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">2) focus on career only, therefore ending the "odd job cycle," as I like to call it</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">3) get all belongings under one roof and stop being such a gypsy wanderer, or keep the wandering gypsy vibe, but know where things are...I haven't quite figured this one out yet</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">4) pay off undergraduate student loan, and a credit card (very doable)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">5) get back to things I love doing, so that I see more projects through from start to finish </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;">Now to be fair, it's still January so I have time for the biggies on the list. I'm off to a good start though, and very proud to say that I am re-committing after a lengthy hiatus to The Daring Bakers. Doing a monthly assignment in the kitchen was always fun for me, and always a positive experience even if the project ended up a deflated soggy inedible mess. I don't know why I ever stopped. My kitchen isn't as well equipped as I think many of the other bloggers, but hey sometimes it's good to work with what you've got. I think the act of doing is better than thinking about doing, so here we are. I'm determined to make 2013 a year of positivity. Therefore, I am daring once again to try various things I never have before......</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.thedaringkitchen.com/users/francijn" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; line-height: 14.949999809265137px; text-decoration: initial;">Francijn</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;"> of </span><a href="http://kokenindebrouwerij.blogspot.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; line-height: 14.949999809265137px; text-decoration: initial;">Koken in de Brouwerij</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.949999809265137px;"> was our January 2013 Daring Bakers’ Hostess and she challenged us to make the traditional Dutch pastry, Gevulde Speculaas from scratch! That includes making our own spice mix, almond paste and dough! Delicious!</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;">I'll be honest. I've never even heard of a GEVULDE SPECULAAS, and still have a hard time remembering how to spell it. Part of the recipe required me to make my own almond paste, which I have never done before. The almonds needed the skin taken off first and normally I would just buy them at the store that way. However since I am still a broke ass and already had almonds in the house with skin on, I had to boil them and rub them off by hand. This turned out to be no big deal at all. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #442200;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;">I also had to mix my own Speculaas Spice concoction, which created a lovely aroma in the kitchen. It also finally gave me an opportunity to use white pepper, which hasn't left the pantry since Thanksgiving. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #442200;"><span style="line-height: 14.944442749023438px;">I had some ugly mishaps, but you can't tell from the picture. I am reluctant to admit this, but hey we can't all be perfect. Sometimes it's best to celebrate the journey and not so much the end result. So, the fact is that I rolled the dough far, far beyond the limits of the pan. I tried to get it right a few times, but ended up taking the easy way out and flopping it over itself. Then I woefully misunderstood how to roll out the almond paste and lost about a third of it in the process. It just clung on to the wrapping and I don't know how I thought it would magically just unwrap and lay it across the dough. Then I forgot to add the water to the egg, so there was a distinct egg smell that permeated the kitchen at first. There is even a bit of an eggy like area on top, which didn't properly soak in. Weirdly enough it's very yellow and I purposely framed the photos so you can't see it clearly. Ha! How about that for perfection? </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #442200;"><span style="line-height: 14.944442749023438px;">I figured it helps to cut them into bars! The taste is great and I would definitely try it again. Thanks </span></span><a href="http://www.thedaringkitchen.com/users/francijn" style="background-color: white; color: #aa0012; line-height: 14.949999809265137px; text-decoration: initial;">Francijn</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;"> for daring me to make this! Here's to starting the new year off right!</span><span style="color: #442200; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; font-size: xx-small; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 10.833333015441895px; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #442200; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, 'Bitstream Vera Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 10.833333015441895px; line-height: 14.944442749023438px;"><br /></span>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-60528211958184182612012-12-21T01:46:00.002-08:002012-12-21T01:46:58.893-08:00The Unwanted Inheritance<br />
I suppose it's my fault really. I'm the one that reaches out and becomes transparent and writes publicly about my disappointments. Sometimes I wonder if valuing transparency is something I got from my mother, the Tsunami Dorit, who is brutally blunt and often says anything that comes into her brain without filter. She believes doing that is merely being honest and never learned the difference between expressing yourself and having verbal diarrhea. Still. You'd think that if I bothered to write my uncle a heartfelt and dignified letter that was sent properly through the mail, he would respond somehow. He would say something, anything, even a hearty fuck you would be better than nothing. I figure he never contacted me due to knowing he did something terribly wrong, and the ability to express this is impossible for the maladjusted person. <br />
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I suppose it means that I did my best to be a forthright and respectable person, and he is no longer worth having in my life. Not that he was much anyway. That makes me incredibly sad, especially during the holiday season but it's also a good lesson learned. Last year was the first time in my life that my cousin called me on Christmas, but I do not expect to hear from him again this year. In fact, if he calls I have a mind to tell him exactly what I think, and I would do it Dorit style. <br />
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How do you ever know if you're doing the right thing regarding these dramas and intricacies that come up? Was it brave of me to walk away from the inherited condo, or should I have fought through the drama to make it mine? Just recently I found the perfect couch set that I could have put in the living room. And I found perfect curtains at a store I occasionally check out online. I recently started to wonder if I could learn to make my own tile and create a custom color arrangement for the bathrooms. Bathrooms that someone else now owns, and it will be likely a decade before I will get this chance again. I did not ever imagine that I would feel this way. I only thought: "get rid of it." I didn't want to deal with ghosts and obnoxious family members. <br />
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If out of nowhere a series of events happen that make you just want to run away, how will you learn to take on difficult situations? They will continue to happen, and in this circumstance things will only get worse. My goal for 2013 is to learn how to make this funny. I wish to spin my epic ongoing soap opera into comedy so that I can live a normal life. Call it therapy, call it vengeance. Either way, it's going out there. <br />
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If you inherit a circumstance that you don't want, isn't there a way to see the bright side? Why do I wish I had it now? I only learned that I officially dislike both sides of my family and am quite alone. Since I am surrounded by unsupportive people, I always feel too attached to friends and unable to be sure of anything I do. However, I am determined to turn this around. <br />
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I must find it all funny, whimsical, and a laugh track ridden sit-com despite the dark undertones. Here is a first attempt:<br />
<br />
EXT: GARDEN DAY<br />
<br />
Dorit sits outside at a table, puffing away quickly on her third cigarette in a row. Her daughter Aviva comes to sit outside next to her.<br />
<br />
AVIVA <br />
<br />
What are you so upset about now? <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
Well, it's nice out today. We should hit the Botanic Garden or something.<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
We've got a botanic garden right here.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
That's true. My god. How many of those have you smoked?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Who cares? Your father doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything. Your dad never stood up for me. He let your grandmother and your uncle Jim were awful to me the whole time I knew them. <br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
How is it possible that you're so stuck on the past? Let it go. Move on. That's the only option.<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Don't you know what they did to me? And now we're stuck cleaning up after that asshole. Your dad better get his share of this mess. If he doesn't handle this right I don't know what I'll do. I should just pack up and move to Israel. <br />
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AVIVA<br />
<br />
Of course. You'd never face any drama there. <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Your dad is useless and lazy. He never does anything right. Your grandma used to tell people how embarrassed she was that her son married me right in front of my face. Your dad never said anything. Your uncle used to swipe his finger over the light fixtures to find dust, and tell me what a lousy wife I was for not keeping the house clean. And look what he left us! Piles of pornography! Piles of that shit. Everywhere. And not just the stuff with boobs. They call it hard core that stuff. You have no idea. <br />
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AVIVA<br />
<br />
I have some idea. Ma, come on. Give it a rest. So they were jerks. We can't do anything about it now. We just have to deal with the condo and move on. <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Your Uncle Jim gave you rocks for your birthday. Rocks wrapped up in a box and lots of paper. Rocks! You were just four and started to cry. And they laughed at you. What kind of people are these? They don't understand love. They don't understand decency. Your uncle Jim was the worst.<br />
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AVIVA<br />
<br />
Ma, he's dead. They're both dead. How is it possible that you're upset at dead people? What did they visit you in a dream or something? <br />
