There is a lot of singing at funerals.

I went to a funeral on Tuesday. I never met the deceased or his widow.

We went because it was a family death, my husband’s cousin’s husband.

He was 46. That is too young to die, especially of a coronary embolism.

Everything I now know about the man, I learned at his funeral. He was born in Nairobi, his father owns a hotel in Mombasa, he went to Oxford. He used to be an alcoholic, but was sober for 16 years before he died.

He was married, had a son, was divorced and then moved to America where he got married again. He worked at a church.

People loved him.

Oh, and his name was Max.

I don’t know what he looked like (I don’t view the dead if I didn’t know them in life…it’s too voyeuristic.)

I enjoyed the funeral (is that bad to say?)

It was transcendently beautiful. The church was a gigantic stone edifice on 5th Ave in Manhattan. The choir wore ruffled collars, and they sang. Beautifully.

I was struck by how much the singing human voice marks our passages through time.

Babies are sung to at their baptisms.

We are sung to at every anniversary of our birth.

Weddings are full of beautiful music.

And certainly, funerals; there is a lot of singing at funerals.

It’s like our voices were trying to reach him, or accompany him, or at the very least, mark that this happened…that HE happened.

Sweet

I like to think of myself as a good cook.  I really love baking and deserts and challenging recipes and all that.  What I’m about to show you will probably intimidate the shit out of you…but read on.

That would be my Genoise layer cake with lemon curd   filling and French butter cream.  Pretty gorgeous no?

Here, Let me show you a detail shot.

Oh yeah, I sure did use a miniature rosebud to decorate it (a la Flying Monkey).

Right about now you are probably quaking in your inferior oven mitts.

Quake not.  It was a disaster.  You see, this cake was intended to be the dessert for a little dinner party friends were throwing. These particular friends live in Germantown…on Lincoln Drive.  If you know Philadelphia, you probably know Lincoln Drive as the fastest, curviest road in the city…and it is.  Let me break this down for you.  Jeep Cherokee + Lincoln Drive + lemon curd = seismic shift.

My charmingly rustic gateau slipped and slid all over the place.  It was not pretty. (There is no photographic evidence of the event…thank god.)

So there I was with one hell of an ugly cake at one hell of a terrific dinner party.  No matter, as long as it tastes good, who cares what it looks like.

I was able to comfort myself with this thought all the way through dinner.  Then I sliced the cake.  It was…stiff? Impenetrable?  Hmmm, what is the right word for a cake having the consistency of hardened foam rubber?

It was embarrassing.  My dear son said as kindly as possible that it tasted like a lemony eraser.

Brett has Bionic Eyes

Brett invited me to his room last night. Sure there were 1000 other people at the Flight of the Conchords concert, but I know he was talking to me. I’m pretty sure we shared a ‘moment’. He must have, like, bionic eyesight since I was in the 4th row…in the balcony.

(But seriously, he said he was staying at the Sofitel in room 921.) You know that some poor roadie was harassed all night by star-struck drunken cougars.

The concert was jaw-droppingly amazing. Hubster and I BOTH laughed riotously, not necessarily at the same parts, but whatever, we don’t need to examine that too closely.

On the way home we spent the car ride discussing just what makes them so appealing.

You can easily imagine Jemaine and Brett back in their dorm room when you see their act. You don’t need to read their bios to “know” them.  Watching them is kind of like watching my friends John and Pete, but with guitars, and a script. They’ve perfected their selfconscious /imaginary world-influenced skit.

Last night they played all their hits.  If you don’t know them (like if you are poor and can’t afford HBO or something.) Watch them play “Business Time”.

The philly crowd received the Conchords well, especially since they apparently googled “Philadelphia culture’ before going on stage. There were plenty of shout outs to “West Philadelphia Born and Raised,” “Boys to Men,” and powdered wig-wearing “Ben Franklin.” The effort was mightily appreciated by their fans.  Shit, I screamed like a schoolgirl.

Last night I slept in my “Brunettes not Fighter Jets” tee, and had sweet sweet kiwi-filled dreams….

The Dog’s Dinner

I’m officially cooking for my dog now. Yep, that’s right. Home made meals from scratch. ORGANIC home made meals from scratch. HA!

