Anyhow! It's long overdue, but last weekend I made fruitcake, following the ancesteral recipe (originally the recipe of a Mrs. Willis, published in the Toronto Star many eons ago). And when I say weekend, believe you me, it took all weekend. It's a two day recipe, starting on Saturday and culminating on Stir-up Sunday! But it's no sacrifice, because I love fruitcake with a love that is sincere and true. It's my favorite holiday dessert, but this year my Mum did not have a giant extra wheel to give me, as she has in years past. So, much like with the pickles of a few months ago, I was forced to make my own -- but it's not as bad as you might think, because now there are 6 pounds of delicious fruitcake that are mine, all mine, and they are in my fridge, at my disposal, for eating whenever I like! Well, whenever I like after it is done resting and its flavours have adequetely mingled, a process which will take another three weeks. Until then, enjoy this photo essay of the process:

www.flickr.com bananaswift80's Making a fruitcake photoset

www.flickr.com

it

was

AWESOME!

There was a joust, and people in costume and fried dough and goths and children dressed as Robin Hood and everything. As a bonus, Nate fulfilled his dream of finally speaking with Blackwolf the Dragonmaster, New York's unofficial wizard. He and Paul got his autograph and learned that Blackwolf will be appearing along with Triumph, the comic insult dog, at a show on November 3. Fabulous! Some pictures:

www.flickr.com More of bananaswift80's photos

On a much less fun note, kids in Washington Heights can't catch a break lately. First there was the baby stabbing one block away, and tonight a kid fell out a window. I think maybe there's a full moon -- There was a craaaaaaaaaaazy man on Broadway the other day who was waving his hands around and shouting. He had a long (seriously long -- like, past his waist long) thick white stream of drool hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and when my friend and I walked by him he freaking chased after us, I could hear his flipflops slapping the cement. He stopped when he whirled around to confront him, but he kept ranting inconrehensibly as we left. Freaky. Maybe gawker's right: New York is getting edgy.

P.S. More evidence for the white noise machine: In the past few nights, my dreams have included arriving at my high school gym only to see the guy from "According to Jim" steal my seat and test sheet; being Harry Potter -- a New York-based Harry Potter who is still me, somehow--and trying to escape Voldemort by taking the A-train to Brooklyn (unsuccessful) and, last night, that my father and I were picking apples from an orchard, and that to do this my dad was wearing a shoulder mounted contraption that reached spindly Erector-set like arms up into the trees to pluck the apples off. Yikes.

I also, for reasons not fully made clear to my subsconscious, had an IV drip in my arm the whole time, which made cheffing all the more challenging.

Time to look into a white noise machine, I think.

Work is still -- still! -- crazy crazy. But assuming I get some stories done tonight, and go in early tomorrow, I might be within sight of end. I devoutly hope!

As far as my battle against the forces of corporate America, things are not as bad as there were -- or so it seems, at least. The hospital is "recoding" my surgery to be resubmitted to Empire Blue (Fly our friendly empirical skies!), and American Airlines is "looking for my luggage," and will be for the next ten weeks. Yeah, we'll see how well that "looking" goes. In the meantime, I got some new duds this weekend during tax-free week -- I don't think holding my breath is going to do any good.

There's not much to say about the horrible state of affairs in New Orleans and Mississippi right now that hasn't been said by CNN or the AP and all the other outlets reporting live. (Or, for that matter, by Rebecca or Shaya. The despair, the hopelessness and the grief are beyond words -- but the Red Cross, among others, is working to bring care and help to those who need it -- and thank God they are, since the victims of the hurricaine can use all the help there is out there and a lot more besides.

More discouragingly, though, today my former insurance company, Empire Blue Cross, informed me that they are, after much thought, denying my claim for services from this February. They don't seem to take issue with my surgery itself -- the removal of a fist-sized cyst off of my left ovary which was causing me an almost comically intolerably amount of pain. No, they are denying my claim because I was in the emergency room overnight. That is to say, I went to the ER at 2 p.m., they diagnosed my problem at some point between midnight and 2 a.m., and at 5 a.m. I was taken to surgery. Empire Blue Cross does not think this is acceptable. According to them, having a cyst removed is "outpatient" surgery; since I was in the hospital for more than 24 hours, I was "inpatient." Therefore, no claim will be paid.

Excuse the sentiment, but what the fuck?! I am at a loss. I don't even know how I am supposed to repsond to their reasons. Needless to say, they won't tell me what other information I could provide in order to get them to reconsider. They won't allow me to speak to anyone who makes decisions about accounts who could explain this to me. They won't tell me anything more except to say that I am welcome, and even encouraged, to file a greivance. Splendid.

Anyone with tips on encouraging either disperse and dare I say souless corporate entity to do right by me is encouraged to share them, since I am plum out of ideas!

So, let me say that (watch out, the link has cinematic sound) popsicles are my favorite part of summer. But check out their spokescharacter! The Man of Popsicle! And his Prince Valiant helmet/hair! He likes mysteries, and so do I; he likes popsicles, and so do I. I love the Man of Popsicle and his mouthful of a name.

It's wonderful thing, to be in her wedding. But it's at the same time very odd -- after all, she's getting married at the Chapel at Naper Settlement, where we both worked during high school. In fact, we used to read the little "Your Wedding" pamphlet books the Settlement kept on hand to give to prospective brides (which, by the by, recommended "Love Is All Around" as a first dance song) while directing the steady stream of couples and mothers who paraded through looking the Chapel over for potential rental. It will be an odd thing to stand at the front of the chapel in formal wear and address a crowd, not of Civil War reenactors, but of friends and family. It seems only fitting that the first wedding I have been a member of (since getting shut out of the flower girl role at my aunt and uncle's weddding in 1986) will be Amanda's, and that it will be at Naper Settlement. Now, if she has some Wet Wet Wet at her reception, now that truly will make the event.