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DORIT<br />
<br />
They were ashamed to take a picture with me even. They told me the photos at your Uncle Baloney's wedding were just for family and made me move aside. Did I show you the only wedding photo I have from it? I had to ask someone to take a picture of me and your dad. Only one photo of me in that beautiful dress! My god. And your dad never said anything to them. <br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
You're talking about something that happened 30 years ago. Surely there is something better that happened in the last 30 years that can occupy your thoughts? <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Oh yeah? I suppose you take everything so easily. Well how would you feel if something from your past came up? How would you feel if you heard from Voldemort?<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
My ex? I have heard from him. He sent me a facebook message a while back.<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
Oh really? And how did you handle that?<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
Well I was upset for an evening but then I realized that I could just delete it, and he was gone. Just like that.<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
He came here you know. I talked to him.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
Excuse me?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
He came here. He wanted to give you some stuff from the apartment. He gave me a box but I never opened it.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
When was this?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
I don't know. A year. A year and a half ago.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
A year and a half ago? Where is it?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
I don't know. We were just going to throw it away. We didn't think you'd want anything from that scum. <br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
WHAT? I don't, what are you, why? He was here and gave you a box of my stuff and you never bothered to even tell me about it?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
See, you are upset. That's why I never told you. I talked to him for a while. Your dad came home and told me to get rid of him and that was that. <br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
I'm upset at you, not about some stupid box. What do you mean you talked to him? What?<br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
He asked if he could talk to me and I said yes, so I brought him out here into the yard and we had lemonade. He told me about what he is doing now, and he gave me his business card. Do you want it? It's in my wallet.<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
You had lemonade? Lemonade? With Voldemort? I don't understand. I don't understand. How could you possibly speak for me? What were you thinking? <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
I didn't speak for you. I spoke for me. I wanted him to know how I felt about it. <br />
<br />
{AVIVA stands up to leave but paces back and forth.}<br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
Oh my god. You are a train wreck. <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
See Aviva? And now you think it's easy to let things go. Terrible things happen all the time and we have to deal with unpleasant people. And it still affects me. I have a right to feel angry at them if I want to. I have a right to tell people how I feel. Your dad should have told his family how he felt once in a while. <br />
<br />
AVIVA<br />
<br />
I don't think you get it. In a normal world you're supposed to take the box and tell a person like Voldemort to have a nice life, and not engage in conversation at all. You can't invite evil into your yard. You can't possibly compare this to agonizing over 30 year old relationships with people who are dead. I'm going to need one of those cigarettes. <br />
<br />
DORIT<br />
<br />
No you don't get it. <br />
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Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-378980279568492532012-10-01T14:41:00.003-07:002012-11-26T10:47:54.558-08:00Uncle BaloneyThe next time I see you I will punch you in the fucking face.Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-16069672464330486202012-09-28T11:49:00.000-07:002012-09-28T11:49:59.363-07:00Betrayal. Again.<br />
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Dear Asshole Cousin S,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to be honest with you. When I called you about your upcoming trip to Ireland I was
completely appalled at your family and still am. I sincerely cannot believe that you all are going to spread
Jim's ashes without us, or without our knowledge of the fact. You seem to be under the impression
that it is L's responsibility to tell us what is going on and that is just
ridiculous. Your dad should have
been forthright with us about everything and is purposely leaving us out either
due to the fact that he owes my dad and I $5000 or because he simply does not
care. Or both. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad and I did
real honest labor involving Jim's place and saw that everything was dealt with
properly, and you guys can't even tell us of your plans or promise to send
pictures or anything? We don't
even know if you're doing any sort of blessing at the site, or if you're going
to bury his capsule or anything.
We did all the hard work, but you get a vacation out of it and a chance
to look like heroes to the family overseas. We never said that we didn't want to go, it was just going
to be a challenge to arrange it.
This was a perfect opportunity to come together and see this through,
but instead you guys blew us off.
It's fine if you really decided on things last minute but a phone call
or just any information would have been the kind and appropriate way to handle
this. Surely your family can't
have such bad manners.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could choose to write you all off forever due to this
extreme insult but instead I am trying to gain an explanation and involvement
in order to right this wrong. I
have sent your dad a very dignified and heartfelt letter expressing my
disappointment and so far have been completely ignored. I am seriously hurt and cannot believe
your family has treated us this way. There is nothing in the world we did to deserve such an ugly
display of selfishness and arrogance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe you think this is just between them, but not this time. This directly has affected me and will
determine the rest of the course for us as family members. I figured I should clue you
in. Even if we are not close, I
have been nothing but nice to all of you.
I have done my absolute best to be diplomatic and reasonable. When we were younger I tried to be your
friend and real relative, and you have never tried with me. This will be my last olive branch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I urge you to think carefully before responding in a rash manner; I will not entertain any ludicrous stories of the past or insults to me or my dad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have a nice trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-Aviva</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-57688590135150986712012-09-13T18:28:00.000-07:002012-09-13T20:24:39.994-07:00A Letter Sent<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Uncle Baloney,</span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b>
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6818623228464276"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am writing you to offer you an opportunity. I hope you will take a few minutes to hear me out. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has occurred to me that throughout the process of cleaning out, repairing, and remodeling Jim’s home you might have been too far removed to understand what took place. This might seem like none of my business to you, but I personally spearheaded the movement to fix up the place, designed the new kitchen, and did plenty of physical labor there. In fact, I took three months out of my life to move home and assist my dad with everything that needed to be done, since you did not come to help. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parents cleaned up the aftermath of the death, meaning the bodily fluids and tissues that had seeped onto the floor and closets. They had to wear masks and move the soiled mattress out themselves. They sorted personal belongings, paperwork, funeral arrangements, thank you cards, and cleaning. I helped with a great deal of that, as well as arranging the car donation. I called all the other condos for sale down the street, and my dad and I looked at each of them to compare and get ideas for what needed to be done. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The actual remodel was not merely some paint job. We covered the entire paneling in the basement with dry wall. We built a new wall to cover the exposed yellow brick and the hideous bars on the stairway, we tore out all the carpeting and linoleum flooring, we ripped out all kitchen cabinets, we removed and threw away all the shades and blinds, we painted each wall, closet, door, and ceiling with two coats of primer first, and then the actual color because the it was so brown from years of neglect and cigarette smoke. Each window frame needed several coats of paint. We installed new lights in every single fixture, a new bathroom mirror, and new cabinets. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The new kitchen cabinets took us to 6 different stores, each filling out a floor plan with which to determine the best price and arrangements. I added a lazy Susan fixture and determined that we could install a microwave with exterior exhaust that hung above the stove. My dad and I did this all our selves. He managed far more labor after I left, including installation of the new floor, several plumbing and electrical changes, the addition of a garbage disposal, a new stairway rail, and all touch ups. He did not bother paying for a single bit of installation or repair from any service. He saved money on the project in every way because he shopped around until he found the best prices, and he already had some useful tools and leftover tile that he replaced the tile in the entire kitchen with himself. He also advertised and sold the condo himself, without seeking help from an agency. The condo could in no way shape or form be sold without all our labor.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You are the recipient of half the money from the condo sale, due entirely to the efforts of my dad and I. One week after receiving the money, you are claiming financial duress and have not paid my dad the full amount you agreed on for the work we did. It’s not that you don’t have the money, it’s that you don’t want to pay. You were agreeable for the project supply costs, but when it comes to the value of our time and hard work, you are purposely snubbing us. You have created a situation where we have to remind you that we exist, and that you directly benefited from our labor</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you and Dad had to split the cost of biohazard cleaners, actual contractors, additional supplies, tools, and a real estate agent, the cost would be far greater than 10 grand.