TOO MUCH GINGER (Part II)

 Too much ginger?

Apologies. This was supposed to be a humorous post. I don’t know what it will turn out to be now. Anxiety has a way of taking over everything.

 

A couple of nights ago, I had a miserable sleep. It wasn’t much in terms of a sleep at all. Call it a miserable, prolonged awakening in lieu of sleep. I blamed pumpkin pie. It’s a seasonal scapegoat. (Really, when was the last time you ate pumpkin pie in February?) I figured I’d eaten too much pie over the course of the evening, but there were other possibilities too, if I broke the pie down into the particular ingredients. (This is the kind of thing I do during unwelcome, prolonged awakenings.) I’d gone heavy on the ginger which probably wasn’t great on the stomach. Too much nutmeg and cloves as well. The pie shell’s expiration date was two years ago, the egg whites’ Best Before date was five weeks ago, maybe six, and it’s possible both the pumpkin puree and the sweetened condensed milk were outdated, too. Maybe this was the type of pie TikTokkers eat on a dare after they get bored swallowing cinnamon. (Yes, I’d been overly generous on that spice as well.) I wasn’t, however, in the mood to make and post a video at three in the morning after wrestling pillows and sensing that dark circles had settled under my eyes. They’ve taken up permanent residence, but surely they were undergoing a fresh paint job for that football player look, only sad and scary.

 

Pumpkin pie probably didn’t deserve my late-night or next-day wrath. I’ve had four nights in a row with sleep taunting me. 

 

You sure you want it? 

 

Isn’t flopping, tossing pillows and wrestling with sheets and blankets much more fun?

 

All that movement burns calories, you know.

 

If sleep taunts, anxiety bullies. It’s been having great fun at my expense. I’ve been downing aspirin to subdue a headache that keeps popping up, today crossing over into the migraine zone. My stomach has been busy shooting pain and clenching innards to cause constant discomfort. My brain won’t slow down.

 

Sometimes there is no clear cause for an anxiety visit. It just shows up. No call ahead. No text. Quite rude, in fact. I’m here. You’re gonna want put on a pot of coffee. Maybe one of those big urns. 

 

This time, however, I know why it’s here. Evan and I are off on another trip, this time for three weeks. While I always get excited about travel, there are always a few matters that give me the worries beforehand. As I mentioned in my prior post, the one where I viewed pumpkin pie as a nemesis (sorry!), I don’t have a big enough suitcase for either the length of travel or the weather variability, with current temperatures ranging from a low of -15 in northern Colorado to 95 in Miami. I’m going suitcase shopping tonight.

 

The bigger issue is that I’ll be meeting Evan’s parents on this trip. It’s not just going to be a pleasant lunch at the Olive Garden wherein I search for more intelligent, conversation-extending ways to say, “Mmm, breadsticks!” We’re staying with them for a full week. And not just any week, for those of you familiar with the American calendar. We’re there for Thanksgiving, a much bigger to-do in the States than in Canada. Bigger than the Fourth of July, bigger than Groundhog Day—seriously, Hallmark, why haven’t you exploited that?—sometimes bigger than Christmas. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, star billing goes to the one your grown children show up for. Evan’s Colorado visit makes Thanksgiving the big one for 2022. 

 

That would be big and stressful enough since the boyfriend of nine months—Me!—is in tow and, good god, he’s a vegetarian. “But it’s Thanksgiving! He’ll at least have a little turkey, right? What do you mean he won’t eat the stuffing if it’s cooked in the bird? What the hell is mushroom gravy?”

 

If too much ginger is at play, the ginger is me, a big redhead who likes a few blond highlights. Call it a hunch, but I think they’re really excited I’m crashing Thanksgiving. 

 

But there’s the Open House first. I got the invitation on a group text. “Come say hello to Evan and James!” Evan later texted that his mom had selected “green jade moss and grass” for the color theme. My colors. I had to ask if he was serious. He wasn’t but my sense of humor suffers rapid decline when anxiety lurks. And Evan may need to learn when it’s the right time to joke around.

 

Open House, no joke.

 

Evan’s mom has stated she’s invited all Evan’s friends, but Evan insists they’re her friends. No matter to me. A houseful of strangers sounds like all kinds of fun. I’m an EXTREME introvert, by the way. 