Until Saturday, when I can get her new food from the vet, I’m making the dog’s dinner. Last night she had organic free-range chicken breast with Yukon Gold potatoes and La Seur baby peas. She had a little grilled salmon for dessert.

You see, my vet (and good friend) told me about the studies he has learned about the non-gluten food and their effect on seizures and he said that even the animals fed a high gluten diet can affect the dogs if used in their food, thus the whole free-range thing.

My husband is jealous. I haven’t been cooking for HIM at ALL lately. To be fair, that is mainly due to my whole oral surgery ordeal…that, and really…he COULD have made his own dinner. Not that that’s likely…just anatomically possible. Whereas the dog could not.

I promised him that if he ever starts to have seizures I will cook him boiled chicken and potatoes too. I know, I know, I’m a startling good wife.

A very bad night

This morning at about 4:00 Trip and I woke to the sound of Scarlett slamming herself against his closet door.

It was confusing. At first I thought she was just rolling around or having a dream or caught on something…

But she was having a seizure.

I petted her and tried to soothe her and then held her. When I held her she went completely rigid in my arms with her legs out straight. I thought she was dying in my arms. I tried to stay calm and soothing and tell her she was a good girl. I thought those were her last minutes and I tried to make them peaceful instead of screaming and flipping out like the basket-case I am.

Then she stopped. Her heart was racing and she was disoriented and couldn’t walk at first, but she had stopped seizuring.

Trip called the Vet ER and I carried her down to the living room. He got some shoes for me and drove us there while I sat in the back with her. By then, she seemed totally fine.

The Penn Hospital took her immediately and ran a bunch of tests. They couldn’t have been nicer or handled it any better. All of the tests came back normal and now I’m just watching her. They think she may have canine epilepsy.

I spoke to my Vet this morning after we had a nap. He said that his dog was actually suffering from seizures, sometimes 2 a day and that he had changed his diet to a low gluten one. Apparently he had recently attended a talk on the subject and the test results showed a very strong correlation to the diet and the seizures.

Today was a normal day. We went to the dog park and played fetch.

Marshmallow

Through my misty eyed gaze of Percocet, everything is striking a chord with me lately. I’ve been feeling all euphoric (yep, definitely the drugs) and grateful.

Aside from eating my own face every time I attempt to chew, my life is feeling eerily perfect lately.

After one particularly bucolic afternoon at the Schuylkill River Dog Park (we were there for 2 hours, easy) I took a long ambling walk home. On the walk I passed by the Philadelphia School and it was like a particularly sappy movie. There were cherry blossoms making pink snow, through which , my perfect little pup was obediently trotting (slack leash and all). Then i heard it, a coir of children singing “All you Need is Love” from some after school music practice. It was one of those sensory overload moments. The air smelled clean and sweet ( I believe I was standing next to a dryer vent actually) the sky was a perfect shade of blue, the cherry blossoms were framing the scene, the children were singing, it was neither warm nor cool, just soft. If I’d been eating a marshmallow I’m pretty sure my brain would have overloaded and I would not be here to type this.

But in all seriousness, that is something I cherish about living in Philadelphia, every once in a while you are treated to a moment of absolute beauty. It usually involves a particular play of light and overhearing something beautiful, but these serendipitous moments are less rare than one might think.

It hurts to laugh.

Sometimes when I get nervous or upset, I…well, this will sound weird….I laugh hysterically.  I mean uncontrollably.  Like, I can’t breathe.  No sound comes out.  My eyes tear.  It’s ugly and often, inappropriate.

Once I was overcome with a laughing fit at a business meeting.

Once, when I broke our house. (The first floor was in the process of flooding, but I couldn’t speak to tell my poor husband…I just pointed down…he figured it out eventually.)

Once I was overcome with the nervous giggles when the whole family was lost in western Maryland in the middle of the night due to a faulty GPS. (Happy Birthday Hubby.)

Tonight was the worst EVER!  You see, I just had my jaw dissected on Monday.  Yep, four impacted wisdom teeth.  Consequently, I cannot open my mouth more than a centimeter. I’m in pretty constant pain, bla bla bla, all that.