What's that you see? Why, I do believe it is a bank of new sparkling new washing machines and dryers, recently installed in the basement of my building. It's a revolution in cleaning, replacing as they do the old washing machines (one of which was contractually required to be unplugged and another which was similarly required to be filled with stagnant, stinking water) and the old dryers (only the rightmost upper dryer actually dried clothes in one cycle).

I've got my Oxy clean stain remover, my Tide with a hint of Downey, and now I have some bitching new washers and dryers. I am SET!

He's really tall and has gloriously highlighted hair.

Whether or not he was Captain Picard -- and I choose to believe it was -- I had butterflies in my stomach all the way from 79th Street to 110th.

I spent the weekend in D.C., catching up with, among others, the lovely Debbie and the marvelous Katherine. Debbie has a fantastic, giant new apartment with a whole sunroom-slash-guest bedroom, so I stayed in luxurious surroundings. The weekend was a lovely exercise in seeing old friends and reuniting with the longlost, and in soaking up the sun that did such damage to my nose, cheekbones and scalp. I was a lovely two days, filled with sunshine, trees in bloom, flowers perfuming the air, and all the lovely D.C. nooks and crannies I used to call home. Blake, who had spent Friday in New York, may be coming to Washington Heights next year for a grad program -- so with any luck I will be seeing a lot more of him! I got to meet up with Kevin in Dupont Circle (in fact, I blame him utterly for the scalp burn, I spent too much time talking to him and Jim in the Circle watching the flag dancer and swing dancers and the various other flamboyancies). It was wonderful to see him again after so long -- and yet have it seem as though it hadn't. As Kevin and I agreed, people don't change, which is why it can be so gratifying seeing old friends.

And why, despite 24 years experience that mean I should know better, I have a burnt nose to remember my trip by.

Theee weeks ago, to the day if not the hour, I started feeling sharp,
stabbing pains in my left side. Naturally, when these pains did not
resolve themselves, I figured that my appendix was exploding and I
walked to the emergency room.

(Did I mention that three weeks ago, to the day, three treasured and
deeply beloved friends were spending the weekend at the apartment? And that a further flotilla of friends were in the city as well,
promising a weekend full of seeing people I cherish and miss having
around? Just to add some backstory, you see.)

Anyhow, I walked to the emergency room at 1 p.m. (Way more fun than, say, going to see the Gates or have Indian food, right?) Once there, I sat and enjoyed the Zen facilities (they have no tvs or magazines to interrupt the spa-like ambiance) for three hours. After three hours I was admitted to the ER, where I was given a folding chair across the way from a homeless man on a gurney. When I started crying from the pain (so weak!) the homeless man offered to give me his gurney. And I took it, gladly. As you guessed, this is a sure way to feel like a million bucks.

Anyhow, the pain-is-unberable-pain-has-subsided cycle went on for a few hours.
But rather than do an hour by hour breakdown, I thought I'd just list some observations about my favorite things about the ER from 5 p.m. to 2 a.m.:

1) Here's a fun fact: patients admitted to the hospital for abdominal pain are forbidden from taking any food or liquids in by mouth until a diagnosis is made! They gave me a painkilling shot, they gave me an IV drip, they gave me some Kleenex (well, only because Nate went and asked for them), but they did not give me a damn thing to eat or drink.

2) They let you have visitors in the ER, and they will let them stay almost all the time, which is a blessing and a wonder. In all seriousness. It was the best thing ever, and I am thankful.

3) Nothing is more frightening and yet exhillirating than a shift change. It's bad because they kick all the visitors out and you realize, Oh my God, it's midnight, I've been here for 10 hours and that means the insurance bill has undoubtably entered the six figure area. It's exhilirating because it means you are FOR SURE going to see the doctor, because he or she has to walk by with the new doctor coming on shift, and he or she is going to have to tell the other
doctor what's been going on with you. It's your chance, if you are an adept lip reader or have excellent hearing, to maybe figure out what's the matter with you! ( I overheard,"blahblahrenalblahblah" and "swhswhswhswhswhovarianswhswhswh" -- reassuring!)

4) Sometimes you will have to go to the bathroom when you are in the ER, and that is okay! Simply take your IV bag and cradle it in your arms, hold the butt of your gown closed and shuffle your bare feet to the bathroom. Be sure not to drop your IV bag into the toilet, sink or garbage! (I got some socks around 1 am, and after that going to the bathroom was a lot cozier.)

5) Nurses, by and large, are actually really nice. And they can give you POWERFUL drugs.

Okay, enough of the list. Long story short, after thirteen hours, a CAT scan and two ultrasounds, they told me I had a cyst on my left ovary the size of a small grapefruit, and the cyst was twisting my ovary around, cutting off its blood supply and causing the waves of pain. Sounded good to me! At five-thirty that morning, they took me up to surgery, the cyst was removed, and I got to eat ice chips, apple juice, and the most delicious Oreo cookies I have ever had.

Two weeks later (two weeks of walking slow, doing no heavy lifting and staring at the three little scars on my belly) I was pronounced healthy and hale. This was my trecherous body's signal to *right that very afternoon* develop a hacking, coughing, 102.8-fever-having flu. Which is where I sit now -- mostly better but with a lingering cough and the memory of five totally wasted days. I am fed up with my body's misbehavior and fed up with leaving butt prints in the couch as I watch recuperatory tv. Bah!!

So, screw New York and this urban life. I'm moving upstate and researching bears.