Mere moments after I nearly threw a GF muffin at bread-loving Oprah, I made peace with gluten over beer, naturally.
I cried over bread. And the box of granola bars. The cereal, too. Ugly cried. Kim K. cried.
The pile of gluten-rich food kept growing atop my counter. A sacrificial loaf. After a good cry and a donation to my local food pantry, I drove to Hy-Vee and bought some fancy rice flour.
I’d like to think we are all, “I. Love. Bread.” Oprah Winfrey sometimes, only now my favorite recipes — and my body — require more care. After months of doctor’s appointments and blood tests, I was recently diagnosed with celiac disease. No more normal bread and beer. Continue reading
My sister sent me a kickass T. rex card, and it makes a perfect LSAT bookmark.
It’s a magical, mystical world, almost. There are soda fountains with sodas named things like “Luck” and “Mist.” There are closets full of dresses in every fabric you could imagine. There are disc jockeys who flip between ballads and club hits with ease.
It feels pretty make-believe most of the time, but there are rules, myriad rules, that strip the magic from this world. The gauze dress can’t be next to the silk dress (who the hell owns a gauze dress anyway?). “Mist” and “Luck” can’t be first or fourth at the soda fountain. And the DJ has to play three consecutive ballads before he can bust out some dance tunes (no one turns up at the club to three back-to-back slow jams, really). Continue reading
Enough: I’ve heard the word often this year. It has become a state of being, one I’ve yet to fully embody, physically and emotionally — “Enoughness.” Uppercase, of course.
Do you have enough iron supplements? You don’t have enough iron in your system. Did your last doctor say your hemoglobin isn’t high enough, too?
With ample idle time in waiting rooms at doctor’s offices in 2016, I’ve had time — dangerous time — to ruminate on physical and emotional “Enoughness.” “Fill in the bubble next to all conditions that apply.” Here, “Enoughness” is quantified with each blackened bubble.
Playing keep-away with enoughness is one of my egregious habits; it’s easier, more comfortable, to ignore my own inherent completeness. Blackened bubbles extend into the real world. I become the score sheet, each mark the latest deficiency. Continue reading
Basking in my reign as flower girl.
Shirley Temples are a sentimental drink for me. I apparently downed eight of them as the flower girl at my Uncle Pat’s wedding in 1998. Feeling the power of my flower-girl status (and the sugar, let’s be real here), I twirled at the reception in my off-white dress, my 5-year-old frame nearly engulfed by tulle and chiffon. Continue reading