Confessions of a Vitamin Junkie

As the exec director of several child development centers, a couple years ago I was also building points on my Doctor's "frequent flier" card towards a vacation in Monte Carlo. I was on his top ten list of "Patients with Funny Stories." (usually these included flying boogers, projectile vomit, or parents who insisted that little susie's radiant scarlet eyes were due to a "shampoo incident" and certainly NOT to pink eye) Um....yeah. I laundered my clothing in bleach, snorted hand sanitizer, and used lysol as perfume. (I was partial to Springtime Meadow--so fresh and dewy)

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Yet there I was, time after time, sounding like an emphysema patient or chucking monkeys at the porcelain goddess. I'd had it. So ye ole google and I came up with a solution. (exactly what in the hell did we ever do before the Internet??) After looking up `immune system and vitamins' I had come up with a list of goodies that were essential to your health. These included garlic, a, e, the b's, c of course, zinc and magnesium. Off I trundled to the drugstore to purchase a granny-sized seven-day pill holder in a lovely shade of robins-egg blue that I could use as a weapon in a pinch. A regular women's daily as well as additional supplements of the others on the list filled up my basket and nearly cleared out my checking account.

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It took almost two hours for me to conquer the child-proof lids and safety seals and dole out a weeks worth of pastel pillege--not to mention assuring my husband that I had indeed not lost my marbles and replaced them with liqui-gels.

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Month one passed......wow. Month two....holy wow. YEAR one.....Saint Jehosephat's nads, this is WORKING! Folks, three years and seven months--not a SINGLE cold. Not O. N. E. I have three boys and a husband who have brought home a vast plethora of snot and sniffles, more than one case of the chuckles, and NADA. And then.....

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Oh ye hateful arrogance! Smash ye to cinders all who scoff at the anti-bacterial wipes for grocery carts even as ye watch the red-eyed pigmy demon hock up el-mucus-o and finger paint on the handle of the buggy next to you.......ye shall PERISH!

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Cough...sputter...gasp.

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This week.....for the first time in nearly four years, I have gotten ill. (ahem) Make that, "I have visited the tunnel of light and am clinging to life with broken fingernails and lifevest made from halls wrappers." I've woven a rope from used tissues to tie myself to the brink of sanity. I have had lengthy conversations with the most adorable little asian doc-ette about the color of the crap I cough up. Bigelow Tea has offered me a spot as spokesperson as I've broken the world record--27 cups-o-liquid-love in less than 12 hours. My pee smells like lemons....and menthol.

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I have met the maharajah of viral malaise and he whooped my proverbial ass.

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It has terrified my kids--they have no real memories of sick mommy. They have also eaten pizza, hot dogs, and cold cereal three meals a day for a week. My husband has been grand and the wonton soup he has brought home by the bucket has been my single joy as well as the only thing I can taste.

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I'm still a believer, and still popping the goodies....along with anti-biotics and have begun to have strong feelings for my nasal spray. However, I am praying that this will be an isolated incident...once every four years I can handle--although the holiday timing of this has really jacked up Santa's schedule.

My eldest said from the doorway of my room--afraid to enter, "Too bad it's not halloween mum, 'cause you'd be a really good Darth Vader."

Bone Magic

"Are we having chicken Mum?" he asked eagerly. "On the bone??" Hopeful eyes sparkled and I laughed, "Yes, my love--on the bone." "Yippee!" he hollered, dancing out through the dining room, off to give the good news to his brothers. He's nine. Sweet still. Blue eyes and a contagious belly laugh and when he hugs you--he really hugs you. Amazing actually, at such a tender age he has learned one of life's luscious lessons.....meat on the bone, is the best.

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The snow is drifting past the window, dancing in an endless holiday tango. The last wisps of incense mingling with the scent of pine....the evening aglitter with tinsel and lights. Dinner was seared and then roasted slowly, the nobs of garlic permeating all before relinquishing their firmness, melting into decadent paste. Rosemary infused, wine and butter and onions caressed the meat, tender....succulent.

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Indulgence....laughter.....contentment.

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I shudder a bit at the packaged meat shelves in the market. I'm blessed to have an amazing butcher close to home--one of the few with hanging sides of beef and daily delivery from organic and local producers. He supplies me with rabbits and lamb and cuts my delmonico steaks two and a half inches thick while I watch. He saves bones for me...filled with buttery marrow, ready to roast and simmer. It's these bones which awakened me to the lost magic of marrow. The creamy center which once pulsed with movement and blood....the essence of life.

