My best friend Molly used to remark that I had ostrich tendencies. Because I couldn't see other people, I sort of assumed they couldn't see me. It's the "head in the sand" principle, but without the sand. More times than I cared to count, I learned the hard way that indeed, people could see me. And hear me. Make note: If you roll your eyes and say something unflattering about somebody, that person will inevitably be standing right next to you. At least, if you are me, that's how it happens.
The ostrich effect also does not extend to my pregnant belly. For the first six months of my pregnancy, I didn't show at all. This is partly due to the fact that I don't like wearing tight fitting clothes, so most of my wardrobe is loose fitting. The better to conceal a baby bump. About three weeks ago though, that all changed. All of a sudden, I looked like a pregnant person. I could feel the gradual changes of course, but as long as my pants still fit, I figured no one else knew. And it isn't as though my pregnancy was a secret, it's more like it was a joke that I didn't think the rest of the world was in on yet. Turns out, they were. This was made clear to me when a maintenance worker in my building brought me some of his wife's maternity clothes. Apparently, they needed the room, she was done with them, and they didn't know anyone else to give them to. I think that is incredibly kind, and I am grateful, but I hardly know our maintenance guy. I have certainly never conversed with him about my pregnancy. Is it that obvious? I am moved by the number of people who have offered to give or let me borrow their maternity clothes, baby clothes, or other baby gear. It's like I've been given a key to the employee lounge where all the nice people hang out. It has perhaps been the best thing about being pregnant so far.
No strange people have put their hands on my belly yet the way I've been warned they will do. For that, I am also grateful because I won't be putting up with any of that, no matter how well meaning and innocent the gesture. The only person allowed to touch my belly unannounced is Michael, which he does pretty much every time I am within reach of him. I'm not able to stand sideways in front of a mirror and gauge my pregnant progress, but counting the number of times Michael touches my belly is probably just as accurate, not to mention sweeter. Everyday now, I feel bigger and bigger, convinced that if I could look at myself sideways in a mirror, the effect would be carnival like. Maybe not, but it sure feels that way.
Showing posts with label blindness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blindness. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Independence, the Irony
I live in a big town. It isn't big enough to be called a city, but it's not a small town either. We have a shopping mall, two movie theaters, every chain restaurant known to humankind, and two Starbucks. What we don't have is public transportation of any form. No Subway, no buses, no passenger rail system, not even reliable cab service. In most places, sidewalks are nonexistent. Where sidewalks do exist, they are often broken or crumbled and lead pretty much to nowhere, dead ending abruptly at a parking lot or street crossing. In short, this is not a blind friendly town.
I have a job, a good job. It's by no means my dream job, but it's good, reliable work for which I am well paid. According to the disability advocates, I have reached the pinnacle of disabled life-- gainful employment. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, but the independence that was supposed to come with gainful employment ... well, I'm not living that dream. Transportation is a big part of it. My only reliable form of transportation is Michael, and that's fine. I like to think we carpool as a show of environmentalism. The problem is that Michael works in a town about 25 minutes from where we live and where I work. For him to both take me to and bring me home from work would mean I work a ten hour day. During my pregnancy, this hasn't been an option. My other form of transportation is unreliable at best, meaning that I am often the last person in my building to leave. Any plans I make for the evenings are often disrupted due to a snafu with my ride home. For an organized, schedule-driven planner like me, this goes beyond irritating.
Then there are the other things about a job that come up, things that barely register as a blip on the radar for nondisabled people, but which leave me feeling helpless and frustrated. A change in a meeting location for example. I show up at the designated meeting place and wait around wondering where everybody is, only to learn later that a note had been posted on the door alerting everyone of the meeting location change. Well, not alerting everyone. Or I get an Email fifteen minutes before a scheduled meeting saying that the meeting has been moved to some building that I have no idea how to get to. When new people start working here, I am routinely skipped when my boss does the traditional walk-around introductions. I guess it's just too difficult to explain a gainfully employed blind woman. I have worked here for nine years, but yes, these kinds of things happen frequently. The worst are the all-day meetings such as our annual retreat. These are inevitably held at some out of the way location that I have never been to before and don't have a ride to. Assuming I get there, I don't know where the bathrooms are, where the water fountain is, and can't get my own food at lunchtime. I usually end up trying not to drink anything all day so I don't have to use the bathroom, and snacking on peanut butter crackers brought from home while everyone else eats their buffet style lunch. Oh yes, the glory of independence. I do have a secretary, but it is awkward to ask the person who you have to evaluate annually and who you have to scold regularly for tardiness to help you get to the bathroom or get your lunch. That isn't really part of her job description.
