Strep Ever since I quit having cancer, my medical hobby is strep. I get it 2-3 times a year. I usually have strep at the hobbyist level - I go into my doctor with a sore throat and basically nothing else, and she doesn't believe me particularly, but the rapid strep test comes back positive and I go home with antibiotics. This time, though, I started to get sick on a Sunday (in a city with no Minute Clinics), which turns out to have been a spectacular opportunity to really get out there, and develop a platonic case of strep.
It's amazing. I had never really appreciated the depth of possibilities before. The places I can get to with just a little commitment, and the unexplored potential still out there! Scarletina! Rheumatic fever!
Actually, I'm staring at my antibiotics, wondering if I can move this along by taking them ahead of schedule.
This Is How It's Going to Be So here's the deal: I can't be cynical about Star Wars. I know a lot of people who are over it, or done with it, and feel like it's unoriginal - I hear you all, and I just can't care.
[Spoilers Follow]I didn't see the original trilogy at all until I was in high school, and I didn't actually get to watch the movies until I was in college. I cannot tell you how important Princess Leia was to me - secretly at the time, less so now. Leia is only waiting to be rescued because she knows rescue is coming. Leia is not going to sit back and be helpless just because she needed a pair of faux-stormtroopers to open the door. Leia was in that cell with a torture droid, her home planet was blown up, and when the guys get there, she's not even crying. Seeing her again, older, sadder, still working for a better world - this is what prayer looks like to an atheist.
Further, at least some of Leia's efforts are possibly paying off. There are women all over the place here, pilots, mechanics, doctors, scavengers, smugglers, officers, bartenders. The original trilogy was kind of a sausage fest. This is a delightful improvement. So is Rey. I would personally cut J.J. Abrams a check for the scene where the self-rescuing ingenue dashes out of the cockpit to congratulate her gunner on his shooting.
Lots of plots are retreads. How many versions of "Henry VIII goes nuts and gets married again" have I gotten though? How thrilled am I to show up every time someone comes up with another way to commit Robin Hood to film? Serenity was the plottiest bits of a bunch of Firefly episodes patched together with duct tape and baling wire. Persuasion is Pride and Prejudice but eight years later. Much Ado About Nothing (which I have seen in two movies and a whole bunch of times on stage) is about 50% Romeo and Juliet, with less dying this time. So yes, there's a cute robot here, and a plucky kid from a desert planet, and a guy who almost chickens out instead of being a hero, and a planet-destroying battlestation where the contractors cut costs by omitting handrails. This is the movie I expected to see. It feels like running into an old friend.
Sometimes you say no to me. No, you are not going to hire me. No, you are not going to rent me that apartment. No, you do not have the thing and cannot get it for me. No, that is not possible. It will not happen.
These are never joyous moments. Also, these are moments we do not have to share. The information has been conveyed. Further processing is something we would probably all (I would certainly) be happier to do independently. I do not want to spend this next moment hearing that you wish things were otherwise, that you wish this were a universe in which you could pull the thing that I want out of your ear and present it to me on an antique cake plate, alongside a bouquet of flawless white roses. No matter how much we would both like that, you have already said it is not going to happen. And so I would like to limit these conversations to the vital information. "No," and perhaps as much as a single other sentence. "Please try us again in a few months," or "Sorry for the bad news."
Please just do this. You say no, and then we both move on. Alone. If you want us to move on together, you have to say yes. If you don't say yes, I need to get back to reading the help-wanteds.
Arisia Plans My plans for Arisia are a little vague on the details just yet. However, the con is showing Winter Soldier on Friday at 8 p.m., in Revere. I will be there, with the kids. We are wearing pajamas, bringing some fuzzy blankets, and possibly importing highly necessary Red Vines. We would adore to be joined by people we know.
I have to get better about catching this stuff on video Hotspur's latest composition is a piece she calls The I Love You Song. She performed it for me, accompanying herself on an out of tune ukelele. The chorus goes "I love you, I love you, I love you, but I don't really care."
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<a href = "http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/10/how-the-french-macaron-became-american/381965/ >The Atlantic is incorrect about macarons</a>. They are not "becoming American", and they are certainly not the new cupcake. You can teach a <i>babboon</i> to make a cupcake. Good freaking luck getting most primates to construct a macaron. There's a professional bakery in town that sells hypothetically professional macarons that are Cake Wrecks levels of misbegotten. Or offers them for sale, anyway. I don't see why anyone who's looked at them would buy one.
It somewhat embarrasses me that I am in a position to critique this article so thoroughly, but it appears that I have read more widely on the subject than Megan Garber, who never even mentions Pierre Herme's seminal work on macarons. I own two more macaron-only texts than are mentioned in this article, and I have actually used all of them, with very mixed results. (Three-quarters of my attempts at macarons wind up as Eton Mess - a dessert that clearly has its genesis in panic, which is why it's a recipe that everyone needs to know). Herme's is the only macaron cookbook that the publisher didn't churn out in an eensy-cute size, as though some law required that books about tiny cookies be tiny themselves.
A four year-old can make a cupcake, which is why they will be with us forever. Know them, love them, invite them to all your parties.
You Can Be Sympathetic Now, If You Gotta I have spent this week realizing that reconstruction attempts have made me sicker than actual cancer treatment did. (Also, for bonus points, the cancer treatment worked, which cannot be said of any of the reconstruction attempts.) I would hesitate to make myself a cautionary tale - I am told that what happened to me never happens. It appears, at the very least, to happen so rarely that a few doctors are considering publishing articles about it.
I am told that it will take around 8 weeks for my hematocrit to return to normal. Maybe less because I'm comparatively young. So in four weeks, I might have energy. That will be nice.
So... Some of my reconstruction failed, and we aren't completely out of the woods on the rest.
"Failed" means that circulation could not be established to the tissue graft, so it had to be removed. I have had three surgeries this week.
Right now, you may be either flinching or whimpering. You are probably on the verge of saying something like "oh, honey!" Please get that out of your system at home. When you see me, I will want to talk about other things, like Sleepy Hollow or sock knitting.