Oak Pollen, thou hast bested me for the last time!

Sniff. SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFF.

I loathe allergies. Usually we coexist and tolerate each other's existence while maintaining a cool distance. I'm usually aided in this endeavor by my friend, Claritin.

BUT CLARITIN HAS FAILED ME. I am a raging pile of snot and gooey eyeballs and sniffing. I am the opposite of cute! I am atrocious! My left eyeball is swollen and red and puffy and A MUTANT EYE.

I hereby vow to never breathe outside air again. I am becoming a recluse. Except I will still invite people over and have them walk through a decontamination station (ha.) before I shower them with affection. I will buy sunlamps and grow my own vegetables inside. I will take online classes. I will skype my friends and family.

I WILL NEVER BREATHE OAK POLLEN AGAIN!!!!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go put eyedrops in my mutant eye.

Don't Take my Schtick.

It is no secret that I am fond of the Jews. (My favorite is Jesus.) They have given us many, many things that have enriched our lives for the better. Things such as challa bread (Mmmmmmm.), matzo ball soup (double Mmmmmmm.), Fran Drescher, and Andy Samberg.

However, the best thing to ever come from the Jewish community (besides Hollywood) is, undoubtedly, Yiddish.

Oy vey! I'm plotzing! I'm verklempt! What a schmegegge! Oy, you're such a schmuck! Would you like a schmear for your bagel? This isn't madness, this is meshugeneh!

And, of all the delightful expressions in Yiddish that I LOVE to say (on a daily basis), my favorite Yiddish word is: Schtick.

Schtick. Say it aloud; Schtick. Doesn't it just roll off the tongue so delightfully? Anyway, that is really all I had to say today. That is really all I have to say any day. Schtick. Schtick. schtickschtickschtick.

Shabbat Shalom!

For Your Son

He had his ear pierced, even though he was older. We used to joke with our dad about getting an earring in his 50s, like Harrison Ford. Piercing your ear after your 20s doesn’t make you seem cool and hip, it makes you seem like you never quite outgrew that foolish mindset.

His eyes were a deep brown, like the fertile land America was built upon. They seemed to contain as much history as the land. His face was creased; not quite wrinkled but not smooth either. His clothes were non-descript. Who notices the small leaf next to the mighty tree?

“Excuse me, Miss,” He said, stopping me on the street. “Are you familiar with the area?” I glanced around, a bit wary of being approached by a stranger, even though it was broad daylight.

“Yes,” I said, hesitant.

He seemed to have more and more lines in his face. It was as if someone had cut into a great tree and started counting the rings on the surface of the trunk, and with each numbered ring, a matching line appeared on his face.

“I’ve been trying to buy a bus ticket all day,” he said, keeping a respectable distance. I relaxed. “I’ve been to the Greyhound station and the ticket is thirty dollars. I’ve tried to go to some places around here and some of the local churches but everything is closed because of some festival.”

“So you’re trying to find somewhere to buy a Greyhound ticket?” I asked, not sure what the problem was. He heaved a great sigh and looked at me with those ancient, deep eyes.

“Here’s the situation: I’ve been in the hospital downtown all week.” He hesitated for a second. “My son passed away this morning-”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry,” I said, not able to look him in the eye anymore. I glanced down and saw, for the first time that he was holding a stuffed elephant. My heart broke. I looked back to his face and he hid his eyes beneath his hands, the same thing all men do when they are overcome with emotion. After a moment he moved his hand and continued his story.

“We’re originally from San Antonio and my son’s body is being shipped back there. I’ve been to all the places to get a ticket.”

I was very confused. I wasn’t sure what he was asking me. Did he want money? Did he want directions? Did he want a ride?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really don’t know anything about the Greyhound busses.”

The man just sighed and looked at me with those haunted, haunting eyes.

“I have the worst headache. And I have to get back to San Antonio.” He started to back away.

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know what to tell you…” I couldn’t even make sense of the conversation before it was over. He continued on his way, and I continued on mine.

I walked briskly, the summer sun shining down on me, and my heart slowly started to crumble. I wanted to turn back and run to his side. I wanted to hug him, to offer him the fourteen dollars burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted to let him talk to me, to cry to me, to tell me about his son. But I didn’t do any of those things.

I kept walking.

Why didn’t I help him? Was I afraid? Was I confused? Was it because I thought he might get violent? Because he was a stranger? Because he was an older man? Because he was black?

Why didn’t I help him? I’m so sorry, sir. I’m sorry that you felt compelled to reach out to me for compassion and all I could muster was a shallow apology. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I’ll never know if you’re okay. I’m sorry I didn’t think of any of these things until it was too late.

I hope you got where you needed to go. I hope someone was kinder than I was, more compassionate than I was. I hope your heart heals and that you learn to accept the loss of your son. I hope you know you were a great father and that your son was proud to be your son.

I hope your son took pride in being your son and made you proud, as I have failed my Father by failing you. I hope he was a better son than I am daughter.

I hope every father, omnipotent or earth-bound, who has lost a son, can forgive me. It will be a long time before I can forgive myself.

I’m so sorry.

Pride Goeth Before Massive Embarrassment and Public Humiliation

At least I wish it would.

I am sick and tired of people and pride. I myself can be prideful at times. I am not claiming that I do not fall victim to this terrible pandemic. I just feel like pride-fullness is running rampant in our society right now.

From people judging Tiger Woods (Ummm... am I the only one who doesn't care? And didn't care about him when he was a golfer? Is that rude? Am I tipsy? Answer to all of these: yes.) to people who are 20 and yet feel entitled to tons of life perks, I am tired of it.

No, this is not the life update I promised. And that's coming, I assure you. This is just weighing really heavily on my heart tonight and I wanted to address the issue.

