My daughter and I had a discussion about young adults today, how young adults in their 20′s aren’t really doing anything.  Well, they are doing some things, but mostly those things have to do with, well, with stuff.

My daughter recently read this book – The Defining Decade: Why Your Twenties Matter– And How To Make The Most Of Them Now.

“Our “thirty-is-the-new-twenty” culture tells us the twentysomething years don’t matter. Some say they are a second adolescence. Others call them an emerging adulthood. Dr. Meg Jay, a clinical psychologist, argues that twentysomethings have been caught in a swirl of hype and misinformation, much of which has trivialized what is actually the most defining decade of adulthood.

“Drawing from a decade of work with hundreds of twentysomething clients and students, THE DEFINING DECADE weaves the latest science of the twentysomething years with behind-closed-doors stories from twentysomethings themselves. The result is a provocative read that provides the tools necessary to make the most of your twenties, and shows us how work, relationships, personality, social networks, identity, and even the brain can change more during this decade than at any other time in adulthood-if we use the time wisely.” 

So I think this about that.  If our children remain children long into their twenties, we did that.  How did we do that?  Well, I’m going to tell you.

I did some really bad shit at a really young age.  Not blaming anybody, not getting into details, just sayin’…

I wanted my children to experience an actual childhood.  I wanted them to have fun, play, feel supported and protected and secure.  Just be kids being kids.  I mean, I wanted a lot for my kids, I wanted so much I can’t even begin to describe what I wanted, but I knew what I didn’t want.

I didn’t want them to experience the kind of childhood and adolescence I had.  So in a very real sense, I rebelled against my own upbringing and raised them in a reactionary fashion.

I protected them from all that really bad shit.  They did find ways to get into trouble all on their own, but that’s another story.

Anyway, my daughter says the book made so much sense to her that she’s re-evaluating her choices.  Interesting… She’s also sending the book to her sister.  Yee-haw!

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Remember my list?  Well, Penny wanted a post about 2 tsp. vanilla.  Here ya go!

Just before I left for Boston I baked myself a birthday cake because, well, it was my birthday.  I baked a Whiskey Cake since that is the traditional birthday cake – for at least four generations – in my family.  I ate one piece and left the rest for my hubby who was disciplined enough to leave me half the cake, cut into individual slices, in the freezer.  Remember, he left the day before I got home.  So I got to eat a piece every day – there were a couple pieces left when he came home too.

So how does that relate to my list?  I wrote the recipe down from memory and 2 tsp. vanilla and 2 1/2 sticks butter ended up on the list page of my little note pad.

A Whiskey Cake is this moist, tender white cake (you know me, I’m a chocolate girl but I love this cake), leavened with 4 beaten egg whites– so you don’t want to Zumba around the kitchen while the cake is baking.

The frosting is simple – powdered sugar, corn syrup, butter, 4 egg yolks (wouldn’t want to waste the yolks!) and well, yes, whiskey.  A minimum of 4 TBS.  My mom usually tosses in a shot or two or three.  She’d let me taste the frosting when I was a kid, just to make sure she’d added enough whiskey.  Sometimes she used Kentucky Bourbon or Mash, sometimes Scotch, sometimes Jim Beam… depended upon what we had on hand.  I usually grab the Scotch or the Bourbon.

Anyway, after the cake is baked and cooled, you frost it and here’s the best part, drizzle on 2 melted squares of bitter and I do mean, unsweetened, chocolate.  That’s one of the many contrasts that makes this cake a favorite of every single person in our family.

I’d give you the recipe, but that would mean betraying a closely guarded family secret.  Or as my dad says whenever I ask him about his days with the CIC… “If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”

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The day began like any other day– just before dawn, the cat clawing at any exposed part of my body (which this morning happened to be my face) so I would haul my half-asleep ass out of bed, carry him down the stairs, and let him out the front door.  He doesn’t deign to use his cat door.  That’s for suckers.  Ichi-ban is no sucker.  He lives up to his name – Number One.

I knew it would be hot today so Jake and I were out early, heading to our summer park near the wetlands along the river.  This time of year, between the ticks and the foxtails, the wilderness parks we usually hike are simply verboten.  Nothing like a big vet bill to ruin your month.

We stick to the trail – our path meanders along 5-6 miles of river bank and I keep Jake on leash in order to avoid ticks.  This park has two open grassy areas where I can let him off leash and throw his ball for him.  If we happen to run into one of his friends– and we’ve been running into many of his friends lately after they’ve had costly vet visits to remove foxtails from noses and ears– the dogs can romp in the open areas.

So what made today different from all other days?  Jake and I reached the far southern end of the park where the trail loops close to the river and then back around to the parking lot.  Low and behold, we spotted, or rather he spotted, three of his friends romping in the water about twenty feet below the edge of the bank where we stood.

The dogs’ owners greeted me and called to Jake.  I had to ponder my options.  If I let him off leash, even though there was a trail down to the water, I risked ticks.  And ya’ll know if there’s one thing I hate to death, it’s ticks.