 

Among the guests are Evan’s stepbrother and wife, driving in from Wyoming…or maybe the tip of Argentina. I don’t know. I’m only hearing half of what Evan says at this point, which happens to be the half that included him saying, “They’re MAGA people. But nice.” Hopefully there’s a hat rack in the front hall for them to hang their red caps. I will politely excuse myself to go to the bathroom if they mention Mar-a-Lago, the My Pillow Guy or start an impromptu rally, chanting, “Build that wall!” I may have to lie and say I’ve got overactive bladder syndrome. And diarrhea. 

 

Often at house gatherings, I drop to the floor and play with the dog. I’m in luck when it’s a slobbering golden retriever that rolls over and insists on a three-hour tummy rub. “Yes! Yes! Who’s a good boy?!” The nifty thing is that Evan’s mom is partial to miniature schnauzers like me. She’s had four, I’ve had three. But none of them will be available for a paw shake, much less a belly scratch. They’re all dead. Making the boyfriend’s mother cry is not cool at an open house. 

 

So…no dogs to keep me occupied. Evan’s parents have two cats now. I love all animals, but some not as much as others. Cats are clearly in the “not as much” cat-egory. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I admire cats from afar after getting scratched up by neighbors’ felines as a kid and cat-sitting a devil cat for one very long week in my thirties. “Yeah, I think she’s possessed,” my friend said after returning from his trip. No chance I’m going to crouch down and allow two Himalayans to draw blood from my face and arms during my big debutante affair. My sudden screams may cause a lot of troublesome red wine spillage.

 

Speaking of wine, Evan told his parents I don’t drink. He clarified by tagging on the word “much.” Critical add-on. But his brevity had already incited panic in his mother. “No turkey? No alcohol?! Is your boyfriend a mannequin?”

 

I drink. A glass, sometimes two. No one’s going to mistake me for a hardcore partier. I would think that’s a positive, especially at an open house. Wouldn’t want to break the Waterford crystal or Evan’s second-grade pottery collection, a charming set of ashtrays displayed on the living room hutch. (I too made ashtrays in elementary school. Such were the seventies. Did Philip Morris fund our arts programs?) If I have to, for the sake of making a good impression, I’ll allow generous pours to refill my wine glass and then dump the Chardonnay in the bathroom sink when I’m making another of my runs to duck out of a conversation about guns in churches. 

 

I just double-checked the open house invitation on my phone. It’s four hours which initially makes me think, FOUR HOURS?! Damn. But then I feel thankful. There’s an end time. That’s something. Seems like I’m shifting to glass-half-full territory. May there be no spills, no overconsumption causing me to diss about Melania and no serious cat scratches causing me to bleed too profusely. After a week of meeting the parents and half of northern Colorado, I’m sure I’ll enjoy sunny southern Florida. I’ve had melanoma but worries about skin cancer are nothing when put in the big picture of the trip that lies ahead. A sunburn might make cat scratches blend in nicely.

 

But then, Evan did say I needed to pack high fashion clothing for going to dinner with his client in Key West and more trendy, arty wear for when we hit Miami to see his best friend. There’s a fancy schmantzy weeklong art gala that’s in Miami while we’re there. Events galore!

 

WHAT?! 

 

So, once again, I should apologize for disparaging pumpkin pies. They probably don’t cause restless, sleepless nights of tossing and turning. Any correlation with unrelenting tummy aches and constant migraines is likely coincidental. It seems there may be other factors. Still, I’m not going to pack my Ativan. Even if it helped me refrain from heated MAGA debates, kept the wine steady in hand and allowed me to make nice with the kitties for a few minutes, I don’t think I’d make a great impression if I curled up on the living room sofa and finally fell into deep dozing during my big debut. 

 

I’ll handle all of it. Or I won’t. What’s three weeks anyway? 

   

 

 

 

 

TOO MUCH GINGER (Part I)

I keep telling myself it’s the ginger.

