Author: janet

not your mother's haroset, on a raisin & a porpoise

how i look

I am on my way to my high school reunion. I am hedging around saying which one it is, and it occurs to me suddenly how silly that is. It occurs to me how silly a lot of things are, when tectonic plates (real ones) and juggled plates (figurative ones) and other grand-scale matters are uppermost in my mind. I mean, lots of crazy bad crap is happening, at home and abroad. So the fact that I get to be 47 years old, and have three decades since high school to gaze back on—that suddenly seems like a silly thing to get squirrelly about. When I was plotting my course towards this occasion, I had to factor in that I’d be traveling quite a while before I got to set my bag down, and a lot of that on foot. Carrying several outfit possibilities around was kind of out of the question.  My default “feel more devil-may-care about how I look” setting is at the point on the dial marked “badass boots.” But I knew …

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ceiling effect

  Maybe this is an overshare, but I have a mild to moderate herniation of the disc between L4 and L5 in my lower back, as well as some questions about who made up the scale that herniations are measured on, and a new respect for anyone living with a moderate or (the mind boggles) severe one. Here are some insights and observations made possible for me by this exciting aspect of the aging process: Twice in the last six months I have been laid out flat, in too much pain to even writhe, vividly reminded of the claustrophobic intensity of labor contractions and keenly aware that without a sense of purpose and ultimate reward, pain just sucks. I have a really good sense of the texture and landscape of my ceiling. There are some mighty cobwebs up there!  Wow! Cobs been busy. It is possible, with the right motivation, to overcome a lifelong resistance to medication and swallow enough pills to masquerade as a human maraca. I have heard that people take narcotics to …

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going crackers

I have a lot to thank Alice Medrich for. My college years coincided precisely with the last four years of her ownership of the legendary Bay Area bakery, Cocolat, and the portion of my freshman 15 not accounted for by See’s Candy bridge mix (purchase-able in increments of 25 cents, when we were window-shopping in the overpriced mall and pretending that we were not going to circle back for another dollar’s worth), nor by a horrifically caloric and delicious 2am niblet that my friend Nina pioneered (involving a bagel, an awful lot of butter AND cream cheese AND cheddar cheese, some tomatoes and both a toaster and a microwave), is all on Alice Medrich and the chocolate truffle, a Friday-only indulgence (or this is how I choose to remember it; if you have other data that contradicts, please keep it to yourself) that made a little team of four of us feel glam and luxe and very, very happy. I am not sure my thighs ever recovered, but in the correct hypnotic state I bet …

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