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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Rural Idealism Fruit

February 24, 2010

So, lately I’ve been lamenting the rural and suburban life after having moved out of my darling city into the Not So Great Beyond—the greater Jolietland area (Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Why do we say ‘greater Chicagoland area’?). And frankly, all my whining about it is actually nauseating me. I get it, I get it; it’s not as busy out here, not as walkable, more conservative, less possessing of independently owned restaurants or new things to do, I’m more conspicuous here, and nearly everyone moves at a glacial speed, regardless of what they’re doing. Yes, I know. It’s not a glittering metropolis and cultural haven.

The thing is, truthfully—it’s not so bad. In fact, parts of it are really nice. Especially when the crazy snow/ice/winter thing stops and the cabin fever ends, the daylight lasts longer, and I no longer have to wield a snow-scraping device of any kind for another 7 months. Probably.

It isn’t bad. It’s kind of…errrm…quaint. Kind of comfortable in a way the city is not. So. In the spirit of positivity, and in order to counter the darker parts of my brain that continually make lists of the things I loathe about residing outside of the city, I am going to list a few of the things I do actually really enjoy (I initially typed “brian” here instead of “brain” and almost kept it, because I sort of relish the idea of possessing a brian who has dark parts and makes lists for me of things that irritate him. But that would sadly be a lie. I do not possess a dark, list-making brian. Christmas? Anyone?).

1.) This morning I went into the gas station at an ungodly early hour to use the ATM during a commute of ridiculously bad traffic on Route 6 and another day of mind-numbing snowfall (thank you, February). On my way out, an older gentleman I don’t know was coming in, saw me, and held the door open for me. After I thanked him and was making my merry way out, he smiled warmly at me, and not in a quick hold-frozen-fake-smile-for-three-obligated-seconds smile—a genuine expression. Then he turned around before shutting the door to wish me a really nice day and to tell me to be careful not to slip out there; it’s an icy one. This does not happen in the city, and if it does, I’m convinced it’s rural people who’ve gone up there for one reason or another to gaze and reckon about.

2.) While you don’t generally have the convenience of walking everywhere, you always have the convenience of driving. And if this doesn’t sound as nice, consider this when you’re sick, when you need to get to someone who’s sick, when you have a headache, when you’re exhausted from work, or it’s 30 degrees, or 20, or 2, or you need to get somewhere fast. Think of always having some parking spot you can grab in a matter of minutes where your car won’t get towed. Think of no city tickets, no meters, no L seats with a hand-written sign on them that says “I think this is urine; Don’t sit!”. Think of leaving your windows down and cruising around in the summer with the radio going, not concerned about having your purse in a car with an open window. Think of driving for long, relaxing stretches of time when traffic isn’t slowing you down. Bloody fantastic.

3.) I can go to certain grocery stores out here and buy spices for a dollar each. A dollar!! And that is the tip of the frugal iceberg, my friends. The frugal, frugal iceberg.

4.) If you get antsy at night, most of the bartenders around here will remember your name and your drink, often as you are walking in, and beers are frequently $2.

5.) Community theater. I went to a play down at Bicentennial Park with my darling male escort last week, and it was great. I mean, you know…community theater…but great. Ah, how I miss it.

6.) I love country roads. I love looking at the cornfields for long periods of time. It is calming, restorative, quiet. Alternatively, if you’re not driving through fields, there is green everywhere. And I’m not an outdoors enthusiast by any means—most things that exist in nature will make me turn into a human Braille plate with hives if I touch them or breathe next to them too heartily. Nonetheless, the greenery is much more relaxing than concrete, no matter what soothing reaction the Art Deco statue on top of the concrete is meant to evoke.

7.) The number of places I can legally walk barefoot (or at least where people hardly notice) is exponentially higher. Yes, I have hippie feet. No, I’m not a hippie. I just like maintaining a well-calloused foot; sue me. I assume I’m conditioning myself to swiftly climb trees in the event of a ground assault of some sort. Hey. I’ve seen When Animals Attack.

8.) I’m not terrified to listen to country or oldies music loudly or with the windows open when driving out here. Not that I listen to country much at all anyway (I pretty much just love the Chicks and a few others), though I do enjoy oldies quite regularly. It’s an irrational fear, probably, that keeps me from doing this in the city. I’m not sure why I’ve always felt that I couldn’t—I have this very convincing fantasy that I’d be parked at a stop light in the city, a song that seems glaringly out of place would come on my radio, and every pedestrian, bus driver, and car owner would turn to stare furiously at me. Possibly bullets would fly, and impassioned people would start mobbing my car’s feeble frame. I think when you get used to the great gaping anonymity that the city easily provides you, you get all comfortable holing up in it. And anything that breaks that anonymity is startling and sort of shatters this little mini-environment you maintain as a 50 or 100-yard radius around you wherever you go. This mini-environment you create to feel contained and at ease, to keep your stasis when lights, people, and blaring noises assault your senses at all conceivable moments. You learn to sort of tune them out of your immediate mini-environment, or tune them down, and go about your business without the notice or scrutiny of others. But breaking your anonymity also ruptures the boundaries of your environment, and everyone suddenly looking at you leaves you feeling alone at the mercy of the elements for awhile. Umm, that’s the best way I can explain it. Irrational fear of having loud country music is eliminated when out of the city. Big plus. Moving on.

9.) People only ever honk at you out here when they’re about to run you over. Consequently, I buy less ibuprofen.

10.) This area has the monopoly on people I love per square foot, and a few of them in particular. So, logically, I have a greater mathematical likelihood of running into someone who doesn’t piss me off me than up in the city (this, of course, takes into account my notion that I’ve probably met everyone I’m ever going to like already, and so all strangers count, for this equation, as people who would piss me off). Irrefutable logic.

There. A list of things I like about it. May I plant this seed of optimism into the…fertile soils of…collective consciousness and hope it bears fruit sooner than later. Rural idealism fruit. The…most…succulent of ALL fru—okay, I’m done.