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Therefore, I am presenting you with the opportunity to do the right thing here. You made a gentleman’s agreement and I expect you to honor it. My dad has asked me not to involve myself between the two of you, but it’s not good enough for me to hear that you intend to pay him at some point in time. You also may think this is not my place to intervene, but I am personally insulted by your disregard of everything we have done to resolve this crisis. It feels like an invalidation of all our hard work, and I am heavily disappointed to realize that you clearly don’t care about us. We dealt with </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everything</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in a timely and efficient manner. My dad has little to no faith that you will follow through, and that is just sad. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you and my dad continue to live on two different planets, that is fine by me. I am the lucky one in all of this because I got to spend quality time with my dad and learn about all his amazing skills and his kind, patient, generous spirit. We didn’t have to do any of this, but we did because it was the right thing to do. You received financial gains </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">because of us</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and you are lucky to have a brother which such vision, ability, and talent. I wish now that I bought you out completely and my dad and I could have owned the condo together, since we were the ones who brought it back from a disaster to a beautiful living space. I even thought of living there while I finish my masters, since I chose beautiful fresh colors for the walls and had further ideas for the bathrooms. We determined it was easier for everyone involved to let it go, but now I wish I didn’t. It doesn’t seem fair how things turned out. Each project we did was photographed and documented, some of which were even emailed to you so you could see it and feel part of the renewal. Would you have done the same? </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is my sincere hope that somewhere in all this there is some brotherly love. In all my 33 years on this earth, I have never heard my dad speak an ill word of you. Despite Jim’s extreme dislike of us, and what we found out to be a rather sizeable amount of inheritance that he stole from Dad years ago, Jim was fortunate to have us in his life. Maybe someday you will feel the same. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad spent an entire 24 hours at Stroger hospital with Jim when he had his congestive heart failure. He wanted Jim to give him a key so we could check up on him and bring him some food. He was truly upset when he found no one had nice things to say about Jim at the funeral, so we spent many days working on the condo only remembering the nice things about him. My mom remembered how kind he was to dogs, letting them drink not out of specific containers, but out of his own good dishware. She remembered calling him when there was an emergency and how he dropped everything to help. I remembered that he called to tell me that I looked pretty on TV when I worked for PBS, and that he came to all my high school theatre performances, and my ballet recitals when I was little. Dad told me many stories I hadn’t heard before about what Jim was like in high school and how they once went on a double date. He told me about how he was jealous of Jim for a time when he got back from the military, because Jim had a real job and a real home when my dad had a stupid job at Jewel. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I often beat myself up over the fact that two weeks before Jim died, I thought of sending him a book series I read, but I didn’t bother. My first assumption was that he’d be interested in the books, and he’d appreciate that I thought of him. But I changed my mind, deciding that he probably wouldn’t enjoy something that I liked. What a giant mistake. I certainly learned that when it crosses your mind to do something for others you should always go for it, because it’s the right thing to do. Even a small act of kindness can go a long way, and you just never know what lurks around the corner. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead of focusing on our differences and intolerances, we may find that we have some common ground and shared experiences to move forward with. It’s amazing that after such a sad dark time in a sad dark condo, you can clear out the dust to find and cherish the fact that Jim had a new pair of shoes from good old Uncle Dan’s. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hope this letter finds you well and you are enjoying your new home in Larkspur. I hope you will choose to have a positive outlook on me, and our experience working on Jim’s condo. This was really important to me and I would do it all over again. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sincerely,</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your niece,</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aviva</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">p.s. In the spirit of following through on plans, I do also intend to place Jim’s ashes to rest in Ireland within the next year. I suggest we make arrangements by January 6 to take care of this, as I think we all believe it’s what he would have wanted. </span></b>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-54382027091282037552012-08-30T00:54:00.001-07:002012-08-30T01:51:29.925-07:00Golden DeliciousI have come to an understanding. That is that my family situation is unique and extremely difficult. Everyone has a unique and difficult family, but I don't know if they all feel quite as suffocated and stuck and like they've been dealt a terrible hand. A few people I know feel this often and really get it. Maybe that's why we're friends while others slip away. Some think I am overreacting or allowing family to control my life. Maybe they're right, but they tend to have siblings or cousins or some ally on their side.<br />
<br />
Last year there was a death in the family and I had to deal with both sides of an ethnically and culturally diverse set of principles and traditions. There was endless arguing and power hunger and mistakes and shame. If I had the information that I do now one year ago, things would be different. It may have been my opportunity to end an ugly generational conflict, but I let things go on as usual so that I didn't have to get involved. I've even lost my voice. I couldn't write about these jerks anymore. They don't deserve me, so why do I dwell on them?<br />
<br />
This has been yet another year where I've tried so hard to run away and disregard and say they doesn't matter. Any of them. I hate them. I don't need family in my life. Family is overrated.
But right now, at this very moment my grandmother is in a hospital bed. I've been cavalier about this recently. I've said that I don't want her to suffer. I've said that my mom and uncle would be different people if they didn't have this stress and burden in their lives. I've said that I've been lucky to spend 33 years with her. I've said that I know we have her on borrowed time.<br />
<br />
And officially last Saturday my mom saved her life. I was going to lose my grandma last Saturday and the reality has hit home. I am not ready for it at all. It's one thing to speculate and decide what's best, but it's entirely another to know you didn't get enough time together. You will never get enough time together. The time you have spent recently is hard and sad and too much, so you don't do it. All you offer now is the occasional phone conversation.<br />
<br />
So we talked about crepes. Apple crepes to be specific. She said she wanted to have crepes with me after she gets out of the hospital. My grandma has an amazing crepe recipe that I've only made a handful of times, with strawberries or apples. The pan I've used for years is destroyed by my careless messiness, and the last time I attempted the crepes they all fell apart or wouldn't stick or I couldn't turn them over. When I told her of my disastrous attempts she laughed and coughed and laughed again. She said that she had three pans that she wanted to give me so I could make them right.
But I don't want her to give me pans. I want her to be better and show me how to do it. I want to be with her in the kitchen and listen to her explain and let her voice stay in my mind forever. There must be a way for her to stand up and show me all the details.<br />
<br />
What I learned on the phone was that besides the lousy pan, I had used the wrong kind of apples in the past. I assumed they were Granny Smith, being that those are the quintessential American apple in all baked goods. But no, Grandma hates them. She didn't understand why Americans use them so often since they don't hold their shape or have enough sweetness without sugar. She said that Granny Smith only work in an apple pie because of the thickness of the dough and the amount of apples used. For something delicate like a crepe, Golden Delicious were the way to go. They didn't need anything but a hint of cinnamon and butter and a light saute on a small fire. They were a perfect apple for desert or breakfast. A Golden Delicious apple was all you needed for a rescuing delight. She knows these secrets better than anyone and without her, I would never know.<br />
<br />