I am by far not the only person dealing with these or similar issues, but several such things have conspired in the last few weeks that have got me asking: Is this worth it? Is this feeling of helplessness really the reward for independence?
I have a job, a good job. It's by no means my dream job, but it's good, reliable work for which I am well paid. According to the disability advocates, I have reached the pinnacle of disabled life-- gainful employment. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, but the independence that was supposed to come with gainful employment ... well, I'm not living that dream. Transportation is a big part of it. My only reliable form of transportation is Michael, and that's fine. I like to think we carpool as a show of environmentalism. The problem is that Michael works in a town about 25 minutes from where we live and where I work. For him to both take me to and bring me home from work would mean I work a ten hour day. During my pregnancy, this hasn't been an option. My other form of transportation is unreliable at best, meaning that I am often the last person in my building to leave. Any plans I make for the evenings are often disrupted due to a snafu with my ride home. For an organized, schedule-driven planner like me, this goes beyond irritating.
Then there are the other things about a job that come up, things that barely register as a blip on the radar for nondisabled people, but which leave me feeling helpless and frustrated. A change in a meeting location for example. I show up at the designated meeting place and wait around wondering where everybody is, only to learn later that a note had been posted on the door alerting everyone of the meeting location change. Well, not alerting everyone. Or I get an Email fifteen minutes before a scheduled meeting saying that the meeting has been moved to some building that I have no idea how to get to. When new people start working here, I am routinely skipped when my boss does the traditional walk-around introductions. I guess it's just too difficult to explain a gainfully employed blind woman. I have worked here for nine years, but yes, these kinds of things happen frequently. The worst are the all-day meetings such as our annual retreat. These are inevitably held at some out of the way location that I have never been to before and don't have a ride to. Assuming I get there, I don't know where the bathrooms are, where the water fountain is, and can't get my own food at lunchtime. I usually end up trying not to drink anything all day so I don't have to use the bathroom, and snacking on peanut butter crackers brought from home while everyone else eats their buffet style lunch. Oh yes, the glory of independence. I do have a secretary, but it is awkward to ask the person who you have to evaluate annually and who you have to scold regularly for tardiness to help you get to the bathroom or get your lunch. That isn't really part of her job description.
I am by far not the only person dealing with these or similar issues, but several such things have conspired in the last few weeks that have got me asking: Is this worth it? Is this feeling of helplessness really the reward for independence?
Monday, January 14, 2008
Surprise Surprise
On Saturday, Michael and I were about running our usual weekend errands. On that list was to pick up one of those elevated dog bowls for Garnet and the new Janet Evanovich Plum novel for me. Fortunately, PETCO and Barnes and Noble are in the same shopping center. In the car on the way there, I was engrossed in listening to A Prairie Home Companion. Some other time, I must blog about my love of public radio. From Car Talk to thistle & Shamrock to Garrison Keillor, I love them all. But that isn't the point of this entry. So we pulled into the shopping center parking lot and Michael asked me, "Where to first?"
"PETCO," I said, probably because it was shorter than saying Barnes and Noble and because he had interrupted Garrison. So we waited in the car for Garrison's story to finish, then we got out, laughing and commenting on what we'd just listened to on the radio. We walked into PETCO, except by this time, I had forgotten that I had told him to go there first, and I had it in my head that we were going into Barnes and Noble. At Barnes and Noble, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greets you at the door. I have cut out coffee in deference to the growing-a-baby thing, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Walking through the doors, I inhaled deeply, ready to savor the rich smell of my old friend, Java. What greeted my nose instead was the smell of dog food and ferret poop. I sputtered and gagged a little, and was forced to tell Michael why. He is accustomed to such blind-induced gaffs, but he still doubled over laughing. I'm really glad somebody enjoyed it.
For the blind, life is just full of surprises.
Completely unrelatedly, I had the best ice cream of my entire life Friday night. I am past the pregnancy sickness for the most part (I won't call it morning sickness because mine always hit in the evening) and my appetite has returned. Michael brought home some Haagen-Dazs Mayan Chocolate ice cream. If bliss had a flavor, this is what it would taste like. It's chocolate ice cream with fudge swirls and a hint of cinnamon. I generally think of ice cream as simply a delivery system for hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry, but the Mayan Chocolate had my attention all on its own. I strongly encourage you to try it, even if it is 30 degrees and snowing outside.