 

I’ve been awake since 3:30 this morning, my stomach feeling like everything in that vicinity had a scrum with a cheese grater. For the next few hours, I shifted every which way, a pillow constantly readjusted to numb that feeling of having multiple organs sliced and diced. If I’d been more alert, I’d have gotten up and searched for the hot water bottle, but I have no idea what cupboard, box or drawer it’s been since my July move. I figured by the time I found it, I’d be too wide awake to fall back asleep. I suppose I was delusional, too. Falling back to sleep was never going to happen.

 

Since my boyfriend, Evan, and I live in different cities, we try to call each other before going to bed on the nights we’re apart. “I love you,” “Sweet dreams,” and whatnot. It’s possible there was too much whatnot in last night’s call.

 

But I did put an awful lot of ginger in the pumpkin pie I made on a whim yesterday evening. Three times what the recipe called for. A quick Google tells me ginger can lead to “heartburn, diarrhea, burping, and general stomach discomfort.” Okay. My side effect beats diarrhea. If I had any say in it, I’d have gone with burping though. Might have offered a flashback to my early teens when we made a game of chugging Barq’s root beer.

 

In five days, Evan and I are off on a three-week trip. Maybe it wasn’t the ginger or last night’s call. Earlier in the day, before Evan drove back to Seattle, we’d talked about packing. It’s going to be challenging for both of us. For Evan, that’s because he’s a clothes horse. While I care about what I wear, Evan takes it eight or nine levels beyond me. Every outfit is a fashion statement. There are layers and accessories. He’s the kind of person Bill Cunningham of The New York Times would have photographed if they’d crossed paths on the street in Manhattan. My packing concerns are more practical. Our trip begins in Colorado and Wyoming where temperatures will be below freezing with possible snow on the ground, but then we fly to Key West and Miami where temperatures will call for shorts and swimsuits. I need clothes for daily workouts as well, with what I wear for a run in northern Colorado differing radically from my beach jogs. All I have is a carry-on since my suitcase didn’t survive the ordeal of first being lost and then severely damaged when I went to Iceland and Sweden last spring. 

 

Three weeks of all-weather wear! I suppose I can fit in time to buy a suitcase today. If that means a better night’s sleep, it’s definitely worth the money I hadn’t wanted to spend. My stomach will be so relieved.  

 

My mind’s drifting back to yesterday’s pie. In my waking hours, there are times when I dream of making pumpkin pie. Usually, I put up enough resistance, but it’s such an easy dessert to make. I cheat with a ready-made crust so all I have to do is toss several ingredients in a blender, pour the liquid in the shell and stick it in the oven. Sometimes my daydreaming about pumpkin pie comes when I’m in the grocery store. It takes willpower to resist adding certain items to my basket. When canned pumpkin puree or sweetened condensed milk is on sale, I set aside willpower. I tell myself these are wise purchases. Huge savings! Dad would be proud.

 

But it’s not like I pull out the can opener as soon as I get home. I’ve got that bag of caramel popcorn (also on sale or at least twenty cents cheaper than at Safeway). It’s quicker to pig out on that instead. The canned goods go in the pantry; I forget about them. Societal norms dictate that pumpkin doesn’t even appear on the dining radar until the beginning of October since that’s when Thanksgiving is, at least in Canada. For some, pumpkin ideation begins a month earlier, but I don’t go to Starbucks anymore and, besides, I don’t want pumpkin coffee any more than I want banana bread. Stop playing with your food, people! 

 

It's possible that several ingredients in last night’s pumpkin pie expired long ago. The carton of egg whites was only five weeks out of date and I figured that any of its badness would be baked out after fifty minutes at 375 degrees. I keep missing Canadian Thanksgivings, including this year’s, due to travel so it’s quite possible both the canned pumpkin and the sweetened condensed milk were past prime, too. I didn’t want to look for stamped dates since pumpkin pie had risen to a must-have craving. The condensed milk was still its regular creamy color. Last time I opened one, it had turned a butterscotch hue, forcing me to trek to the store for something more current. (How do I go years between pumpkin pies and then find myself blindsided by the most urgent need to feast on one?) The pie shell had a “Best Before” some month in 2020 but that just seemed silly to consider. So, yes, maybe it was an ancient puree that upset my tummy. Or a combination of that, trip packing worries, too much ginger, stale graham cracker crumbs and egg whites gone green. I’d also been overly generous with the nutmeg and cloves. It’s not a COVID thing, but my taste buds have always needed extra everything to wake them up.