But his friends looked like they were having a bunch of fun and he wanted to play with them.  So, I gritted my teeth, let him off leash and followed him down the bank to where the other two women were standing.  Jake, of course, immediately vanished along the shore while the other three dogs climbed back up to us.

Suddenly, one of the women began screaming.  I couldn’t understand her, the words were so garbled.  Then the other woman began shrieking.  All I knew at that moment was that this didn’t bode well and I’d better find Jake.  Hearing the commotion, like a good German shepherd he came running back to us.  I leashed him so I could attend to whatever the hell was going on.

One of the dogs had swallowed a fish hook.  Not only a fish hook, but a fish hook attached to about 2 feet of nylon fishing line with another barbed hook on the other end.  The dog was gagging and trying to swallow the whole thing.

It was like this:

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”

Second woman:  ”What do we do?  What do we do? Oh god, what do we do?”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”

Me:  ”Where’s the hook?  Is it in her lip?”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!  I don’t know!”

Second woman:  ”Sob!  What do we do?”

Me, dropping Jake’s leash and grabbing her dog by the neck:  ”Let me look.”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”

Dog:  Gagging, still trying to swallow the fishing line.

Second woman’s dog:  Gone.

Second woman:  ”Shriek!  My dog!”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”  Leashing her other dog.

Me, dragging the dog up to the trail by the scruff of her neck with one hand, my other hand in her mouth to keep her from swallowing the fishing line, Jake following.  ”Where’s your car?”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”

Me:  ”Where’s?  Your?  Car?”

Dog’s owner:  ”Shriek!”

Me:  ”Get your car and drive it over here.  Go through the softball field access, over there.  Lady, get your car!”

Dog’s owner runs off shrieking.

Second woman:  ”Where’s my dog?  What if she swallowed a fish hook?”

Me:  ”She didn’t.  Calm down.  Find the other two dogs and hold them.  I have to keep her from swallowing the rest of this.  What’s this dog’s name?”

Second woman:  ”Sob!  Maya!  I think it’s Maya.”

Me:  ”Maya, sit.”

I open her mouth and stick my hand inside to feel around.  I can’t find the hook end, but I follow the fishing line as far as I can down her throat.  Can’t reach the hook.

Second woman, grabs the end of the fishing line, pulls.

Me:  ”Quit!  You’ll make it worse.  We don’t want to rip up her esophagus.”

Second woman:  ”Shriek!  The hook’s caught in my thumb.”

Me:  ”Shit.  Don’t pull!”

Dog:  Still trying to swallow the fishing line.

Second woman:  ”Shriek!  It’s digging deeper into my thumb.”

Me:  ”Put your hand right next to her head.  Don’t pull.”

Goddamn it!  Why don’t I have a fucking pocket knife?  From now on I’m bringing a fucking pocket knife.

I press the fishing line against the dog’s molar and let her bite down.  The line snaps.  Thank god.  I hold the dog still with one hand and then remove the barbed fishing hook from the woman’s thumb with the other.

Me:  ”You’ll need a tetanus shot.”

Second woman:  ”Wail!  Shriek!  Where’s my dog?”

Me:  ”Right there.  Did you hear me?  You need to call your doctor and get a tetanus shot.  No!  Let it bleed.”  Fuck.  ”Do you know which vet she uses?”

Second woman:  ”What?  Sob!”

Me:  ”Her vet.  Which vet does she use?”

She throws out a name.  Jake lies at my feet, still as a stone, understanding the gravity of the situation.   Holding onto Maya with one hand, I pull out my cell phone and look up the number, call the vet.

Me:  ”What’s her name?”

Second woman:  ”What?”

Me:  ”Her name?  The woman’s name?”

Second woman:  ”I can’t remember.  Sob!”

Me:  ”Okay fine.”  I give the receptionist the story and tell her to expect the dog in about 15 minutes.

At last the car arrives and we load the two dogs into the back.  Off she goes.  At least I called the correct vet.  The second woman is still screaming and crying.

Me:  ”It’s fine.  The vet will take care of it.  It would have been worse if she’d swallowed both hooks.”

Second woman:  ”But what if my dog…?”

Me:  ”Your dog is fine.  See?  She’s fine.  She’s right here.  She’s fine.”

Second woman:  Sniffling.

Me:  ”Let’s go.  Let’s get out of here.”

We’re walking now.

Second woman:  ”How did you do that?”

Me:  ”Do what?  Stick my hand down her throat?”

Second woman:  ”No, stay calm.”

Me:  Shrug.

Second woman:  Sniffling.  ”Seriously.  We were both panic-stricken and you were calm.  How did you do that?”

Me:  ”I don’t know.”

Whatever the reason, I guess it’s why I make a good nurse.  I only freak out if something involves my kids or extreme heights with sheer drops.  Which is all kind of weird since I once suffered from panic disorder.

Here’s my one serious freak out story, aside from the throat-swelling airway obstruction incident of last year-

My daughter, the softball player, always played catcher or third base until one year when our first baseman was afraid to play first base, so she was moved to catcher and my daughter played first.