Still more unrelatedly, I think I felt the baby move on Friday. It was hard to tell for sure. It felt like a little goldfish was swimming around below my belly button. I am sixteen weeks pregnant, which is when I've read you can first feel the baby, but they say it's usually a few weeks later if it's your first child. Maybe the semi-regular meditation I do, along with my lack of visual stimulus and years of listening to my body have made me more likely to notice it earlier.
The baby moving, the incredible ice cream, and the ferret poop combined for a weekend full of surprises, some better than others.
"PETCO," I said, probably because it was shorter than saying Barnes and Noble and because he had interrupted Garrison. So we waited in the car for Garrison's story to finish, then we got out, laughing and commenting on what we'd just listened to on the radio. We walked into PETCO, except by this time, I had forgotten that I had told him to go there first, and I had it in my head that we were going into Barnes and Noble. At Barnes and Noble, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greets you at the door. I have cut out coffee in deference to the growing-a-baby thing, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Walking through the doors, I inhaled deeply, ready to savor the rich smell of my old friend, Java. What greeted my nose instead was the smell of dog food and ferret poop. I sputtered and gagged a little, and was forced to tell Michael why. He is accustomed to such blind-induced gaffs, but he still doubled over laughing. I'm really glad somebody enjoyed it.
For the blind, life is just full of surprises.
Completely unrelatedly, I had the best ice cream of my entire life Friday night. I am past the pregnancy sickness for the most part (I won't call it morning sickness because mine always hit in the evening) and my appetite has returned. Michael brought home some Haagen-Dazs Mayan Chocolate ice cream. If bliss had a flavor, this is what it would taste like. It's chocolate ice cream with fudge swirls and a hint of cinnamon. I generally think of ice cream as simply a delivery system for hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry, but the Mayan Chocolate had my attention all on its own. I strongly encourage you to try it, even if it is 30 degrees and snowing outside.
Still more unrelatedly, I think I felt the baby move on Friday. It was hard to tell for sure. It felt like a little goldfish was swimming around below my belly button. I am sixteen weeks pregnant, which is when I've read you can first feel the baby, but they say it's usually a few weeks later if it's your first child. Maybe the semi-regular meditation I do, along with my lack of visual stimulus and years of listening to my body have made me more likely to notice it earlier.
The baby moving, the incredible ice cream, and the ferret poop combined for a weekend full of surprises, some better than others.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
So much more than a best friend
Recently, I started reading this blog. It's written by Stephen Kuusisto, poet and author of the memoir Planet of the Blind. Steve's life journey is a moving one, but it is his present journey that I am most interested in just now.
I met Steve in 1996. He was employed at Guiding Eyes for the Blind, and I was a student there in training for my guide dog, Garnet. Back then, Steve was working with his first dog, Corky. This week, he begins training with his third dog. I know that much about the facilities and the training method at G.E.B. has changed in the almost twelve years since I was there, but my memories of the place are fond ones.
Back then, you learned the name, gender, and breed of your dog the evening before you got to meet the dog. On meeting day, the dogs were given baths and groomed so they would be at their best. On that day, May 7, 1996, I went into the large carpeted training room and was told to call Garnet to me. She ran to me, tail wagging, sniffed my shoes, then ran back to Lynn, her trainer. I did not know then that such would be the pattern of our next few days together. Garnet does not give away her affection easily, and she was very attached to Lynn. Throughout the next week, during our "bonding time" with our dogs in our dormitory style rooms, Garnet would allow me to pet her, then she'd hear Lynn in the hall and would bolt for the door, scratching and whining to be let out. To say that this made it difficult for me to trust her when we were, say, crossing a busy intersection, is a gross understatement. I guess I had been at G.E.B. for nearly half of the four-week training when I awoke in the early morning to an altogether strange sensation. I was not alone in my bed. Curled up at the foot of the bed was a very warm, very content black Lab. In that moment, I knew Garnet and I would be okay.