She wanted to get off the phone, because she doesn't understand how cell phones work and thought the long distance call was costing me a lot of money. I tried to explain that all it took was minutes, but she didn't understand me. I thought, please don't get off the phone. Please keep talking to me about golden delicious things. I don't want this conversation to end. I don't want it to end ever.Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-49770062540957658642011-12-28T10:55:00.000-08:002011-12-31T07:39:57.597-08:00I Am WomanAfter we got rid of my uncle Jim's car, we moved on to the condo and all the mess associated with that. Painting was first on the agenda. I had never painted ceilings before so I was in for a real treat. <div><br /></div><div>On the third day or so, an enormous glop of paint went directly into my left eyeball. It felt like my eye was burning off and I was screaming bloody murder. I don't know how I made it to the bathroom to wash out, and it really took many rinses before I could open my eye or see anything. The feeling of that crap in there was freakish. I kept asking my dad if I was going to go blind and he couldn't help but laugh. It was water based paint and he assured me that it will come out and there was no need to rush to the hospital. I was fine by the end of the day and resumed painting a smaller room, holding the roller quite farther away. I felt like I failed in my remodeling duties and since I was championing this project, I had to save face. I could handle it. My dad didn't want to spend time over there at all, so I became the apprentice carpenter to get this over with. </div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of the work was genuinely fun. The process of cleaning out and getting rid of and re-building made me feel healthier, positive, and productive. It was incredible to see change that is brought about by effort and hard work. It's therapeutic to have this tangible meaningful success. There were days that were extremely difficult but doing this act of physical labor brings about a lot of good I didn't know I had in me. </div><div><br /></div><div>The best thing about this whole experience is that for a while, I wasn't as affected by family drama. I had a plan for every day. I woke up knowing what we were setting out to accomplish and we were able to brush off a lot of other garbage to focus here. It felt great. This was finally something I did with the family that felt worth it. Each day when I returned home, my uncle on my mom's side would see me covered in paint and dirt and filth and smelling like a man, and he would laugh. He didn't believe that I would actually do this but once I did, he seemed impressed.</div><div><br /></div><div>If there is anything I've learned from this experience it's that each project will take at least twice as long as you plan on, and there are always unforeseen complications that may have you re-doing a whole lot. Painting seems like no big deal but the preparation takes a great deal of time. Setting down drop cloths and taping takes forever! And you forget about the little things: walls need to be cleaned of dust and dirt, you must take out and put tape around the ceiling lights, remove molding from the ceilings and floors, you find nails everywhere and rip your fingers open with them by accident, removing light switch covers and outlet covers takes forever, removing doors has to be done first, turning off the power so you don't get electrocuted in the bathroom is necessary, etc. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQEmyOELz56fG0umMawc_bPGyTtJ_kI5rCmLU5W50z3t6wXDlEs14xWN3HWdj59CQSf_vQYTyMJsuLpcHyYBuwSYicqeq5aAwm4TSTSuOoDuW8izy18DnFF9v-DtSxI0pAaJMP9naWK4/s1600/ISaw0353.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQEmyOELz56fG0umMawc_bPGyTtJ_kI5rCmLU5W50z3t6wXDlEs14xWN3HWdj59CQSf_vQYTyMJsuLpcHyYBuwSYicqeq5aAwm4TSTSuOoDuW8izy18DnFF9v-DtSxI0pAaJMP9naWK4/s200/ISaw0353.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692315420176161858" /></a><br /></div><div>I learned how to build a wall with 2 x 4s, size cut and install dry wall, remove carpet on stairs, apply real primer (which is a total necessity as we later found out,) remove tile, remove cabinets, re-wire electricity, find out how to size cabinets for a kitchen and who has the better deal, (since we went to 6 places!! One in Wisconsin!) how to recycle an unusable washer and dryer, the proper way to use a saw, using an electrical sander, hand sanding, and the biggest pain in the ass: removing wallpaper. Oh my god that was sheer hell. </div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of this isn't terribly complicated, just time consuming. It's also hard to prepare for things that will go wrong. And they will.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNNCBllVmQ9S3tfShN7J1Yo7Cm3nNHcY73lJ9hwcbX2rdKnmhnl0aUdWVUQSpkd-ZeQ9lBozTqxZcpGQzNz4fFV6l6Y3wJDM1lAvXGYjcACtZyo2-dxe9BY_ZWS_XLZw_uJUPnJLug_0/s200/IMG_0445.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688781489803713810" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>We wanted to "de-dungeon" the place and make it warm and cheery, so I decided on what was supposed to be a light tangerine color for the living room/dining room area. Unfortunately the large window doesn't get nearly as much light as I had assumed and the room now looks a very serious canary yellow. Oops. How does that happen? It didn't look so bold before we did the whole room. But hey sometimes you've got to be bold in this world, so yellow it is. That and Dad refuses to re-do this even though I lost sleep over it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing about primer is that it covers up all the shit. For example, if your clearly depressed uncle thought that his office should be a hideous charcoal grey/brown/puce/shit color, you need at least two coats of primer to get rid of it. Otherwise, the new beautiful blue won't stick and the shit will run through. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ROiYtUueP8bYuMXfyo8d1bH1cJknxS9zWRS8gLHBVUwt46oHLJmO519yWK5FwRfnVYyPDQxxjR0rqlAYDezLiG3clC8EK09n0x2XfcIy8bkIz2VXhHgi6L3XzFGPwY5NjGcaOiEjU74/s1600/IMG_0393.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ROiYtUueP8bYuMXfyo8d1bH1cJknxS9zWRS8gLHBVUwt46oHLJmO519yWK5FwRfnVYyPDQxxjR0rqlAYDezLiG3clC8EK09n0x2XfcIy8bkIz2VXhHgi6L3XzFGPwY5NjGcaOiEjU74/s200/IMG_0393.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688789479192278338" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxblSQ-Kokzq9p37ZLXg1KPorZOIq3iAQnQkuo1eJDQUZdiOnrkqMNn12U1Fb9vPqO8CPRThP2v8HCivtLg2IK0lCENTi3Wuu-QFdWcp256eK4WsEM74sTsF7I3raZKTZTQ0z8szq2KUE/s1600/IMG_0428.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxblSQ-Kokzq9p37ZLXg1KPorZOIq3iAQnQkuo1eJDQUZdiOnrkqMNn12U1Fb9vPqO8CPRThP2v8HCivtLg2IK0lCENTi3Wuu-QFdWcp256eK4WsEM74sTsF7I3raZKTZTQ0z8szq2KUE/s200/IMG_0428.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688789837003107954" /></a><br /></div><div>Each time you fix something in a disastrous house, another area instantly becomes glaringly offensive. During this process my friend A asked if there were still traces of my uncle, or if we could feel his presence. I had to say yes, definitely. Fresh paint on walls only illuminates the brown blinds and shades from a smoker, the dust dirt and debris stuck in door frames, the lack of caulk, the dead bugs in the window frames, the feathers in the bathroom exhaust, and general extreme neglect everywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad had this whole plan that we were going to take down the kitchen cabinet doors and sand, re-varnish or paint, then simply put them back. Sure, except that the whole kitchen was stupidly laid out in the first place, emitted the smell of obviously rotting wood, and was just plain awful to be in. I didn't want to nag, but I felt that the whole kitchen needed to be gutted. It wasn't until we had re-painted other rooms that he saw it too. And smelled it. And was no longer in denial about it. The kitchen had to go. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vsZMmEd4fZWFFaFQo5EyZ5ksXGFCozXbWRhL0XaiuYXiffo1TBDPO1AgP4hyphenhyphenTnl-pwaSMzeZLwljOQ_efhci28n2E9e6rog2RmCSJXY7hGutapOZ-bGOfU4_78uaIfezBeg9UI5A40g/s1600/IMG_0446.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vsZMmEd4fZWFFaFQo5EyZ5ksXGFCozXbWRhL0XaiuYXiffo1TBDPO1AgP4hyphenhyphenTnl-pwaSMzeZLwljOQ_efhci28n2E9e6rog2RmCSJXY7hGutapOZ-bGOfU4_78uaIfezBeg9UI5A40g/s200/IMG_0446.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692301171484406770" /></a></div><div>Fixing the kitchen ended up being a personal triumph of mine. Many steps were required to figure it out, but we got there. First we pretended to be interested in the two foreclosures down the street and spied on them. One was completely rehabbed and selling for a measly $114. The other had a vintage kitchen and stained carpeting in the bedrooms and selling for a whopping $109. My dad was totally depressed over this and couldn't believe what we got stuck with. He kept moaning that all we will get is $114 and to get that we have to do a ton of labor to compete. But, I felt like hey, we could really make that kitchen amazing. The nice place had a perfect design and to get there we just needed to remove a large stupidly placed cabinet. He said it was impossible because our gas line for the stove was on the opposite side as theirs and we wouldn't have enough room for the counter. Not so. I realized that we could keep most of what we had but merely move everything over a few inches and get rid of a couple things that impeded the space. We would have the same design as that rehabbed condo, but with appliances on opposite sides. We could also add a lazy susan, which would give us only one blind corner instead of two. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17attmlLZ3z0qpxznhUeS9YDVOfgNgh9Yy-kE5mhYdjL6qt43J3bRn8Si34bT9mJbILW-ZOozXSutZi3fequfVozejq-_4eCbDiUOObbNDhs9u-FTJO5lvZqhGT-32-xxh-xK-4ItP9A/s1600/wallpaper0404.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17attmlLZ3z0qpxznhUeS9YDVOfgNgh9Yy-kE5mhYdjL6qt43J3bRn8Si34bT9mJbILW-ZOozXSutZi3fequfVozejq-_4eCbDiUOObbNDhs9u-FTJO5lvZqhGT-32-xxh-xK-4ItP9A/s200/wallpaper0404.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692305459460427538" /></a><br /></div><div>He looked thunderstruck when I said this. He started measuring and drawing and soon enough we had a great plan. We compared six places for size, price, and design for the new layout. FYI: Ikea was not the cheapest as expected. Soon enough new gorgeous cabinets were ordered as well as a new built in microwave with an exterior hood above the range, and a dishwasher to replace the non-existant one. All in all it was a major upgrade, and didn't cost a ton. Sometimes it really helps to have another set of eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>He kept telling me that the kitchen floor was in good shape and he was going to leave it. I thought it was hideous but I wasn't going to make a problem for him. If he wanted to salvage something here then that's up to him. However, while I was scrubbing the wallpaper glue off the kitchen walls and he was preparing to install the new cabinets, things changed. Out of nowhere I heard an enormous ripping sound. I was in mid-sentence and thought we were in a conversation when I look over and see that my dad had spontaneously ripped out that disgusting linoleum floor. It was like he just couldn't stand looking at it anymore. Talk about therapy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Removing wallpaper was by far the most disgusting job in our project. Fair warning: if you are putting wallpaper in your home then guess what. You are a fucking idiot. Don't cry to me when you get sick of that stupid design and find it to be filthy and greasy and stained from cooking or your kid's crayon drawings or whatever mess you get on it. I warned you.</div><div><br /></div><div>The wallpaper in our condo has been there for probably my entire life, or longer. Uncle Jim bought this condo before my parents were married and despite some sort of remodel he did 15 years ago, the wallpaper may have stood the test of time. My dad tried a solvent to get it off, a steamer, water, scraping, etc. We were going to just put up quarter inch dry wall, but after covering all the basement paneling, he was sick of it and thought this would be easier. Ha! He managed to get all the actual paper off, but we were left with the glue. Whomever put that shit up in the first place did a sloppy haphazard job with globs of goo everywhere. Once we found a solvent that worked for this crap it took three entire days to get it off. I was exhausted. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWk6Efmo7pxBHEU8HHTHNLdBhSn_e8N-k2_PPhwMeeQXFwygbnldhqTJIz76d_o4gFoObRacgZbMVAoUrcB-BreHsOplJhCRxRyLi0Zl7XcCwb44EUYz-RZKvxyQtMXEMY5ngayqAvvQ/s1600/wallpaper0403.JPG" style="text-align: left; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWk6Efmo7pxBHEU8HHTHNLdBhSn_e8N-k2_PPhwMeeQXFwygbnldhqTJIz76d_o4gFoObRacgZbMVAoUrcB-BreHsOplJhCRxRyLi0Zl7XcCwb44EUYz-RZKvxyQtMXEMY5ngayqAvvQ/s200/wallpaper0403.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692303608701244098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUTMMO6lISSSjh3PzG2ocI2h-UdBXon-JNMaVvYhJBaIH76nmmfN_0MR8NroPYdadE-BdI8pbhn0N05LovkNiX94YaopfoGq1dLSY4YFmJdMw-S68yi8ObQMLy8Cf1eyOeQ0TsJEEBZY/s200/wallpaper0402.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692303219842201186" style="text-align: left; float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOQMQS2ILuEk7pX0EJLRUHexs6lkFpLGYZMtkvA37kTc6w5LPR0p4pBwdpLef5A8lrMElsaWCW41pVoZj3ujI-E1EJW52WvnGkHiCxRLhABkPF30dB_OmdGZu_G4MTLVaaW782sZQTYc/s200/wallpaper0406.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692304152867959298" /></div><div>We found a section that had a mural from the 1950's on it. My dad thought it was totally cool and I kind of wanted to keep it, but the wall was in such bad shape it really had to get painted over. We knew we did a good job when we could finally see the mural in its entirety. What an unexpected bonus!</div><div> </div><br /><div>Once the kitchen was finally painted a beautiful pale honey color, my dad finally had something positive to say about this experience: "It's a miracle. My god, I don't believe it. It's a miracle."</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't believe how much money we saved by doing this ourselves, and I can't believe how satisfying even the smallest change can be. I know that if I didn't help my dad with at least some of this, it could have taken up to a year. While he is still working there on his own, I'm glad I got to help out for a little while. The accomplishments did wonders for my self esteem, especially after being around so many family members that constantly put me down. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am strong, I am invincible, and I still had time to bake. </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kMJhhn-3WCRNXVrF14S38JCpj09-25WPQoFJOsYGxuboOQnHJ3WxH0YFnHWkJHOjVSwf1kX8as1_xRDIcWzhx590k7J6dKYa45gOyzezoW9RVkx0JO3ceY6uyeca1X8OAVCCok2iYHQ/s1600/IMG_0451.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4kMJhhn-3WCRNXVrF14S38JCpj09-25WPQoFJOsYGxuboOQnHJ3WxH0YFnHWkJHOjVSwf1kX8as1_xRDIcWzhx590k7J6dKYa45gOyzezoW9RVkx0JO3ceY6uyeca1X8OAVCCok2iYHQ/s200/IMG_0451.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692317527654721218" /></a>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-28941183934005250322011-12-19T07:28:00.000-08:002011-12-20T09:33:01.109-08:00The Demons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbg079JlCS2RNoTU9neBuxFXrgbMXz72y6RNW2GTyrA2W3-RabFyNCeJSIRNu7FUZiGf3wAF6xrWJy1y9BVFj0-8vtbYnLpOrUoROrHMp2PrlhbJn0SbKPKEaIvP4z99gibDV12UTj2g/s1600/Handstand.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbg079JlCS2RNoTU9neBuxFXrgbMXz72y6RNW2GTyrA2W3-RabFyNCeJSIRNu7FUZiGf3wAF6xrWJy1y9BVFj0-8vtbYnLpOrUoROrHMp2PrlhbJn0SbKPKEaIvP4z99gibDV12UTj2g/s320/Handstand.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688262856495048818" /></a><br />I awoke with huge anxiety yesterday morning, to the point that I had to put my head between my knees and breathe slowly until I could get up. It was nightmares that did it to me, two in a row believe it or not.<div><br /></div><div>The first one was about a trip I was taking with my uncle and grandma. I was driving them home from shopping and we were supposed to catch a boat to Canada, but I missed the exit on the highway and figured we should just go home. Upon arriving home I took packages out of my car and they proceeded to put them back, and an argument ensued on the way in which I locked the doors. I said I needed something from the other side and they started screaming about how I was wasting time and we could still make it to Canada and the only reason they were doing this was because of me and I was ungrateful and Uncle knew the way and why didn't I let him drive.....the screaming was what woke me up finally.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I fell back asleep and my second dream landed me in a hospital. This time my uncle and my mother were there with me and presumably we were in the hospital because my grandma was in there. I don't remember why my uncle was screaming at me in this setting but he elevated his anger to the point that he hit me in the face, which caused my mom to scream more and also take a swing at me. So I woke up in a total panic attack and had to give up on falling back asleep. I don't know why any of this happened but my intuition is telling me that he blames us for all the trouble Grandma has to go through, and all three of them have severe anger management problems, and they are all disappointed in me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, so that's my hypothesis on them. But what do the dreams say about me? Something is upsetting me enough to enter my dreams and cause panic at 5am. Is it simply a reminder to stay 2000 miles away? Is it a prediction of what is to come? Or is it just a reflection of what has been on my mind lately due to hearing of all their grievances back home? I definitely spend way too much time worrying about what they all think of me when I really shouldn't care. I shouldn't let their screaming infiltrate my brain and my independence no matter where I am. If people want to scream their heads off insulting you endlessly then you have to decide that it's their problem, not yours. Of course I have not yet been able to do that and have sought help numerous times. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something I'd like to learn in the next year is how to remove focus of exterior influences and solely concentrate on what I want to do. I felt so tense and achy all day yesterday, the dreams nearly ruined my entire day. I didn't know if I could make it to a yoga class but I forced myself and I was in for a pleasant surprise. It helped to take myself away from all those thoughts and pay attention to my movements. Amazingly a handstand seemed easier than ever before. The pose still needs work but my body gave me this gift today, maybe so that I could spend some time up-side down and gain clarity. The only thing that stopped me before was the brain saying "no don't!" at the last minute. But it wasn't there today. There was no little voice nagging at me this time. </div><div><br /></div><div>My friend S is a triathlete and when I expressed to her my dislike of running, she said that she used to hate it too. But then her trainer explained that we hate these things because we decided to. We decided to give ourselves a hard time about it and make it impossible to succeed. And then when we try to get past it, it feels like a forceful anger inducing crazed attack on the body. She says these are the demons in our mind telling us how to think of the way we do things. We have to silence them, or brush them away or let the running unfold into something relaxing over time without even thinking about it. I may have finally reached this hurtle today with the handstand and I nearly cried tears of joy right there in class. I couldn't wait to get back home and try again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Handstands are supposed to have the following benefits: getting over fear, increased clarity, improved digestion, increase of blood circulation, core strength, and greater balance. Since all of these things are destined to bring about sweeter dreams, I am committed to practice handstands. I am feeling pretty lucky to have found the exercise that I love. It improves my quality of life and helps me get rid of exterior influences and demons. I realized yesterday that I started what will be a lifelong practice. I completely forgot about my bad dream for the rest of the day and had a restful sleep last night. </div>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-36227293242163288182011-12-13T12:17:00.000-08:002011-12-14T10:53:59.012-08:00GumptionEven the smallest project can take so much longer than you expect.<div><br /></div><div>I started knitting a blanket a year ago, it is still unfinished.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left the passport agency to pursue school and that is still undecided.</div><div><br /></div><div>I helped take apart/remodel a condo, and it is still unlivable.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get very very upset when I feel broke and unaccomplished, and I often dwell on those thoughts way too much. In truth, since 2011 is nearing an end, I know I have accomplished a great deal. It's surprising when I really think about it, and really good to know that I was useful and helpful and gained wisdom and stood up for myself a few times when things got crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am not proud that I hung up the phone on my grandma that day. I agonized over it for an entire week, and of course I was the one to initiate the first phone call back. However, I knew it was wrong and downright crazy to scream and yell at me like that. She didn't understand the point I was trying to make, or any point I ever try to make, and she went ballistic. It's a common quality on my mom's side of the family to scream whenever they want to say anything. It has come to a point where just being around them sends my entire body into a cringe. I always cower and walk away or argue just to be shot down, and it is never worth it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly one of the best things I have ever done was hang up on her because I learned that I can illuminate the bad behavior that way. It also allowed me to exert control and maintain sanity. It's never a mature response, and I worried that she would be overcome by such disrespect that she wouldn't get why I had to do that. I never in a million years thought that she would apologize to me, but when I finally called her back she did. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was back in town for a wedding there was a day where I decided we were getting rid of Uncle Jim's car. Dad had already taken it to a mechanic for an assessment and found it to be a death trap. The damn thing reeked of cigarettes and was so filthy and rusted it was overwhelmingly depressing just to sit in it for a half hour. A high school near my parents have an auto shop for students so we donated. </div><div><br /></div><div>While my dad and I were in the process of various paperwork signing, my mom called about a hundred times. She and my dad were to meet with a contact at a non-profit about job searching that afternoon. We thought we would get back in time but definitely cut it too close. As we were about to leave I called to tell her where my car keys were so she could get there first. She answered the phone just screaming. SCREAMING about how I fucked her over and this was important to her and now they'll make a bad impression and it was all my fault and on and on and on, without me getting a chance to say anything. So again, my brain said, "turn it off," and I hung up. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have no regrets about this action. It is ridiculous to let anyone barrage you with insults and abusive behavior. I'm not going to let it happen again. I am especially not going to let it happen when I am helping out in the first place. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can't help but be reminded of that scene in The Holiday where Kate Winslet's character tells her ex-boyfriend that she's pretty sure she's got gumption, and slams the door in his face. Yes, yes yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>About a month after all of this I was working for a previous employer in a high stress situation. It was a particularly bad night because we were all over-worked and over-scheduled and dealing with an insane amount of traffic to get where we needed to go. I was coordinating all transportation for a major event and needed to get people to several places all at the same time. Some people involved reacted badly when they found out there were stops along the way to our destination that evening, and refused the service only to wait longer for the next ride. Very stupid. When I finally had a driver available to pick up my boss at the office, she completely freaked out that there were other guests in the car. Furious, she screamed bloody murder at me telling me that this was embarrassing and unprofessional. </div><div><br /></div><div>She had no idea that people refused to get into a car and caused a delay. She didn't tell us that a guest changed their fight itinerary causing a driver to wait 45 minutes at the airport for nothing that evening. She also didn't know that one of my drivers got lost 3 times and didn't know how to get to the event after she picked up 14 people in her van. She also didn't know that I had just gone from venue to venue to venue to hotel to hotel to event to hotel to event when I realized that I desperately had to pee and I hadn't eaten anything in 7 hours. Yet, despite this terrible schedule and bad planning it was somehow all my fault and I was getting an earful. My shock caused me to do something wildly unexpected. I don't know where I found these words at this very moment, but I said: "I did a great job today. You're welcome. I'm hanging up the phone now." And I hung up. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was petrified at what I had done. Is it even more unprofessional to point out the insanity of your boss? I sat at a table shaking and barely able to eat what was put in front of me. Our event host talked me down and assured me that I did the right thing because my hands were tied, and there was no way I could have pulled it off better unless I had more staff. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later that evening he came up to me and asked if I would go down and talk to my boss outside. As soon as I saw her there were tears in her eyes and I felt so bad about it all that we ended up hugging and getting teary together. Even as it started to seriously rain outside she wanted to stay out there and talk and go over everything and insist that there wasn't anything wrong with the schedule, it was that we had to communicate more often. I thought oh my god she really is insane. But honestly, she's a pretty awesome passionate person and I admire how much she can handle. However, I might have been the only person that bothered pointing out to her that we have limitations and some things can't be perfect, period. There comes a point where even the most workaholic managers could display some grace and be grateful for those trying their best to help.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I think we have to remind people and I certainly have to remind myself often that hey, I'm here. I'm in this too. I'm trying to help; I am trying to be of service. I've worked hard to get projects finished. I'm trying my best to accomplish goals and keep my head above water. </div>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-8996311797896104642011-12-07T20:44:00.000-08:002011-12-13T12:16:40.562-08:00Make It StopI hung up on my grandma once this summer. It was the day after I arrived back in Seattle after my uncle's funeral. The previous evening I felt a surge of emotion that had me going to her for comfort. It was all too much at once. I couldn't go to my mom because she was generally in a foul mood. She had taken to only screaming rather than talking, and was utterly taken over by fury due to the circumstances of Jim's death and the secrets he hid. <div><br /></div><div>Each day of family being around became too much for me. My dad's other brother came over to Jim's place to "help" with a little cleaning and sorting of documents. For some reason he brought his wife and mother in law who proceeded to rifle through all the kitchen cabinets and park directly in front of the china cabinet. They were clearly staking their claims. They stayed for about an hour looking through things and clearly trying to find something specific. I assume they didn't find it. My cousin took my uncle's hard drive and came back claiming there was nothing on it at all. When he returned he also brought his wife, and asked her what she wanted. I couldn't believe it. I knew they were contemplating divorce, and did in fact divorce about a month after all this, but hey take what you want from the dead guy! It's only my grandmother's heirlooms, but what the hell. Might as well have a free for all. </div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't figure out how a dead man's home, which he didn't want anyone inside of in the first place, became a party of sorts. My uncle with his entourage was just going to sweep in and blow us away. Even my aunt was going through old tax documents and claimed that since she used to be an accountant she could help with his late payments. She boasted about how she had to look all of them over and she would have to go to the IRS with it since she believed he stopped paying taxes years ago. Of course when they left the place, she didn't take anything with her and didn't even bother to help with a thing. She just wanted to see the information.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was sickened. I felt my blood absolutely boil throughout that day. My dad's face was stony and I could tell he could have reached out and strangled his brother if not for all the witnesses. But what could we have done? I've replayed this event in my head over and over and I wish I said hey get the fuck out right now, or only my uncle and my cousin are allowed in here and no one else, or hello? He just died in here a week ago why are there so many people in his place? I didn't invite my relatives from my mom's side over there during this time. I certainly didn't claim to be of use and then walk away. How did I get stuck with family like this? Who the fuck do they think they are?</div><div><br /></div><div>During the funeral itself I listened to my cousin talk about how he was very close with Jim. I don't know if he wanted to one-up me or what but I got that feeling. He was saying that he intended to come into Chicago for the 4th of July anyway and was going to stay with Jim. Really? He was going to stay with our uncle who could barely walk across his own tiny kitchen, couldn't catch his breath, and was living in filth? They were so close that he didn't know of our uncle's recent hospitalization which had my dad spending the night at the hospital? Come on. I like my cousin, I really do. Or, I want to like him very much. He is my only cousin on planet earth and we do have a great deal in common, but then.....I don't know if I like him at all. We're pretty much strangers. And after listening to him talk about how much he loved Jim and will miss him and how close they were, I really wanted to punch him in the face. At the funeral he endlessly talked about himself and how amazing he is and branding and product recognition and social media marketing and entertaining account managers and blah blah blah. I admire that he is very successful and he is happy with it, but I don't know how to talk to him and I admit that he makes me uncomfortable. I'd rather be cousins with his ex-wife. </div><div><br /></div><div>We briefly talked about why I gave up on Jim long ago and my aunt and cousin totally didn't believe me. I could see it in their faces. It was a classic case of ignore the problem and it doesn't exist. My cousin did agree that Jim probably just hated women and that was all their was to it. Of course my aunt claimed that he wasn't so bad and she never noticed him treating women badly. In fact, didn't I know that Jim was in love with her sister and wanted to marry her? Oh sure. Of course he did. </div><div><br /></div><div>I confronted her about not being invited to my cousin's wedding. I was talking about how I didn't understand why we are always the black sheep in this family and why everyone treats my dad so badly. I told her we were pretty shocked about not receiving an invitation. What happened next was pretty beautiful. First she claimed that they did not send any invites and they just called people. She was sure that they called my parents. I told her they didn't. Then she got my cousin and said: she thinks we didn't invite them! He said oh no you were invited. We just didn't have your address. Couldn't you have sent it to my parents? They've been in the same spot for 25 years. We did! We sent them invitations. They didn't get it. Oh well it must be V's fault. She was the one in charge of all that stuff. (V was my cousin's wife) That's it. Blame it on the wife. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then there was the vase. It was decided that my cousin and I would split everything in the china cabinet between us. Our parents agreed on this, but then my uncle changed his mind. He kept asking my aunt what she would like. She claimed not to want anything but then said that she wanted the crystal paperweight. And she wanted my grandmother's bible, especially since it didn't mean anything to us. Then my uncle wanted porcelain flowers. Then he wanted the vase that the flowers were in.</div><div><br /></div><div>What? I don't think I am the normally the type to behave this way but as far as I'm concerned all that shit is mine. Mine. I allowed my cousin to take what he wanted but that was the deal. My aunt and uncle already have all the crystal and porcelain and silver they want. I never received any heirloom from my grandparents because guess what. My uncles and aunt STOLE it all after their passing. I didn't get a piece of jewelry or a book or anything that I could have kept for sentimental value. </div><div><br /></div><div>The way this happened was that after my grandmother passed, my dad was not welcome in his parent's home. My uncles refused to let him inside claiming that he was a bad son and a bad Catholic and he didn't deserve anything. Of course the only uncle left claims that he had no idea about this and wasn't involved with it. It was between my dad and Jim. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was a bold faced lie. Jim told me that my grandmother didn't have any jewelry and what she did have they gave to the church. Total bullshit, as we knew that she liked amber. Years later he found some old costume earrings and a rosary with marble stones that he gave me. The earrings were total junk. And, about ten years ago before they moved to the west coast, my aunt invited me over saying that she had something to give me. It was a sweater my grandmother hand knitted in the Celtic knot style. She said that she had several and didn't have room for them all but that I could have this one. It was too big for her anyway. She told me that she was going to keep the one my grandma wore the most often for sentimental value. She also showed me a porcelain bird in her china cabinet that she claimed my grandmother asked her to keep safe. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, everything went to the church except for the things my aunt wanted? Am I to believe that my grandmother would rather her daughter in law have these items over her only granddaughter? Specifically, these very girlie items which could be given to my future family? Is it really because I was some heathen child and should I have been a Catholic she would have cared about me? Once I found out about the sweater and the bird I realized that there might have been several things that were taken from me. Seeing some of them in Jim's place made me territorial. And crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no doubt whatsoever that I don't really care for china cabinets or porcelain or crystal. A lot of it is tacky anyway, but I couldn't get over the principle of the whole thing. My aunt and uncle agreed that it was all to be split between my cousin and I, and then they proceeded to lay claim to things. My uncle consulted a lawyer he knows while in town and started making demands of my father in the way to handle things. My dad refused outright and when my uncle tried to become a joint executor of the will, he was shot down due to living in another state. What a shmuck. </div><div><br /></div><div>So when my uncle had gone back home and called reminding us that he wanted that vase, I went into a fury. It was decided that we would conveniently forget about it, or send him a smaller one. Frankly I did like the vase and would have put it to use, but the vase became this symbol for everything wrong. We started to argue about the stupid vase. My grandma said not to give him the vase. My uncle said that the other uncle will respect me more if I decide that it's mine. My mom said that I should cut him with: "I'm sure Grandma J would have wanted me to have it."</div><div><br /></div><div>The experience sent me into tears and I went to my grandma to seek help. I just couldn't understand why he would call just for a stupid vase, on my dad's birthday no less, and still make demands. It had me wondering once again how I share DNA with these people. In the end, my dad caved and sent the vase over. And this is what I don't like about my dad: sometimes he can be a doormat. I'd like it if he took a stand more often. There are certainly things worth being entitled about. I can't figure out why he would let his brothers treat him like that all those years ago. Wouldn't you just shove them out of the way? Get into a physical fight? Get a lawyer so you are protected from them? Or never talk to then again, funerals or not? Other times I think he just doesn't like confrontation or doesn't want to be bothered or maybe just doesn't want to sink to such a level over something so stupid. Who really cares about the vase itself? There will be other vases and other knick knacks that might someday end up in a garage sale anyway. I guess it was the turmoil of being around these awful people and drudging up old memories and ugliness. Maybe the best thing to do is wrap up the dirt and send it away. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>It was all too much. The day after I hung out with Grandma I was leaving to go back to Seattle. I noticed my mom acting very strangely around me and hugging and kissing me too much and asking if I was ok a hundred times. I drank a few greyhounds in the airport and had a decent sleep on the plane. I called my mom when I arrived and she said that she was worried about me because Grandma said I was hysterical about the vase. What? I was upset about my uncle and what a lousy person he is and all of a sudden I am hysterical? That is ridiculous. </div><div><br /></div><div>I called Grandma the next day to thank her for her help, and tell her that she shouldn't have told my mom about our conversation. She immediately wanted to talk more about it and argue that she had to tell my mom because I was so miserable. I told her that I cried for maybe two minutes and just wanted to talk, there was no reason to tell my mom I was hysterical. She kept going on and on about it and I got even more upset that I bothered to tell anyone my feelings at all. I told her I didn't want to talk about it anymore and she completely freaked out. She screamed and screamed at me that I was a baby and I couldn't handle anything and I never told her not to share with my mom and I was a baby and didn't I know what a child I was and what kind of a child is 32 years old and on and on. I couldn't get in one word and I pulled the phone away and then she was still going on. Out of nowhere a very clear thought in my brain said: "MAKE IT STOP," and I hung up the phone. </div></div>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-73247023956634968632011-12-06T09:42:00.001-08:002011-12-12T07:36:22.844-08:00Operation De-DungeonAfter enduring the wildly sexist and ridiculous comments from my uncle, I proceeded to become an apprentice carpenter out of nowhere. We inherited a condo that no one wants and we didn't know what to do with it. While Uncle insisted that he would "work hard" to get the place in order, he never bothered to come over or offer any real help. It fell on my dad and I to do everything and if I didn't help, he would be stuck with this burden alone. Initially he wanted to sell and get rid of it as soon as possible, but naturally with any home ownership unforeseen complications arose everyday. <div><br /></div><div>Problem 1: the place was in horrific condition, especially since my uncle died in there and wasn't found for days.</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem 2: two others of the exact same condo unit were in foreclosure down the street, and were in better condition</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem 3: a neighbor that was pre-approved was extremely interested and wanted to buy the place as is for an abysmally low price; too low for my dad</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem 4: my mother set out a campaign to get me to move in there since at least it's paid off, and she actually believes the value will go up. I am both tempted at times and at other times think it is totally ridiculous/impossible.</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem 5: emotions/conflicts with the family greatly increased due to this new home ownership, and everyone wanting to get their way with it despite not lifting a finger to help. Various arguments happened throughout the process on topics such as me buying it, (hell no) me moving in, (don't think so) renting it out to make money, (dad is dead set against that one) fixing it up to sell, etc. Screaming matches about money and lawyers and handling this properly, (so we don't get screwed by my dad's other brother) were a daily event. It sucked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem 6: everything costs WAY more than you plan for.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's really weird when a person's death becomes about everyone else and their desires to make money or acquire stuff. I know this happens to everyone, but this is some major horse shit to deal with. After the funeral my uncle in San Francisco called on my dad's birthday not to wish him a happy birthday, but to be sure and remember that he wanted that Waterford crystal vase. </div><div><br /></div><div>I escaped all of this for about two months, but came back in town in last August to stand up in a wedding and help with the condo projects. Of course it was way more than I bargained for. My parents weren't dealing well with the circumstances, and by that I mean they were avoiding it, and I felt the need to step in.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the course of a few weeks I did this: wrote and sent out all thank you cards, arranged for donation crews to come in and take the furniture, got estimates and donation info about his car and eventually got rid of the gross car, got estimates and hired a cleaning crew, (which took 6 ladies 6 hours to do the job) did major drop offs to Salvation Army, viewed the foreclosures down the street to get ideas, decided on the first leg of strategy for remodeling, and designed a new kitchen. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did this. Me. I did this without help from a man, in fact I did this to help all the men who couldn't handle it/didn't want to. Obviously my dad was involved but I arranged all the pre-remodel events, and then we made remodeling decisions together. I may have pressured him into the remodel at first but later on I heard him say that he couldn't sell it the way it was, and he didn't feel right about showing it at all. There is therapy in this type of work and I think it helped everyone a great deal to see the place transformed.</div><div><br /></div><div>We called it "Operation De-Dungeon."</div>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-24615583339017183772011-12-02T06:08:00.001-08:002011-12-06T09:56:58.766-08:00GiftsLast summer an idea popped into my head to send my uncle Jim the series of <i>His Dark Materials</i> that I recently finished. It was possible that he would have liked it, but since the subject matter could have offended him, I changed my mind. That, and I didn't feel like being so nice. <div><br /></div><div>About three months later, Jim passed away. The death itself had me wondering whether having love and friendship in your life is the secret to good health. If no one loves you, do you simply expire? I felt like it was my fault. Like I killed him.<div><br /></div><div>Of course it's ridiculous. We have to believe that people live their lives the way they want, and if they want to change it is well within their capability. I've convinced myself slowly that I didn't kill him. However, no one had a nice word for Jim. Family flew in from all over and we had a simple service and a lengthy drinking session, but no one said anything nice about him, including myself. My dad couldn't get over the fact that no one even had a nice memory of Jim, and he wondered what would people say about him when it was his turn. It was an incredibly weird and sad experience, and it was the first time I had ever seen my dad sing and and first time I saw him stagger from too much drink.