Here we were, big game against cross-town rival, playing against girls my daughter had played with or against almost her entire life, and the biggest baddest girl steps up to the plate.  She’s like… 6 feet tall, 180 pounds while my daughter over at first base is 5 feet 5 inches and a buck twelve on a good day.  And this girl slams a line drive right at my daughter’s head.  The ball ricochets off her head and flies another 40 feet into right field where the right fielder catches it for an out.

Now you tell me how it feels to be sitting in the stands and see that, watch my daughter crumple to the ground.  Dead silence on the field.  I couldn’t think, couldn’t move to save my life.  I pressed my face to my knees, closed my eyes and covered my ears because I could not bear to hear the words I just knew were coming.  I prayed God would strike me dead right then and there.

I knew my husband had run out on the field.  All the other moms surrounded me so I wouldn’t have to see anything.  And then out of the blue, a voice said, “She’s okay.  She’s up.  She’s staying in the game.”

“What?”  I’m dazed.

“She’s fine.  She’s all right.  It grazed her.  She has a little bald patch on her hairline and you can see the imprint of the seam in her skin, but she’s fine.”

I looked up.  My daughter smiled and waved at me.  It was a 3-9 out and we won the game.  I asked her later what happened, why she collapsed to the ground.

She said, “Well, I’ve always heard that when you get hit in the head with a line drive, you die, so I figured this is it, this is the end of me.  I fell to the ground and waited to die.  But I didn’t die.”

It was a one in a million miracle.  And that, ladies and gents, is the kind of occurrence that makes me panic.  Swallowing a fish hook?  The vet can get that out.

From now on, pocket knife.  And Jake was so stunned by the day’s events I think he now wants to walk on a leash.  It’s much safer.

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I’m aware that many bloggers post a Monday Morning music meme.  I’ve never done it.  I have pretty eclectic tastes in music.  Love classical, jazz, blues, swing, old-school rock (i.e. in the vein of Buddy Holly and Jerry Lee Lewis), classic rock, country, folk– especially if there’s a fiddle involved, Soul music, some rap.  I even like good gospel music – not new-fangled gospel music, I like old-fangled gospel music.  Grew up on it.  My dad listened to straight up traditional Black southern gospel every Sunday morning.

Nevertheless, I have to be really careful with some songs.  I get earworms so easily. There is nothing worse than an earworm.  Per Wikipedia:

An earworm is a piece of music that sticks in one’s mind so that one seems to hear it, even when it is not being played.  One reason that this occurs is that melodic music tends to have a rhythm which repeats. This cyclical nature may cause endless repetition unless some way to achieve a climax is found which breaks the cycle.

Yes, dear god, can’t we all use a climax???

For example I must be careful around Elton John.  Candle in the Wind causes one of my most persistent earworms.  Even worse than Elton John is Andrew Lloyd Weber.  Every single one of his musicals is like a microscopic brain cell destroyer.  It’s as if his songs get injected into my blood stream ala Fantastic Voyage. Remember that movie?  The soundtrack from Evita nearly landed me in the emergency room.

Must be something about those knighted British musicians.  I bet they blackmailed the Queen, threatening her with earworms.  I think Andrew Lloyd Weber is a baron or something – yeah, for sure his songs got stuck in the Queen’s head.  What could she do but baron him?

So what’s my cure for an earworm?  Well, first of all, I run screaming from any hint of Elton John or Andrew Lloyd Weber music.  Fingers in ears, yelling “Lalalalalalalalalala” and all that.  If I fail, if I manage to catch even the slightest hint of a song, I have to immediately sing a Hebrew ditty, I think the words are taken from the Book of Isaiah:

Henei ma tov umanaim
Shevet achim gam yachad
Henei ma tov umanaim
Shevet achim gam yachad

Hinei ma tov (Henei ma tov)
Lai lai lai lai lai
Lai lai lai lai lai
Hinei ma tov (Henei ma tov)
Lai lai lai lai lai
Lai lai lai lai lai

I don’t know why, but it works.  Love this Vietnamese version-

Here’s a more traditional version-

Anyone else suffer from earworms?

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We’ve been apart for 18 days, which is the longest we’ve been separated since the kids were little.

Here’s what he’ll come home to….

The aroma of his favorite fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.

Homemade egg pasta with a pesto I made from wild leeks, spinach, roasted garlic, toasted pine nuts and Parmesan cheese.

A salad of our own just-picked garden greens and my own pickled asparagus.

A batch of salmon candy (it’s marinating as we speak).

I’ve trimmed the yard, planted the flowers, herbs and potatoes, pulled every tick from the dog, swept the basketball court free of debris after our wind storm, filled the house with roses (stolen from the neighbor’s yard but they’ll never miss them as they live in Europe and the house, although maintained, is empty 99.99% of the time), washed the sheets– again– shaved my legs, and treated myself to a spa day for a pedicure and a waxing of parts heretofore unmentionable.

(I first took a picture of my right foot but then I realized you would see my hideously deformed broken little toe… I mean, it’s bad enough that my toes are so long I can pick things up, monkey-style.)

I’m ready.

I’m such a feminist and a little wifey all at the same time.  The two are not mutually exclusive.  One is based on highfalutin principles, the other is based on love.

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