1996 was a very important year in my life. In March, I received an official diagnoses of Von Hipple-Lindau and was introduced firsthand to what that would mean for my life. In April, I had the first of what would be several brain operations. It would have been easy after that to view myself as a sick person with insurmountable struggles ahead of me, but I did not, and Garnet is part of the reason for that. She allowed me to fearlessly go places I never would have attempted before. With Garnet, I felt confident enough to accept my first real job, which was in state government in Frankfort, Kentucky, three hours from the familiar comfort that was home. Then in August, I met Michael, and we all became a family together the following year. I tease Michael that Garnet has seniority over him.
Reading about Steve Kuusisto's latest adventure has me thinking a lot about my early days and years with Garnet. In the beginning, we were as likely to go chasing butterflies as to class, and the appearance of a squirrel on the sidewalk was a rip-roaring adventure rather than the quaint moment that it is now. In 2005, Garnet retired from being a working dog. Now she is a very spoiled, highly educated house pet living a life of leisure. She is no longer able to jump on the bed and needs a boost to get into the car, circumstances that break my heart a little bit every day. But her health is good and her mind is still sharp. I am anxious about how she will react when the new baby comes. I'm sure she will be jealous in the beginning because she is used to being the baby herself, but Michael and I will make an extra effort to make her feel just as loved as ever. We figure that once the baby is old enough to start acquiring crumbs, the baby will be Garnet's new best friend. Then I'll be the one who will need some consoling and extra attention.
I met Steve in 1996. He was employed at Guiding Eyes for the Blind, and I was a student there in training for my guide dog, Garnet. Back then, Steve was working with his first dog, Corky. This week, he begins training with his third dog. I know that much about the facilities and the training method at G.E.B. has changed in the almost twelve years since I was there, but my memories of the place are fond ones.
Back then, you learned the name, gender, and breed of your dog the evening before you got to meet the dog. On meeting day, the dogs were given baths and groomed so they would be at their best. On that day, May 7, 1996, I went into the large carpeted training room and was told to call Garnet to me. She ran to me, tail wagging, sniffed my shoes, then ran back to Lynn, her trainer. I did not know then that such would be the pattern of our next few days together. Garnet does not give away her affection easily, and she was very attached to Lynn. Throughout the next week, during our "bonding time" with our dogs in our dormitory style rooms, Garnet would allow me to pet her, then she'd hear Lynn in the hall and would bolt for the door, scratching and whining to be let out. To say that this made it difficult for me to trust her when we were, say, crossing a busy intersection, is a gross understatement. I guess I had been at G.E.B. for nearly half of the four-week training when I awoke in the early morning to an altogether strange sensation. I was not alone in my bed. Curled up at the foot of the bed was a very warm, very content black Lab. In that moment, I knew Garnet and I would be okay.
1996 was a very important year in my life. In March, I received an official diagnoses of Von Hipple-Lindau and was introduced firsthand to what that would mean for my life. In April, I had the first of what would be several brain operations. It would have been easy after that to view myself as a sick person with insurmountable struggles ahead of me, but I did not, and Garnet is part of the reason for that. She allowed me to fearlessly go places I never would have attempted before. With Garnet, I felt confident enough to accept my first real job, which was in state government in Frankfort, Kentucky, three hours from the familiar comfort that was home. Then in August, I met Michael, and we all became a family together the following year. I tease Michael that Garnet has seniority over him.
Reading about Steve Kuusisto's latest adventure has me thinking a lot about my early days and years with Garnet. In the beginning, we were as likely to go chasing butterflies as to class, and the appearance of a squirrel on the sidewalk was a rip-roaring adventure rather than the quaint moment that it is now. In 2005, Garnet retired from being a working dog. Now she is a very spoiled, highly educated house pet living a life of leisure. She is no longer able to jump on the bed and needs a boost to get into the car, circumstances that break my heart a little bit every day. But her health is good and her mind is still sharp. I am anxious about how she will react when the new baby comes. I'm sure she will be jealous in the beginning because she is used to being the baby herself, but Michael and I will make an extra effort to make her feel just as loved as ever. We figure that once the baby is old enough to start acquiring crumbs, the baby will be Garnet's new best friend. Then I'll be the one who will need some consoling and extra attention.
