Baking Cookies

Step 1: Cream shortening and sugars; add eggs, water, vanilla and mix. Add dry ingredients and chocolate chips.

Step 2: Shape dough into 1" balls. Place 2" apart on a greased cookie sheet.

Step 3: Bake at 325 degrees F for 12-15 minutes. Serve.

Ultimate

My sister Liz is visiting us for the summer, and she brought with her a passion for Ultimate Frisbee--a passion she is diligently attempting to pass on to my daughter. Here is Diana's first foray into the world of Frisbee:

I've got just the thing

A problem? Great! I have the solution! Lose your keys? Lost-key paging devices. Miss an assignment at school? Get a palm pilot. It solved all my problems. Lonely? There should never be more than two lonely people. Stop complaining and go find someone.

So, go ahead, I'm listening.

Please, no need to go on. I already understand. It's a simple thing really. (So simple, I'm a little surprised you would bring it up. Good thing I'm patient.) I've seen it many times. This is what you should do. Tell you what, I'll even help.

Really? You don't like the idea? That's ridiculous. Can you hear yourself talking? The flaws in your arguments only support me and make you look, honestly, a little foolish. Maybe you didn't hear me--let me say that again. Clearer this time.

Why wouldn't she listen? So stubborn. Just not willing. I did my part.

I guess I could have said it that way. Yes, those words are preciser. That's what I really meant to say. This intonation could have made it sharper. If only I had said that, she would have seen clearer. I'm more convinced than ever. This is what she needs to do, or she'll miss out.

Don't worry, I'll make sure to bring it up next time. She'll thank me.

several months and counting...

Today was my five-months-since-radiation, eight-months-since-chemo, and four-months-since-the-last-doctor's appointment doctor's appointment. As this qualifies as a significant milestone in the life of any former cancer-care consumer, I am providing an update on the status of my health.

I just did a personal evaluation, and it's not all that great. One day before my 25th birthday, and I can only struggle through 2 push-ups, 10 sit-ups, and absolutely no pull-ups. This is especially depressing when you compare it to the National Physical Fitness Standards for children: Fifty percent of six-year-old girls can do 6 push-ups, 23 curl ups, and 1 pull-up. I am put to shame.

It shouldn't be a surprise. My only exercise is watering my plants, which I do sporadically, and my diet consists mostly of ice cream bars and frozen egg rolls. But on a lighter note: five months since radiation, eight months since chemo, and four months since the last doctor's appointment, I am still cancer-free. You may all celebrate by buying me a gym membership.

For the marriage

After Diana went to bed, we got in the car. We got there early and sat in the waiting room. When we met him, we all sat on couches and talked. He wanted to know why we were there at this time of our lives. We explained that we weren't getting any less busy and just decided to do it. I guess that answer didn't satisfy him. He pulled out some written surveys. What are the top five reasons you are here? Social anxiety? Marriage problems? Self confidence? What kind of music do you listen to? Ryan had to know to be able to help us, but the questions seemed strangely uncomfortable. We just wanted to have fun. Isn't that why everyone signs up for dance classes?

They wouldn't tell us their prices on the internet or the phone. And they wouldn't tell us in person until after the lesson, so we knew it would be expensive and we knew this lesson was a sales pitch. But, it was fun anyway. First, he convinced us that we could dance by having us walk forward, backward, left and right - while holding his hand. By the time it was over, Emily and I could do the a waltz box step (albeit stiff) and the six steps for a simple under the arm spin. Emily was accused of excellent rhythm and I was treated fragile - he probably assumed that I was dragged there. It was fun and we finished filling out a lesson report card.

We'll do it again, but we probably won't drop out of school and tap into our 401K. We're just not that dedicated.

Family Portraits in San Diego

Last weekend, we drove to San Diego to celebrate the end of Warren's winter semester class. IT WAS AWESOME.

California is pretty cool. I could see myself living there on the following conditions:

1. Everyone would have to stop working out and gain some body fat. It seemed like every person we saw could enter the Boston marathon next week. Intimidating.

2. The government needs to step in and pay for food and housing so I can afford to go to Sea World.

and, 3. Someone has to ease traffic by inventing the Star Trek transporter machine.

What do you think, give it fifty years? Maybe we'll retire to Sunny California.

At some point during our trip, all three of us tried to take a self-portrait-style family picture. I took the first one at Mission Beach, Diana took the second on the Lord Hornblower cruise ship, and Warren took the third at the San Diego temple. Even though Warren's turned out the best, it looks like Diana has some real artistic sense--a photographer in the making. If you'd like to commission her for your own vacation family portraits, I believe she has very reasonable rates. Unfortunately, she doesn't travel well, so plan accordingly.

Growing up

Growing up, I adopted stuffed animals and dolls from anywhere and everywhere and gave them names and birthdays. My Cabbage Patch doll was the matriarch of these hodgepodge adoptees. She had yellow yarn hair, blue eyes, and a hard plastic head with permanent dimples. She occupied the place of honor on my pillow and supervised every stuffed animal parade and tea party.

One traumatic nine-year-old evening I wandered into my bedroom to find two of my Barbies lying mutilated on the floor, covered with blue ink mustaches and tattoos. I followed laughter to my parents' room across the hall, but froze in horror at the door. My brothers--Dave certainly, but there may have been others--my brothers had shaved my precious Cabbage Patch doll and drawn a face on the back of her bald head, leaving a fringe of yellow yarn hanging on her new chin as a grotesque beard. Cruelty! Murder! And they were laughing about it. I sobbed; I screamed; I grabbed the doll. Part of me remembers swinging her mutilated plastic head and trying to crush Dave's skull. I have bad aim. No one cared.

Mom had one answer for all of these atrocities: "Don’t worry, your brothers won’t be so mean to you when they grow up." Right. I wanted the lot of them hung up by their thumbs screaming, and she wanted me to wait ten years before I could play with my stuffed animals in peace.

But she was right. They grew up. Me too. By then I wasn't playing with my dolls; instead I was embracing teenage awkwardness. I remember proudly toting my whole locker in a ridiculous stack and spending fifteen minutes per class ostentatiously searching for each handout that I needed. I was pathetically starved for attention. I like to think that there were some who mercifully said, “It’s OK. She’ll grow up," instead of, "What a loser." It took a while, but I did grow up.

Last week, I went to the dentist. The hygienist looked at my file and said, “Are you on any medications? I see last time you were here, you were doing chemotherapy.”

I answered, “Oh, no, I’m done with that.I did radiation in January, and now just regular check-ups.”

“Wow,” she said. “You really grow from something like that.” She said it so casually that I wanted to laugh, as if cancer was a patch that I could sew on to my Boy Scout sash, maybe right next to "having a baby" or "death of a loved one." Cancer was useless; it didn't even give me radioactive superpowers. Or maybe I’m just block-headed and couldn't even learn something when it’s injected into my right arm. Maybe I should try again?

One of these days I’m going to learn how to be a mother. I’m going to stop obsessively checking Facebook, anxiously engage in a good cause, and do many good things of my own free will. One of these days I’ll grow up. Thank goodness Warren's the merciful type. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep trying.