That Guy

We have seen the preview for Meryl Streep's latest movie, Rikki and the Flash, a kazillion times this summer. Coming out this Friday, the story of an aging rocker who has prioritized her career over her family is directed by Jonathan Demme, and reunites Streep with her Sophie's Choice Nathan, Kevin Kline. Plus, her real daughter, Mamie Gummer, plays her daughter in the movie.

Oh, I'm in-- I will totally see it, but whenever the trailer is on the screen, I'm always drawn to the lead guitarist in the band, who is also Rikki's boyfriend. Who is that guy? I wonder every time. He looks so familiar! And then, of course, the thought is gone-- swept away by the concentrated drama of the next preview or whatever superpyrotechnics await in the feature we have paid to watch.

But, tonight, my question was answered as I thumbed through the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly-- the guy? Is Rick Springfield of the late 80's General Hospital and Jesse's Girl fame. By all accounts he is quite good in the film, holding his own with Streep and amusing the cast on set by playing any rock song ever in between takes.

Oh, yeah. That's him!

At the Corner of Opportunity and Preparation

Success is where opportunity and preparation meet.
~Bobby Unser

I spent the morning deep in study.

First I poured over the map and guidebook in preparation for our Alaska cruise next week. I cross-referenced that information with our itinerary and a couple of websites and made notes on little hand-cut post-its about what to do and see on each day. I also added to and revised our packing list based on this newest information.

Next, I continued reading the guidebook for my new camera and completed the recommended exercises for chapter 3, because I want to be prepared to take the

best.
pictures.
possible.

while on the cruise.

This vacation stuff is hard work! (But I am up for it!)

Fanfare

How cute is it that Josh and Treat can still spend a good hour playing Tanks on the Wii? As retro as they claim the system to be with its 10-year-old graphics, there they are in the living room targeting and destroying tiny little tanks in a virtual maze like they have since they were 11. "I only wish I could have this as my ringtone!" Josh said about the trumpet fanfare that announces each new level, and he was only being half ironic.

Tortilla Espanola

I picked up our vegetable share bright and early this morning; it was before 8 when I repacked the contents of the produce box into a reusable bag and brought it home. Once in our kitchen and confronted with eggs, potatoes, and onions, there was really only one thing to do.

Back when I was in college, I had an acquaintance from my job in the dining hall who had done a semester in Spain. Early one Sunday morning, when we were both working brunch, but before most students were even awake, she took advantage of the slow time to make me breakfast. "This sounds weird, but it's really delicious," she said as she presented me with a potato omelet. Given the pre-scrambled eggs and frozen hash browns she had to work with, it was pretty good.

I thought of her six years later when I was in Spain visiting my sister, who was also doing a semester abroad there. Then we enjoyed Tortilla Espanola everywhere we went. As one of the most popular tapas dishes in the country, you can order it in most places for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or snack. At the time, I was cooking professionally, and so we purchased a cookbook, in Spanish of course, so that I could authentically recreate all the foods we loved-- tortilla, gazpacho, and fried calamari.

And indeed, for years, those dishes were in heavy rotation at our house: tortilla for brunch, gazpacho for lunch, calamari for an hors-d'oeuvre before dinner. The key to all of them was olive oil, and plenty of it. My friend from college never had a chance, because I doubt there was a drop of olive oil to be had in that pantry.

Not so in my kitchen-- even though it has probably been 10 years or more since the last time I made it, this morning I poured a generous amount of olive oil into my skillet and proceeded to poach a pound of new potatoes and some baby onions until they were tender. In the mean time I scrambled up six eggs that couldn't have been more than 24 hours away from their hens, and when the veggies were ready I strained and added them directly to the eggs. Oh that lovely olive oil will be delicious in other things, but for the little bit I drizzled back in the skillet before dumping the egg-potato-onion mixture in, too.

In five minutes my tortilla was golden brown on the bottom, and so just like the long-ago cookbook directed, I flipped it onto a plate and slid it back into the pan to finish. A few minutes later it was ready, but I let it cool to room temperature before slicing it into wedges and enjoying it with a strong cup of coffee, just like in Spain.