Monday, November 19, 2007
A Public Service Announcement
Calling all bloggers. If you have word verification enabled on your blog, I cannot comment. Yes, there is a link to listen and type, and yes, in theory that should work, but it doesn't. It's a matter of switching from navigation mode to typing mode, and apparently Blogger.com, A.K.A. Google, didn't consult the makers of any popular screenreaders before programming their "listen and type" word verification feature, because-- let me repeat-- it doesn't work! Blogger.com, if you're paying attention out there, you've got a problem, and it makes you look like an idiot. When people comment on my blog, I very much want to reciprocate by commenting on theirs. It's blog etiquette, right? So this word verification crap is making me appear unmannered and impolite, and I really don't like that. For those of you who have word verification enabled, why? Do you have so much spam traffic that it's necessary? Did you even know you had it enabled? Have you got a fear of blind commenters? So I'm asking you, if you don't need it, turn it off.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I actually got some of my holiday shopping done this weekend. Trust me, this is not like me, but thanks to a serendipitous trip to Kohl's, where there happened to be a killer sale, I got lots of my list knocked out. It also helped that Michael's siblings decided not to exchange gifts. Woo Hoo! That's four people off my list with one phone call. And I got cheap gifts for some of the other people who fall into the "obligatory" category. Now, I can shop for the people I genuinely want to buy gifts for.
So I'm interested, who's on your obligatory list? Those people you'd really rather not have to spend time and money on? Don't worry, I won't tell.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I actually got some of my holiday shopping done this weekend. Trust me, this is not like me, but thanks to a serendipitous trip to Kohl's, where there happened to be a killer sale, I got lots of my list knocked out. It also helped that Michael's siblings decided not to exchange gifts. Woo Hoo! That's four people off my list with one phone call. And I got cheap gifts for some of the other people who fall into the "obligatory" category. Now, I can shop for the people I genuinely want to buy gifts for.
So I'm interested, who's on your obligatory list? Those people you'd really rather not have to spend time and money on? Don't worry, I won't tell.
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Body and the Blood
In deference to my pregnancy, I have given up coffee in favor of Saltines. As soon as I got to work this morning, I opened up some crackers and a bottle of grape juice, and it occurred to me: if I was still a Baptist, this would be Communion. Since I'm not a Baptist any longer though, it's just grape juice and Saltines.
Unrelatedly, quite possibly some or all of this post is in all caps. My apologies, and be assured I am not screaming at you. One of the perils of being blind is that you never can be sure until it's too late that you've hit that pesky all caps key. Another peril of being blind is that it takes both hands to shave your legs. Having years of experience at this blind, two-handed shaving thing, I am sometimes a bit less cautious than I should be seeing as how there's a razorblade involved, and last night, I sliced off about half of my middle fingernail on my left hand. Youch! So now I've got two big Band-Aids on that finger which make it difficult to type and make me look like some obscene E.T. without the heart light.
Here's hoping your Monday is off to a better start than mine.
Unrelatedly, quite possibly some or all of this post is in all caps. My apologies, and be assured I am not screaming at you. One of the perils of being blind is that you never can be sure until it's too late that you've hit that pesky all caps key. Another peril of being blind is that it takes both hands to shave your legs. Having years of experience at this blind, two-handed shaving thing, I am sometimes a bit less cautious than I should be seeing as how there's a razorblade involved, and last night, I sliced off about half of my middle fingernail on my left hand. Youch! So now I've got two big Band-Aids on that finger which make it difficult to type and make me look like some obscene E.T. without the heart light.
Here's hoping your Monday is off to a better start than mine.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Shopping and Other Tortures
I went shopping with my mother yesterday. Shopping is tops on my "things I desperately loathe" list. For starters, I am extremely hard to fit. I hear a lot of women saying that, so I'm starting to think that most of us aren't so very hard to fit, we just don't fit into the fashion industry's narrow ()literally and figuratively) idea of what a woman's body is like. I mean, women have boobs and hips. It's natural. It isn't something we should be ashamed of or work endlessly and tirelessly to change. Boobs and hips serve a purpose. I'd really love to get some acknowledgement of that fact from fashion designers. Personally, I am short and curvy. Yeah, let's go with curvy. I like my curves. I really do have an hourglass figure—it's just that I've got way too much sand in the bottom. I have what my Aunt Alice calls "birthing hips." Lucky me. I also have legs like tree trunks. Is it any wonder I hate shopping? But I have two weddings coming up, my sister's and Michael's sisters, so new clothes were a necessity.