</div><div><br /></div><div>This death has affected me much more than I would have thought possible. Going into his home and having to deal with an endless mess of messes was unbelievably depressing and shocking and anger building. How could he have lived like that? Was it clearly depression? Couldn't he have reached out to someone?</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, he told his neighbors that all his family moved away. He hated us. Going through his paperwork we found that he stole my dad's inheritance by signing the deed to my grandparent's house over to himself. He kept all of their life insurance money to himself and claimed at the time that it was given to him, and not to split between the brothers. This was only a piece of the drama we had yet to uncover. There were other lovely horrifying things to be found in his place, and we had to do all the clean up.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>The place was remodeled about ten or fifteen years ago, and seemingly never touched since. There were rolls of dust over nearly everything, especially on the light fixtures. The shades and blinds on the windows were once white but became torn and an eerie shade of brown. The kitchen cabinets emitted a smell of spoiled milk and had areas of obvious rot. A layer of thick grease covered everything in the kitchen, even the floor. The linoleum flooring in the basement had torn and was easily lifted right off. He had piles of paperwork dating back to the 70s and 80s stacked up in closets and on the floor nearly everywhere. This was left for us from a man that ran his finger over our refrigerator to point out the minuscule dust to my mom, and blame her for not keeping up with her home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I flew back and forth twice to be there for the family and for a friend's wedding. It was the first time in a few years where I thought that Chicago was the place I should be. There was so much to do and if we waited it would have taken a year to fix the place. But the emotional turmoil of it was tremendous. I was grateful to be going back to Seattle in between rounds of organizing, cleaning, moving and fixing. </div><div><br /></div><div>While in Seattle, my mom's brother came to visit. I call him "Uncle" in real life. He didn't plan this vacation but since he had the time off I suggested that he come out. I've never done anything nice for him really, but he is super nice to me despite his grating personality. He bought me my first bike when I was little, and my first ipod, and to this day he gives me a wad of cash for Chanukah. He loves me. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, this uncle is also a disastrous pain in the ass. At least he is generally a nice person and is just a little dim-witted. Or, a lot actually. It's possible that Jim's death prompted him to visit me. It was nearing Uncle's 60th birthday and since Jim died at 61 he must have been considering his mortality. Maybe he wanted to get out of town and enjoy himself a little. He is a truck driver for Coca Cola with long hours and a horrific work load. He always takes overtime if they have it, and due to my grandmother's demands and lifestyle, he rarely has time to himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>We did all the touristy stuff: whale watching tour, Boeing factory tour, WNBA game, Snoqualmie Falls, buying fruit at Pike's Place, and I tried to get him to eat sushi but it was a definite no. I even waited patiently and made suggestions while he tried on shoes. (something I have done for many men, you impatient ungrateful fuckers) It was nice to get at least a little time in beautiful nature after all the stress of the funeral, but Uncle caused me some stress as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>This uncle is alone and awkward just like Jim was, but he has a job and a gym membership which automatically make him more social and healthy, and slightly easier to be around. Slightly. He is hugely high maintenance. He smacks your arm each time he says an sentence, he doesn't know how to order food off a menu, he doesn't know how to operate a laundry machine, he doesn't know how to book a hotel room, he doesn't know about etickets, he doesn't know how to politely ask for help; he simply makes demands, and he is an extreme chauvinist pig.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got into an argument regarding Jim and his home. I was telling him of what a mess the place was and how shocked we were that he lived like that for years. His response was simple: </div><div><br /></div><div><i>It's because he didn't have no voman.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Are you kidding? If he was married she would have been a slave.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I have dis theory that voman is supposed to do voman's work and a man do man's work.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But if you live alone, it's all your work. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Why he own a home then? Too much for one person.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>That doesn't make sense. If he cared he would have taken care of it. Housework is every one's work anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Housework is voman's domain. You can't go into a voman's kitchen and touch anything. Kitchen is for voman. Man is supposed to do jobs like paint the house.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But housework needs to be done every week, you don't paint the house every week! Besides anyone can paint a house, what's the difference!</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Come on! Aviva you're not gonna get dirdy. (he laughs)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>What are you talking about? I helped Dad paint their place and I'm going to help him with Jim's. <i> </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>We'll see about dat. I paint something every year, house needs a lotta maintenance. You gotta fix something every year. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Well I agree, but Jim could have done several simple things all the time to avoid living in filth! It's not that hard to get rid of dust or sweep once in a while. Why couldn't a man do that? </div><div><br /></div><div><i>He shoulda clean car on weekends. </i><i>I clean da car. Cleaning car is man's responsibility. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>Ok but it doesn't take all day to clean a car.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Oh I can take all day ona car! You should see how nice I fix da car!</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>With Uncle there always comes a point where a gunshot to the face would be more welcome than continuing a conversation with him. I endured many hours of "men are like this and women are like that" conversations with him over that week, which I can't comprehend. It made me think that people who live their lives without a companion miss out on too much. He either watches too much tv, or spends too much time with my grandma and his brain warped. </div><div><br /></div><div>At some point he noticed that Seattle is very gay friendly. He argued with me about how two people of the same sex couldn't be proper parents because one person needs to be a mom and one needs to be a dad. This kind of shit makes me want to jump off a building. I tried to explain that I don't believe in many assigned gender roles and he totally didn't get it. I also pointed out that women raise kids alone without a man all the time, and he just thought that was wrong too. I guess you can't get into a head like this. </div><div><br /></div><div>What you can do is avoid politics if at all possible and talk about weather and food and airplanes and basketball. I feel like I did the right thing overall. He is a lonely awkward guy and at least I took a week out of life to help him have a real vacation. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was a good lesson for me too. The books I wanted to send Uncle Jim popped into my head for a reason. It was an opportunity to do something nice for someone, even if he might not have appreciated it. I feel like when you get a chance to do something nice you might as well do it, otherwise why did the thought cross your mind at all? It will make you feel better as a person and you never know where either of you will be in a few months anyway. </div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZrdQJJLxPWRTDRccYoMWWB66_x-j-mNFBOZ1bM14ndhUJYNZap9MaWj3_Foe1dgRsbU5NeEAhkPxK_bkK9HnkKrmGpCsNInhRE86EGrvwDVtODMh3zuXakxCSewsbESSS209Y4a78kM/s1600/IMG_0361.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZrdQJJLxPWRTDRccYoMWWB66_x-j-mNFBOZ1bM14ndhUJYNZap9MaWj3_Foe1dgRsbU5NeEAhkPxK_bkK9HnkKrmGpCsNInhRE86EGrvwDVtODMh3zuXakxCSewsbESSS209Y4a78kM/s320/IMG_0361.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683075615563732498" /></a>Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-43629054652663955772011-11-17T22:51:00.000-08:002011-11-17T23:02:14.227-08:00A FuneralI don't know how a funeral goes from this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Aticj3f-r_RsN4ypTNs7cfSzHJqR2ORKSNgW_cr8_6YmPlW_mJIOekWxdytApFLMlSIjY3rGN8Cx0j8HLEJduv9OY23h_4HHfCXn0Zh0Uo4uI7omL1U0iVF7kM74Nh_8pjne9hNA90E/s1600/funeral+hijinks0389.JPG"><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4emOAr4JpqgTFGiqkMsLjCt8PT-4wOGzKOMhcNFebtunNFdE08OBB_JvufVuRPxMr8xqIJXYUO8u1rVfObLA7u6oj9VcS5WXbk3q79ZMgtC1E69J0G2B9KC4NZNogGSaTyS0rNEtoFQ/s1600/funeral+hijinks0389.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4emOAr4JpqgTFGiqkMsLjCt8PT-4wOGzKOMhcNFebtunNFdE08OBB_JvufVuRPxMr8xqIJXYUO8u1rVfObLA7u6oj9VcS5WXbk3q79ZMgtC1E69J0G2B9KC4NZNogGSaTyS0rNEtoFQ/s400/funeral+hijinks0389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676225602634740178" border="0" /></a><br />To this:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoszgXXeLPLvl5s1beBczbrDHrc4pOm9WPVpBUXpBdSFfjs9mM35gs0KqxNZu6x5QNvWA1BkEo4E9DwwPE71jWm0fDsU6KUZINkpa-_hBLHfy0Uxmqk6KVKzpB45w6ySrFsKqDOZNoEus/s1600/funeral+hijinks0388.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoszgXXeLPLvl5s1beBczbrDHrc4pOm9WPVpBUXpBdSFfjs9mM35gs0KqxNZu6x5QNvWA1BkEo4E9DwwPE71jWm0fDsU6KUZINkpa-_hBLHfy0Uxmqk6KVKzpB45w6ySrFsKqDOZNoEus/s400/funeral+hijinks0388.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676225905152660610" border="0" /></a><br />But it did. I guess the recipe is: take a bunch of women who didn't care for the man who passed away but loved him anyway due to all the men in their lives, stir in the fact that they don't even like each other, and add alcohol. Voila!Aviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-709629500220199886.post-20004114521059641532011-10-23T20:37:00.000-07:002011-10-23T20:38:03.288-07:00oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my godoh my god oh my god oh my god oh my godoh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my godAviva O'Byrnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00523520312793853271noreply@blogger.com1