EastGirlsWest

One of the cute and charming things about my sister: she’s occasionally out of the loop on some of the basic, cultural touchpoints that bond those of us in our socio-economic cohort.

Like ordering coffee, for instance.

We woke up the other day to the painful realization that we were out of caffeinated beans. I discovered this when I stumbled over to the coffee maker to pour myself a cup of the sweet nectar that The Betrothed prepares for us every morning, and he said “we’re out of caffeine.” He drinks decaf, and did not share my devastation.

Tay and I modified our pajama outfits just enough to pass public muster and shuffled up to Starbucks a few blocks away.

Upon arrival Tay has to spend a few minutes actually reviewing the menu over the counter. There is some evident indecision, and the distinct look of unfamiliarity in her eyes.

“Um, do you have soy?” Tay asks.

The barista smiles at me, somewhat conspiratorially, as if to say “duh, of course everyone in the whole world knows Starbucks has soy.” And the thing is, she’s right. EVERYONE in the whole world knows Starbucks has soy. Except. Tay.

“Okay. Um…I think I want a chai, but with soy, and cold.”

“So, you want an iced soy chai latte?”

“Yeah…I think so. Is your chai green or black?”

At this point, I have to jump in. Barista is looking confused, because obviously the entire concept that chai is an actual tea that comes in different varieties is lost on her.

I say, “Tay, it’s a actually a mix.”

Tay now looks terrified. She’s still pre-coffee, has barely been able to communicate her needs due to the language barrier (she does NOT speak Starbuckese), and clearly can’t face a reorder. In the meantime, the barista has pulled out the box of chai mix so Tay can inspect the ingredients. She reads and reconsiders.

“I mean, I guess just some kind of decaf, iced.”

The barista leans over quite seriously now, and in a low voice queries, “Where do you usually go?” - with a look of pained disbelief on her face.

Again, the communication falls apart here. Tay is oblivious that the real point of the question is the woman’s shock that there is anyone on god’s green earth who doesn’t have experience ordering a grande iced decaf at the most ubiquitous corner establishment ever.

“Oh. We’ll, I don’t. I just moved here.”

“Really? From where? Mars?”

I’m not kidding. She actually accused Tay of being an alien. And while it is most likely true that Tay is indeed the LAST Earthling in the universe who can’t use the word venti in a sentence…I actually think it’s kind of cool.

On Huffington Post today, P. Diddy on George Bush:

It’s like my man ain’t got no marbles up there…Ain’t nobody feelin’ this war.

(thanks to Angela for pointing this out)

Just read this and am so excited! Michael Moore is returning to the screen, this time with a look at our fantastic health care industry here in America.

On a related health note, several people have written to inquire about how my new medication is working, so I think it’s time for a report:

First things first - I’ve gotten used to stabbing myself in the thigh with a needle! The first few times I did it were a little traumatizing. I’d pump myself up to put the needle in, do it fairly easily, and then think “holy shit, I just stuck a needle in my thigh” and start freaking out. Then my hand would begin shaking which made it difficult to inject the medication. Now, a few weeks later, I’m much less dramatic about it. Also, I have an Enbrel buddy system! My sister, who now lives with us, is on the same medication. Last week, we sat down together and ate popsicles while we administered our weekly dosage. The Betrothed says, “It’s like goddamn Trainspotting around here.”

So is it working? Well, it’s definitely doing something. After what I put my body through on the Ireland trip (15 hours on planes, not enough sleep, all day on my feet - stomping around on 500 year old stone floors), I really should have felt like crap. But, I didn’t. Instead, I maintained my standard level of feeling mildly uncomfortable.

Since then, I’ve gradually started to improve. Swelling has diminished to the point where I can frequently see the outline of the bone structure in my hands (this is big!), and my ankles are visible as such. I’m noticably less tired, and feeling less stiffness joint pain. It’s helping, but I still have a ways to go before I feel more like my pre-RA self. Of course, part of what I need to continue to work on is accepting that I will never feel exactly like my pre-RA self…

My rheumatologist said it could take anywhere from one to eight weeks for this to really kick in - and I’ve heard stories of it taking even longer. So I’m trying to focus on the positive changes so far, and be patient. In the meantime, my sister has me on an incredibly healthy meal plan, a course of supplements so extensive it required a chart, and an exercise regime that is nothing short of cruel. I have no doubt her (attentive, loving) bossiness is having a positive impact, as well.