There are certain obvious pitfalls to clothes shopping with one's mother. If we were shopping for furniture or curtains or home decor, she is the go-to woman, but clothes? Not so much. Mom shows me things like denim skirts, and says "But you love denim skirts." Yeah, when I was thirteen maybe. And she shows me pink, ruffley things, and skirts with floral prints. She means well, but ... Well, I'm not really a floral print kind of woman. That's hard to explain to the person who refuses to think of you as anything other than her little girl. And since I'm blind, I have to rely on the opinions of others to a fairly alarming degree. Also because I'm blind, texture matters, and let me just tell you, I have expensive taste in texture.
Fortunately, I did end up finding something that will work for both weddings. I found a nicely tailored black skirt, and a fine-gauge cardigan sweater with bell sleeves and lace trim. It is okay to wear black to weddings these days, isn't it? No wait, don't tell me. I already bought the outfit, so I don't want to know.
Now I just have to find some kind of top to go under the sweater, preferably something in a bright color like red or pink, and some shoes. Oh and pantyhose. Ugh, pantyhose.
In other, totally unrelated news, Saturday was the 700th anniversary of the Vatican's purge of the Knights Templar. I believe the Vatican has since decided that the Templar's weren't heretics after all. Oops. I'm sure that's real comforting to all those who were roasted alive or drawn and quartered. The Vatican, you gotta love 'em.
I gotta tell you, I do love Templar history. I admit to being a sucker for the current Templar action/suspense subgenre spawned by the success of the DaVinci Code. If it says secret society, Holy Grail, or papal history, you can bet it's going home with me.
Today, I begin my 70 Days of Sweat writing Challenge. It will be grueling because I am a slow writer, but it will teach me about time management and effective scheduling. I know, that's a lot to ask of 70 days.
There are certain obvious pitfalls to clothes shopping with one's mother. If we were shopping for furniture or curtains or home decor, she is the go-to woman, but clothes? Not so much. Mom shows me things like denim skirts, and says "But you love denim skirts." Yeah, when I was thirteen maybe. And she shows me pink, ruffley things, and skirts with floral prints. She means well, but ... Well, I'm not really a floral print kind of woman. That's hard to explain to the person who refuses to think of you as anything other than her little girl. And since I'm blind, I have to rely on the opinions of others to a fairly alarming degree. Also because I'm blind, texture matters, and let me just tell you, I have expensive taste in texture.
Fortunately, I did end up finding something that will work for both weddings. I found a nicely tailored black skirt, and a fine-gauge cardigan sweater with bell sleeves and lace trim. It is okay to wear black to weddings these days, isn't it? No wait, don't tell me. I already bought the outfit, so I don't want to know.
Now I just have to find some kind of top to go under the sweater, preferably something in a bright color like red or pink, and some shoes. Oh and pantyhose. Ugh, pantyhose.
In other, totally unrelated news, Saturday was the 700th anniversary of the Vatican's purge of the Knights Templar. I believe the Vatican has since decided that the Templar's weren't heretics after all. Oops. I'm sure that's real comforting to all those who were roasted alive or drawn and quartered. The Vatican, you gotta love 'em.
I gotta tell you, I do love Templar history. I admit to being a sucker for the current Templar action/suspense subgenre spawned by the success of the DaVinci Code. If it says secret society, Holy Grail, or papal history, you can bet it's going home with me.
Today, I begin my 70 Days of Sweat writing Challenge. It will be grueling because I am a slow writer, but it will teach me about time management and effective scheduling. I know, that's a lot to ask of 70 days.
Monday, August 27, 2007
My Husband's Zucchini
No really—I mean the vegetable.
Michael and I have a system when it comes to meal preparation: I plan our weekly menu and make the grocery list. We go to the grocery store together and both do the shopping. One or the other of us (usually Michael) does the cooking and we do the cleaning up together. It's a system necessitated by my blindness, but we like the extra time spent together, so it works for us. Friday evening however, we hit a SNAFU in the system.
We had both had horrific weeks at our respective jobs and so decided to go out to the movies to take our minds off work. We saw Becoming Jane, which is an incredibly beautiful and brilliant movie that I highly recommend even if you aren't a true Austen fan. But for those, like Michael and me, who really love Austen, you're in for a real treat, as scenes from Austen's novels are woven expertly through the plot of Becoming Jane. Anyway, you should go see it, but I digress. Movie times never seem to be when I want them, and Becoming Jane was on at 6:50 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., when what I really wanted was a good 7:30 show. We decided on the earlier showing since I'd likely be asleep by 9:30, and since Friday evening traffic is always a bitch here I decided that since I was home a little early, I'd make dinner. Dinner was veggie wraps. Seriously, there is very little room for screw ups with veggie wraps. It's simply red onion, spinach, mushrooms, black olives, and cucumber wrapped in a tortilla, and we make a spread of cream cheese and Italian dressing. Sounds like the easiest thing in the world, doesn't it? And it is, when you have the right ingredients. The right ingredients being a cucumber, which—though admittedly similar—is a very different vegetable from a zucchini.