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Plastic trays of skinless, boneless strips of meat break my heart. Their sterility frightens me. In the name of convenience and cleanliness, we've chosen ease over decadence. Our homes sport kitchens the size of rec rooms with appliances gleaming.....and yet the demand for "take home" Bosten Market, Eat-n-Park, "Applebees on the go" is soaring. "Get that home cooked taste with no effort at all!" Shame on us. When did effort hurt? When did labor become laborious?

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I'm trying to teach my children this. Within the snow globe that is a child's world, little else provides such an immediate return on investment. Yes, they save up allowance for prized possessions and they endure our new puppy's craziness, hoping for a calmer companion in the future that won't chew their gloves and eat legos. However, they come running when the clang of pans and pots rings out. 'What are you making Mum? Can I help? Can I watch?" The anticipation is almost tangible as they help roll meatballs and pour in the plum tomatoes, using the masher to break them up. They tear off to play, but return every hour or so to see how high the bread has risen and beg to taste the sauce.

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And they cheer when it's meat on the bone.

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Perhaps it's the primal urge to tear with our teeth? Sucking and nibbling as we lick our lips and smile sheepishly at one another. Fingers seeking out flesh, sliding along the bones, tearing and pulling and finding deliciousness. Dipping cartilage back into the sauce, tongues catching the drops of liquid ambrosia. I love the sounds of savory satisfaction; giggles and grins and slurping. The boys often play rock-paper-scissors for the last piece, makes me smile every time.

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I don't cook every day. The leftovers from today's pistachio crusted rack of venison is going to make a smashing stew tomorrow. Wednesday is pizza night as I've got a painting to finish. And this last weekend, preparing for our holiday bash--you'd better believe my husband took the crew out for Arby's while I was mulling wine and making crab dip. Life is absolutely about balance. We all juggle and spin, attempting to keep eleventeen things up in the air at once. But within that balance, when there is room and time....skip the instant. Brown the chicken quarters till golden, nestle them in the dutch oven with sliced potatoes and onions and sausages and sage. Roast slowly for two hours....

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Trust me, it's worth it.

Call Me Sasquatch

There are two quests that women in our country have. Endless pursuits that millions of dollars are spent upon every year--I swear they are actually part of our nation's fiscal picture. What are these crucial, life-long missions you ask?

The crusade for the perfect push-up bra....and great hair.

Now, I must admit complete and utter failure when it comes to quest one. *sigh* I'm sorry ladies, but my journey down this road was full of potholes and wrong turns, triple padding and once--a deflated "air pillow" that left me a tad lopsided at a black tie affair. In fact, in rebellion against the societal demand for bodacious buxom broads--when I resigned from my executive director position to dance down the lane of unemployed artist, author, and chef--I burned those bras! Well....I donated them to charity--does that count? My husband seems quite happy with his perky athletic wife...even if I do tend to make waves at family functions and Sunday morning service with my unbound self.

Anywho, this brings us to quest two. Great hair. Lotions and potions and creams and treatments....eat meat, drink yeast, coat with olive oil. I was even on a gelatin kick for awhile--until someone told me that jello shots don't count. (damn) In the 80's when Aquanet was the perfume of choice--in true Kelly LeBrock-ish style, my do was phenomenal! I teased and spritzed , creating an auburn halo that could touch my shoulder pads and block the wind....it was simply stunning. Unfortunately, during a college sculpture class that required a piece done with metal...meaning blowtorches and fire....well, I believe I single handidly caused the school to alter the requirements as I set my hair on fire not once, but an impressive three times. Do you know how flammable solid aquanet is?

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So a few weeks back, a darling pal regaled me with a tale of long luscious locks after she had begun....HAIR VITAMINS! Who knew?!? Little nuggets of vitamic (pronounce that "vi-tam-ic;" yes, I've just made up a word) power that boost your hair growing capacity by a factor of ten! Shazaaam! Holy Dolly Pardon I am on my way!

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Day one: A bit woozy after popping the green tablets-o-hair, but manageable.

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Day four: Figured out that eating tuna salad helps the nausea...while grossing out my kids at 6:30am.

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Day seven: Began to crave carrots. WTH??!

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Day eleven: I passed a mirror and was shocked at the caterpillars on my face! Who put my brows on steroids?!? Took an hour and a half to pluck. Are those tufts in my ears?

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Day twelve: Shaved....it looked like I massacred a yeti in the bathroom. Had to go out for liquid plumber. While rinsing the drain I realized I needed to shave.....again. Am I slightly orange?

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Day fifteen: Have stopped the pills from hairy hell. The neighbor kid asked if I was growing a play-off beard. Purchased four bottles of Nair.

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Day seventeen: Out of Nair.

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The moral of this story is, of course, that there is no magic pill. Stick to olive oil and jello shots. I'm staying in until CVS orders more nair.

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Anyone got some carrots?