Then it happened.  I don’t know what exactly triggered it, but I’m sure it was my husband’s fault.  He must have made a funny face or a funny noise or SOMETHING. (It could have been that BREATHING thing he does.)

Whatever it was, I giggled.

But that hurt, so I panicked.

Which made me laugh nervously.

Which HURT.

Which made me cry.

Which made me laugh hysterically.

Which REALLY REALLY HURT.

Which made me even more anxious…

and so on and so on…

It was like some sort of demented feedback loop.  The husband had to leave the house because every time I looked at him it got worse.

I sent him to a bar around the corner.  Yes, I drove him to drink.

The poor man was trying to amuse his pathetic, swollen, recuperating wife, and she sent him away as she cried in agony.

It was like walking away from the speaker.  I calmed down and popped two extra painkillers. (I think I really damaged myself. OUCHIE!)

Hubster has since returned, but he won’t risk mentioning the episode until at least next week.  In my fragile state I could relapse at any time and I don’t think either one of us could take it.

Take it! Take another little piece…

Of my head, er…mouth more specifically.

Tomorrow I am having all of my wisdom teeth removed.  Blech.  I’m really not looking forward to it.  But who would be right?

I’ve stocked up on smooth foods: applesauce, yogurt, tapioca pudding and butternut squash soup.

Hopefully, in a few days I’ll be able to move onto eggs and tofu. Dream big!!!

Tonight is my last meal, so I had wild rice, Frenched lamb chops and green beans.

It was so good.  Good enough to tide me over for a week?  We’ll see.

I plan to spend the next 4 days as high as I can get on my painkillers.  I didn’t bother to buy magazines or rent videos.  I figure I’ll either be blind with pain or so hopped up on meds I won’t be able to open my eyes. Sweet!!!!!!!

(Hold me, I’m scared.)

Whippit, whippit good.

Let’s be frank, the nitrous oxide is really the only reason to go to the dentist. Today I went in for my final filling after a grueling , 2-year, search-and-destroy journey of decay elimination. The only thing that made today’s visit different is that I was also interviewing my dentist for an article on cosmetic dentistry.

My dentist, a master of efficiency, scheduled the interview piggy-backed onto one of my appointments. Naive little beauty editor that I am, I assumed that we’d do the interview first, then move on to our more sadomasochistic coupling.

BUT NO!

Evil dental man had other plans. Before I knew it I was on the chair under a light with the gas strapped to my nose and a needle in my jaw. He had me right where he wanted me. He drilled away, I sucked nitrous like it was my life-line and we both got what we wanted out of the experience.

Once we were done, he re-oxygenated me and then I interviewed-away, drooling on myself and biting my swollen cheek the whole time.

Was it a good interview? I have no idea. Did he maintain the upper-hand? Like a master. The whole thing was very Blue Velvet, except, you know, not really.

Land Ho!

Last year, when hubby and I were feeling particularly flush, we bought land. I mean LAND. We stomped all over the woods, all over Pennsylvania. We brought the dog. she frolicked. After about 4 months we found THE SPOT.

18 acres, check.

Picturesque stream, check.

Pond, check.

Hills, boulders, forest, check, check, check.

One wild turkey, CHECK.

We put in an offer, eventually it was accepted and we spent a summer lolling around in hammocks and wading in the creek.  It was lovely.

There is just one teensey little challenge with said land.  That would be the afore mentioned stream.

Yesterday we met with the surveyor to talk about a driveway and a bridge.  We humped around the land and talked about wetlands delineations, and flood planes.  Bog turtle habitats ($800 survey right there.) and concrete footings.

Long-story-short, we cannot afford to drive onto the land, let alone build a cabin.  And even if we could afford it, we are bound to be tied up in local bureaucracy for the next six years.  Oh the humanity!

Next week, the surveyor is calling a meeting with all of the federal officials and township boards and conservationists.  Hubby is staying home and sending me.  I’m on the lookout for a Sierra Club visor or pen or something and I will spend the days leading up to the meeting perfecting my pound cake recipe.

If a little theater, combined with sugar and butter, can’t grease the wheels of progress, I don’t know what can.