So basically I’ve spent the last year feeling like I was trapped in the body of an 80-year-old woman. And now I’m feeling more like a 55-year-old woman. And as soon as I get back to 35 you will DEFINITELY hear about it.

Like many of us, I love reading feature articles about other people’s homes. The New York Times real estate section, Dwell, Domino, Elle Decor…this is my porn. And the photos! Oh, the photos! For years I would flip through the pages of these magazines, staring at the psychotic perfection of each residence, thinking “who ARE these people?”. Because really, if your house looks that good, and your life sounds that good, and you are actually plucked from among those who have it THAT GOOD to be profiled in a publication that other people pay money for in order to read about your sickly perfect existence…well, in that case, you have CLEARLY — at some point — sold your soul in exchange.

Then I got into a relationship with The Betrothed. And fell in love with his very intact soul. And eventually moved out of my thift-store chic, one-bedroom, third floor walk-up apartment and into his beautifully furnished, photogenic home.

Two days ago, said home was featured in SD Home, the local, quarterly glossy published by the Union Tribune. We are now those people.

(go here for an easier-to-read version of the article)

The day this magazine landed on my coffee table, I settled on the couch to read the piece and admire my home as it’s never looked before or since. Then I happened to glance up at the place where the ceiling meets the wall, and noticed it was moving. Teeming with a parade of ants, marching en masse from somewhere hidden in the ceiling to somewhere secret in the wall three feet away. So gross.

Now the truth is, we’ve been fighting the ants for weeks, and from what I hear from my friends and neighbors in San Diego, we’re not alone. Our main battleground is the master bathroom, but they seem intent on exploring the entire place. With all this experience, you think I’d be more skilled with the RAID can by now. But the ceiling is tricky. I sprayed the ants in transit above me, but their corpses started falling onto my head, along with a fine mist of insect killer. Even more gross.

So with dead insects in my hair and poison in my lungs, I again sat down to read about how great it is here.

As you know, I work in television. I am no stranger to the miracle of lighting, the tricks of the camera, the outrageous time that can be spent preparing a space to be photographed. But I have to say, it’s very different when it’s the place you inhabit every day. The place where a layer of crumbs coats the kitchen floor, a film of toothpaste covers the bathroom sink, and a pile of dirty laundry lives permanantly in the corner of the bedroom. Don’t get me wrong, I think this house is wonderful. I love living here and feel very lucky to do so. And while it’s never spotless and shining, it is relatively clean on a regular basis. But when I saw the photos it was if I was looking at the Bizarro World version of my home. And really, it would be even more fun to live in THAT version.

I love the article that Ann Jarmusch wrote. It’s an accurate relflection of how much care and hard work The Betrothed has put into making this house a comfortable and special home. And the photos! They are gorgeous. But in the interest of full disclosure, I feel there could have been a disclaimer at the end — one that said something like: Before these photos were taken, Hanson and The Betrothed cleaned until their fingers bled. Random crap was moved off of shelves and counters and hidden in closets. Flowers were purchased and put in vases that are never used. Furniture was moved. And when the photographer arrived, the windows were still not photo ready, and his assistant had to pull out the Windex and paper towels and clean them himself. (Hanson was mortified).

Slane Castle, County Meath, Ireland

I really was there. You can spot me in the lower left corner, in a red sweater. The photo was taken on day three, right before the concert rehearsal started.

The Bad

• This castle was the ONLY thing I saw in Ireland, besides my hotel room and the Dublin airport.
• The food. Served up in a tent on the castle grounds by two older Irish women who conformed to every stereotype of the Mean Lunch Lady. Every meal included boiled potatoes, and some kind of vaguely stewed meat.
• Severe sleep deprivation, long work days, and no small amount of stress.

The Good

• Our shoot, and the entire production, went really well. Can’t wait to see the footage! Look for the Celtic Woman concert on your local PBS station in December.
• Did mention I was at a castle? In Ireland?

Fun Fact

• U2 recorded The Unforgettable Fire in this ballroom in the castle.