Not that I have anything meaningful to say or that I can even propose a solution for this problem. I just wanted to acknowledge that it exists.

And that I care. Just not really about Tiger Woods.

And Like A Phoenix From the Ashes, I Rise...

I will be vigilant! I will be constant! I. WILL. RISE.

Queue dramatic music, lead to crescendo, annnnnnd: Scene!

I know, it's been an inordinate amount of time since I've updated. But I had to keep you cats guessing. I had to stay one jump ahead of my enemies. One jump ahead of the lawmen. That's all, and that's no joke. These guys don't appreciate I'm broke!!

...Riffraff! Street rat! Scoundrel! Take that!

Okay, Aladdin quotes comes to a close. But as I sit here, eating processed Kraft cheese, drinking $5 sale wine, and listening to the subtle boom boom boom of the drunk party in another apartment, I have to ask you: How's your life been?

I'll be updating on mine soon.

'Til then, cheers!

Just like Ye Olde Housewife

I wish I had a windowsill upon which to cool my pie.

Except I made cheesecake and not a pie.

And is it just me, or is windowsill a really weird word?

In other recent news, I am just ready to curl up with some new beauty products, slather on some lovin', get in my pajamas and call it a life. This week has plumb wore me out. So much so that my East Texan is coming out of hiding. Although I've only lived in South and Central Texas and don't so much have an accent...

The point of that delightful (is your eyebrow cocked in skepticism? Mine too.) anecdote was to tell you that this is kind of going to be a cop-out post. Which will actually please some of you, because it will be way more informative than my posts usually are. Unless you count an inordinate amount of injuries, illnesses, and freak accidents like simulated face herpes. Which, who does?

So without further ado, I give you The Pumpkin Cheesecake to end all pumpkin cheesecakes. It's a Paula Deen recipe, ya'll, so you know it's good. I refer to her as the Patron Saint of Dessert.

Step 1: Combine all things sinful and mash them down into a crust. Add more butter if you're feeling footloose and fancy free or if your pants feel loose.


Step 2: Get frustrated that the cream cheese isn't beating smooth even though it's ROOM TEMPERATURE and add the pumpkin puree anyway. Try not to think about what it looks like. Also do not taste this. Cream cheese and pumpkin do not a pumpkin cheesecake make.



Step 3: Get excited when it beats smooth because you did things like add eggs and sour cream. Get disappointed when it still doesn't taste good.

Step 4: Add a bunch of dry ingredients and helpful things like sugar.

Step 5: Mix it all together. With love.

Step 6: Get excited when it looks good when you pour it into your new springform pan.
Step 7: Pop the sucker in the oven for an hour. Notice your oven door looks like something out of a horror film.


Step 8: Admire the baked cheesecake that didn't crack! Let it cool in the oven for longer than you think it should take.Step 9: After letting it cool, take the cheesecake out of the oven at 3:17. A.M. This adds a certain flavor that can't be recreated when normal people walk the earth.

Step 10: Go to bed at 4:15 A.M. because the sucker is still not cool enough to go in the fridge. Set your alarm for 4:45 A.M. And cry.

Step 11: Wake up in a stupor and get out the plastic wrap. Remember to take photographs. Fail to notice if they're blurry.

Step 12: Drop the plastic wrap in your perfect cheesecake. Smear its uncracked, unmarred surface.

Step 13: Cry. Throw the offending wrap haphazardly over your shoulder. Decide to let the cheesecake go uncovered because Fridge is another one of those elusive 3 A.M. flavors that can only be harvested by fluorescent light while wearing dirty glasses and a frown.

Step 14: Put the cheesecake in the refridgerator and vow to cover the scraped part with homemade caramel and cinnamon whipped cream.

Step 15: Turn around and see what you've done to your kitchen. Cry.



Step 15: Stumble into bed at 5:00 A.M. Crying optional.


Here's the recipe. It really is worth the heartache.

Ingredients

Crust:

• 1 3/4 cups graham cracker crumbs
• 3 tablespoons light brown sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 stick melted salted butter

Filling:

• 3 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, at room temperature
• 1 (15-ounce) can pureed pumpkin
• 3 eggs plus 1 egg yolk
• 1/4 cup sour cream
• 1 1/2 cups sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/8 teaspoon fresh ground nutmeg
• 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
• 2 tablespoon all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

For crust:

In medium bowl, combine crumbs, sugar and cinnamon. Add melted butter. Press down flat into a 9-inch springform pan. Set aside.

For filling:

Beat cream cheese until smooth. Add pumpkin puree, eggs, egg yolk, sour cream, sugar and the spices. Add flour and vanilla. Beat together until well combined.

Pour into crust. Spread out evenly and place oven for 1 hour. Remove from the oven and let sit for 15 minutes. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 4 hours.

And Yea, though I walk through the valley of F, I will fear no D-

I am a terrible student.

This wasn't always the case. Somewhere between high school and college I realized hey! no supervision! No one knows if I don't study! No one knows if I don't go to class! and I became lazy.

Not only lazy, but complacent. By the grace of God, and the grace of God alone, I assure you, I have been able to achieve a slightly better-than-average GPA.

I can't count the number of understanding professors, the test questions that spring from the one page of notes I happened to glance over, the essay prompts that I was able to research ahead of time without having to go to class.

But I realized, enough is enough. What's the point in stressing myself out when I'm cramming or waiting for a test to begin, or WORSE, waiting for a test to be returned? If I would just budget my time a little better, I would have more time to do everything I am supposed to do and everything I want to do. I might even have time to, you know, bring glory and praise to the Lord.

So that's what I'm going to try to do.

So help me, God. Even though He already has.