 

There’s also the fact that I may have eaten too much pie in one sitting. Actually, it wasn’t one sitting. Pumpkin pie became dinner, dessert, snack time and then the target of a fridge raid just before bed, the annoying beeping sound the door makes when it’s been open too long finally ending my extended grazing session. I swear there was still some pie in the tin when I turned in for the night. How much? That’s an awfully personal question. I’d rather disparage my intelligence and say I’ve always been bad at fractions. Two-thirds? One-fifth? What’s the diff?

 

Today I’ll just have to slog my way through, downing a few more oat milk lattes than usual. For the moment, the stomach is behaving. If I get a bad sleep tonight, I suppose too much coffee will be to blame. Surely none of this restlessness is due to the fact one week of my trip involves staying with Evan’s parents whom I haven’t met and all the hoopla leading up to our arrival which he mentioned on the phone last night…

 

No, no. It’s the ginger. Google already confirmed that. I’m overthinking this.

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

TUNING OUT THE EXPECTATIONS

Today is Moldy Cheese Day, but few observe the occasion in a formal capacity. More people recognize the day as Thanksgiving (in Canada). Instead of thinking about gratitude, it is a time when I fight off pity. And, yes, I almost always win the battle with self-pity. It’s the pity from others that creates more challenges.

The good thing about Canadian Thanksgiving is there is no clarity over when to have the big celebration. When I lived in the U.S., it was always on the Thursday. Everything except Denny’s and 7-Eleven shut down. Here, some folks have the big dinner on Sunday, others on Monday. This helps as there isn’t one particular day to lump me with the sad sacks.

I am a vegetarian with vegan leanings so I am not missing out on turkey and gravy. In the past, I have picked at too many sides of heavily sugared sweet potatoes. I am not even a fan of thick pie crusts. (A pumpkin pie Blizzard at DQ suits me just fine.) Obviously, it is not about the meal. It is the expectation that eats at me.

Just before the holiday comes the obligatory question: “What are doing for Thanksgiving?” When I smile and say I’m repainting the ceiling in the basement, people respond with looks of deep sympathy. Oh, poor you. Yes, I shouldn’t have bumbled the first painting attempt. Of course, that’s not what they mean.

Sometimes I get an invite somewhere, but I have regularly declined over the past two decades. The host needn’t stress over making an entirely separate entrée—which he or she invariably does. “Oh, it was no trouble at all” is the standard line, but good hosts are bad liars. When I go to barbecues, I eat first or bring my own food, but it is harder to be inconspicuous at a sit-down dinner.

When I lived in Los Angeles, I hosted Canadian Thanksgivings. I could serve stuffed peppers without people feeling disappointed. They’d get a crack at a turkey leg at the end of November. In Vancouver, I went through a couple of years of inviting over others with families in Ontario or elsewhere. The Bailey’s chocolate chip cheesecake quirked things up enough to help folks get over the mindset that a plate of roasted veggies left a void. Over the past decade, however, friends have settled into marriages and young families. Thanksgivings are with the newly doting grandparents.

I could have gone this weekend to Tofino with my two remaining single gay friends. They’re great for shopping weekends, but not for holidays. Neither of them has ever (EVER!) expressed the slightest desire to find a partner. Indeed, they resemble a couple, well-settled in a sexless relationship. Their “children” are the latest techno gadgets, every conversation interrupted by an iPhone Google search or a quick check of an incoming text.

No, I am happy to paint the ceiling. I will walk the dog on the beach. I will hit the gym where others stumble in before that sleep-inducing turkey enzyme casts its spell. I am thankful for an extra day of sleeping later and letting the early morning ferry sail on without me.

Tuesday morning I’ll be hit with people asking, “How was your Thanksgiving?” I am prepared with a quick, “Fine. Wasn’t the weather wonderful on Sunday?” If we can leave it at that, I will be spared the looks. Can we move on? October 12 is Farmer’s Day, the 14th is Grover’s birthday and the 15th is National Grouch Day. October is also National Popcorn Popping Month, National Pizza Month, National Clock Month (huh?) and, best of all, National Roller Skating Month. These are just a few of the occasions I can celebrate on equal terms!