EastGirlsWest

I’ve been writing this blog long enough that it’s surprising I’ve devoted very little time and space to one of the most important things in my life - food.

The first time The Betrothed joined me for Hanson Family Vacation (a week at my mother’s house in Cape Cod) he was stunned by our daily, family ritual. It goes something like this:

8am - wake up, drink coffee
8:30am - starting talking about what we’re going to make for dinner
9-11am - further refine dinner plans
12-3pm - shop for dinner
4pm - cocktail hour
5pm - begin cooking dinner
7pm - eat dinner

Next day, repeat. Unless we eat out, which requires just as much research and planning, minus the shopping and preparation time. When I say “family ritual”, by the way, I mean me, my mother and my sister.

Left to my own devices, I’m not that bad. And let’s face it - only during vacation does ANYONE have that kind of time to focus on dinner. The Betrothed appreciates a fine meal, good cocktail, and civilized dining in general. But he made it quite clear that he would not participate in discussing dinner before mid-afternoon. We were on our own, he said. There was no reason to spend an entire day thinking about dinner.

Now my sister lives with us, and she’s a true partner in crime when it comes to food obsession. She’s also an excellent cook, and has graciously taken over much of the dinner preparation…which me and The Betrothed have become quickly accustomed to. Our nights have gone from just dinner to a culinary event. One night we might sit down to fresh spring rolls with home-made sauce. Another night, seared ahi with black sesame seeds. Every salad has fresh fennel. Every salad dressing is made in the kitchen moments before we sit down. Food used to be important. Now it’s a delight.

Two weekends ago, at the early hour of 10:30am, The Betrothed turned to me and asked, “so what’s for dinner?”

Note to readers: during my long, inexcusable absence from writing, I hope you’ve at least been looking at Angela’s phenomenal pictures! Hearst Castle, The Madonna Inn, freaky squirrels, adorable infants, cute felines, presidential candidates and even a shot of Yours Truly and The Betrothed.

I love having a friend who takes photos. And is really, really good at it.

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.

I’m checking in from Dublin right now - where I just arrived and am so delirious and desperate for sleep I should NOT be blogging. And with the new “no liquids” rule, 13 hours on planes has left my eyeballs so dry and red I think they might disintegrate. In fact, I can feel it happening.

Here for three days to shoot a PBS pledge special with Celtic Woman at this castle. There’s more to tell, but…can’t. form. sentences. More soon.

In other news, my sister has moved in! On Day One she wore a huge studded belt with a skull and crossbones buckle. Although, she did give the nod of approval to a few things in my closet, and I found many items in hers that can make the crossover.

Okay, time for me to sleep. With any luck I’ll be on schedule with this time zone just as I pack up to leave on Friday.

So last night, post-elliptical, Angela and I were lying on mats in the stretch area of the gym. She’s come up with a new combination of sit-ups that make me deeply unhappy. And as I’m panting through them, wondering if I might die right there and then in the middle of 24-Hour Fitness, she starts counting our reps out loud in an unusually perky tone.

Angela is many things: brilliant, gorgeous, funny, graceful. But perky? It’s not the Angela I know.

So anyway, she’s counting. And in our many, many months of going to the gym together I’ve never heard her do this. At least not in such a loud, happy voice. As I’m trying to reconcile all this in my mind, I suddenly hear her say, “Wow. All this counting is bringing me back to my aerobics days.”

I stop. Because I’m stunned, and also because I can’t possibly use my abdominal muscles to hold my legs and torso away from the floor for another second.

Thud. “What?”

“The counting. It’s reminding me of my aerobics days.”

I consider what this might mean. And then understand exactly what it DOES mean. “Oh my god. Were you an aerobics instructor?”

If you don’t know Angela, trust me on this one: it’s a shocking and hilarious piece of information. Not to mention that all this time, when I thought I was going to the gym with someone as equally exercise-challenged as myself, I’ve been panting on the elliptical next to a former aerobics instructor! I’m horrified.

So after another ab workout - which consists of me laughing so hard that is hurts - we resume our sit-ups. And now she’s really laying it on thick, barking counts at me like she’s Jamie Lee Curtis in “Perfect”. And even though I know she taught in the 90’s, and she swears she only wore shorts and a t-shirt, I now cannot stop picturing Angela in leg warmers.

And finally, I have one. It arrived today, packed in ice, with some fun accessories to boot.

I’m still too afraid to take off the cap and look at the needle, but I go to the doctor tomorrow for my first injection/training session, so that will happen soon enough. Hopefully, my rheumatoid arthritis won’t know what hit it!

Have to keep this medication in the fridge. The Betrothed says, “Gee, I hope I don’t accidentally put it on my sandwich.”

Angela and I decided that the three sweetest words in the English language are “begin cool down.”

Also, we both have a HBO problem. There are three episodes of Deadwood left, and I’m already feeling the pain of withdrawl. Meanwhile, the only thing that got Angela through our workout was the promise of starting season two of The Wire last night. When I left her in the parking garage she was twitching in anticipation of her trip to the video store to rent the DVD’s. All this because she couldn’t possibly wait another 24 hours for it to show up On Demand. Season Four premieres on September 10th, and it can’t come soon enough.

And finally, according to Vanity Fair, Sofia Coppola is out there living the life we’d like to have. BFF with Wes Andersen? We’d like that. Fashion muse to Marc Jacobs? We volunteer. Then we’d have much more exciting weekends to discuss during Monday’s elliptical time, making the whole ordeal go by faster.

Begin cool down.

Okay, this may be the best iPod accessory yet.