It was a hell of an Easter weekend for me, I have to say. For various reasons. I got to have an MRI. That was fun. I got radioactive goo injected into my veins during it; perhaps this is why I’ve pissed myself every time I’ve gotten a cell phone call or sat too close to the TV in the last two days? Huh. Dunno. Mental note to look into that.

And if you’ve never had this whole MRI process done, do try. It’s thrilling. They wrap you in thin white blankets up to your neck like a sort of sterile mummy and keep you as cold as possible, I assume because the unholy giant mouth machine into which they’re feeding you prefers the kind of sub-zero room temperatures featured in heart-warming classics like Alive. Then they give you earplugs and put enough sound-muffling cloth around your head to keep out the worst of the clamoring bedlam noise, which I find akin to an angry mob banging on the machine with wrenches and sledgehammers. And they bury you into the unholy giant mouth machine up to around your hands, with the sides slightly too snug for your arms on either side and the top a couple inches from your face. Taphophobics everywhere, pop your Xanax—this is your coffin for the next hour. And then they tell you they’re going to begin (which sounds like a command from one of Charlie Brown’s teachers), and here descends the angry mob banging on the machine with wrenches and sledgehammers. Or so I figure. Then they pull you out of the unholy mouth coffin machine after you’ve contemplated your own death for 45 minutes, inject you with the radioactive goo—and I’m a notorious fainting, vomiting needle-phobe, so this is extra special—and shove you back into the machine for another 15 minutes. This is to let your brain cook a little longer. Finally, you get out and put the metal jewelry back in your body. You look at the nurse warily when she says, “Drink lots of water the next few days to…uh…flush that stuff out of your system quickly,” and check your day planner just to see if it is, in fact, Phobia Day, and you had simply forgotten. Sign up today! See what you’re made of.

…No, literally, you get to look at what your brain is made of.

But mostly, it was noteworthy because I got to dye and paint gorgeous, sexy, wonderful Easter eggs with my darling gentleman companion. And then make deviled eggs for the first time. Bedeviled eggs. Well, I guess my sister made part of them. Or most of them. But I boiled the eggs, damn it, and I’m pretty sure I was the one who bedeviled them.

Deviled eggs. This needs a more dramatic name. Hmm. Sataniceggs? Lucifeggs? Beelzebeggs? All superior words. While my sister was I was working on making the deviled eggs, I got to wondering why they’re called that. They seem harmless enough, and eating one has never whipped me into a hedonistic, clothes-ripping-off, sexually depraved, demonic and shrieking frenzy. Not like eating apples…

Apparently it’s a cooking term that dates back centuries, and it merely refers to the eggs having a little spice to them. I guess spice = hot = devil, and so these eggs with spice were deviled eggs (or feel free to term them divinity eggs now, if you wish to bring them to a church picnic or something).

Interesting. Well. Had I known that it was simply about spice, I wouldn’t have invoked the dark forces into the sweet relish. Really, this should be a special note in the recipe directions. I mean, sorry, relatives, for that unpleasant evil egg experience. Honestly, it would have been fine if someone had remembered to get the salt blessed this year. So, I blame you guys.

Tangent. Back on track now. So this whole eggy process was a totally fun one. The thing is, I haven’t dyed eggs in years, so it was really fucking lovely. My darling gentleman companion and I had about 15 eggs to play with, and we dyed, and sponge-painted, and then hand-painted egg after glorious egg. This was such a charming good time, I might just coax him into doing it every weekend. We’ll have cholesterol problems that could take down horses or other large, sweaty beasts, but we’ll have created 52 batches of perfect, gleefully temporary edible art. Good plan.

By the by, I will post pictures as soon as I get them developed, probably this week. See, back in the day, people used to use cameras that were run on this thin, shiny stuff called film. You could go to the store and buy a cardboard-covered camera with film in it, and take pictures. Then you’d wait for your pictures to come out of a machine all overexposed and crappy, and you’d gladly pay too much for them. Being the antique-lover, I used one such product to capture our magical Beelzebegg day, so I have to wait for them to be ready to put online. Next post. Promise.

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Jar brain

December 21, 2009

Fluid in the brain
renders it bloated and inconsistent
like soggy cereal.
Sloppily mudded into a cold ceramic bowl,
left to sit for too long.
Novocain
It deadens the process
of careful vivisection, and rapid illumination,
and tinkering with circuits, and the longing to do so.
Poor brain; addled and rotting—
a lemon and a liar.
And suspended.
Watching all this through the television
The special yard sale episode
where keen-eyed scavengers
take all the old stuff away. Useful stuff,
to some.
Poor brain, stunted and stinking
drawing attention to its inactivity through inactivity.
Jar brain
unlabeled and shelved
a science casualty, a staminal burnout
a failure of a furnace
In a body dimmed frigid (with occasional shocks).