Wake Up Call

For at least 25 years, I have risen to the sound of NPR's morning news show on the radio. What can I say? I like being informed by intelligent people with interesting voices as I get ready for the day. That's why it's so alarming that lately the sound of Morning Edition puts me right back to sleep-- it seems like it's all more of the same old news reported in a soothing drone.

Maybe I'll have to switch to Fox News. That might get a rise out of me!

Epilogue: I Scope with Dope

Eighteen years later, we arrived right on time for my fourth colonoscopy yesterday morning, but Dr. H was running, excuse the pun, a little behind. Heidi was allowed to wait with me right up until the time they wheeled me back, and the staff at the GI Unit could not have been any nicer. Without exception, though, they all seemed a little shocked about my intention to go through without any sedative.

"I don't want to influence you," one nurse said, "but these are reallllly good drugs. You're asleep in literally 10 seconds and awake 10 minutes after they're done."

"But what about side effects?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Most people tell me it's like the most refreshing nap ever."

Everyone was like that-- super respectful of my wishes, but very clear that the anesthesia they use today was excellent.

I had never been put under for anything, and I couldn't imagine it, but the last colonoscopy I'd had was a little ouchy at the end. I endured the cramps through gritted teeth, virtuous in the knowledge that I would be dressed and ready to go in a few minutes.

"But Trace," my sister once told me, "if you take the drugs, you don't care if you can't leave right away."

"Well," I told my nurse as he started the IV, "I guess I should have something to compare. I've decided I'll go with the anesthesia."

He nodded. "It makes it easier for the doctor," he said, "if he doesn't have to worry about hurting you."

Just then the anesthesia nurse came in. "You might feel a little burn at the site," she said, "but you'll be asleep in 10 seconds."

I didn't believe it. I watched as she pushed the white fluid from her syringe into the line. (We fondly call it 'milk of amnesia' the other nurse had told me.) I closed my eyes; there was no heat, just a little roaring in my ears and then stars in the dark.

The next thing I heard was, "Everything went great!" and they were wheeling me to a recovery cubicle. And 20 minutes later? I was dressed and on my way, feeling like I'd had the best nap ever.

Now that is a good drug!

Procedure: Part IV

What is phosphos soda, anyway? The night before my procedure I drank four shots of the bitter, salty stuff, at twenty-minute intervals, followed by 32-ounce water chasers. As bad as it was, the taste was not the worst of it. It wasn’t long before any remaining liquid from the past two days was decisively evacuated, and I wished that I’d stayed away from that spicy broth.

Now, watching on TV, I saw just how clean and empty my bowels were. Rippling with peristalsis, the walls of my colon glowed yellow, a fine network of greenish-blue veins visible below the surface. Dr. H narrated our progress as we went, stopping a few minutes in to pinch a little polyp with the forceps. He would send it to the lab for biopsy, but even if it was pre-cancerous, he assured me that it was of no concern. As the serrated teeth of the little alligator-like instrument chewed away at the tiny bump, it bled, bright red washing down the sides of the tunnel, but I couldn’t feel it; there are no nerves inside our intestines. We moved on, and in a moment reached a tight turn. “I’m going to blow some air here to straighten it out,” he told me, “you might feel a little pressure.”

Inflating your intestines turns out to be rather painful, which is why they invented beano and gas-x. I ground my teeth, willing my recalcitrant gut to unbend and let the colonoscopy continue. Finally it opened up like a lazy windsock in a light breeze, and the cramping disappeared. After that, it was a straight shot all the way to my appendix, which resembled Pinocchio’s nose. That was the end of the line, and, with the exception of that one little polyp, there was nothing. The trip out was much quicker, and a lot like watching a tape of what I’d just seen in rewind. One last quick view of my bare butt, and it was all over. “You did great,” Dr. H told me. “See you in three years.”

Back in my recovery cubicle, I got dressed. Yet another nurse was startled that I was all ready to go when she came in to check on me. Before I was discharged, she gave me a run down of what I might expect over the course of the day, “But don’t worry,” she assured me, “it’s fresh air.”