I thought the cucumber felt strange, but as I was in a hurry, and it was the only thing that even remotely felt like a cucumber in the vegetable crisper, I didn't ponder the matter over much. I love the smell of cucumbers, so once I pealed it and cut it in half, I took a big whiff. Nothing. No nice fresh clean cucumbery smell. No smell at all. Hmmmm. That's odd. So I again check the vegetable crisper. Nope, that has to be the cucumber. So I chop it up becoming ever more convinced that this is not a cucumber. Ahhh the joys of blindness, where all of life is a surprise. So finally I taste of the darn thing. Mystery solved. The non-cucumber like vegetable is absolutely not a cucumber and is most certainly a zucchini. I stood in the kitchen for a while trying to figure out if Michael was just fucking with me or if my husband in fact does not know the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini. So when he got home, I said, "Would you mind taking a look in that bowl and tell me what that looks like to you?""
"hmmmm."
"Does that look like a cucumber to you?"
Long pause. "It could be a cucumber."
"Uh-huh." So we go about finishing up dinner, minus the bowl of what could be a cucumber. Finally, I said, "You know that's a zucchini, don't you?"
Silence.
"You just aren't going to admit it's a zucchini because then you'll have to explain how you managed to confuse a cucumber with a zucchini, right?"
"Pretty much."
So we had a good laugh about it (I laughed more than Michael) and it sort of took the tension off the rough week. However, if you plan on making the above recipe for veggie wraps, I do not recommend zucchini as a substitute for cucumber.
Michael and I have a system when it comes to meal preparation: I plan our weekly menu and make the grocery list. We go to the grocery store together and both do the shopping. One or the other of us (usually Michael) does the cooking and we do the cleaning up together. It's a system necessitated by my blindness, but we like the extra time spent together, so it works for us. Friday evening however, we hit a SNAFU in the system.
We had both had horrific weeks at our respective jobs and so decided to go out to the movies to take our minds off work. We saw Becoming Jane, which is an incredibly beautiful and brilliant movie that I highly recommend even if you aren't a true Austen fan. But for those, like Michael and me, who really love Austen, you're in for a real treat, as scenes from Austen's novels are woven expertly through the plot of Becoming Jane. Anyway, you should go see it, but I digress. Movie times never seem to be when I want them, and Becoming Jane was on at 6:50 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., when what I really wanted was a good 7:30 show. We decided on the earlier showing since I'd likely be asleep by 9:30, and since Friday evening traffic is always a bitch here I decided that since I was home a little early, I'd make dinner. Dinner was veggie wraps. Seriously, there is very little room for screw ups with veggie wraps. It's simply red onion, spinach, mushrooms, black olives, and cucumber wrapped in a tortilla, and we make a spread of cream cheese and Italian dressing. Sounds like the easiest thing in the world, doesn't it? And it is, when you have the right ingredients. The right ingredients being a cucumber, which—though admittedly similar—is a very different vegetable from a zucchini.
I thought the cucumber felt strange, but as I was in a hurry, and it was the only thing that even remotely felt like a cucumber in the vegetable crisper, I didn't ponder the matter over much. I love the smell of cucumbers, so once I pealed it and cut it in half, I took a big whiff. Nothing. No nice fresh clean cucumbery smell. No smell at all. Hmmmm. That's odd. So I again check the vegetable crisper. Nope, that has to be the cucumber. So I chop it up becoming ever more convinced that this is not a cucumber. Ahhh the joys of blindness, where all of life is a surprise. So finally I taste of the darn thing. Mystery solved. The non-cucumber like vegetable is absolutely not a cucumber and is most certainly a zucchini. I stood in the kitchen for a while trying to figure out if Michael was just fucking with me or if my husband in fact does not know the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini. So when he got home, I said, "Would you mind taking a look in that bowl and tell me what that looks like to you?""
"hmmmm."
"Does that look like a cucumber to you?"
Long pause. "It could be a cucumber."
"Uh-huh." So we go about finishing up dinner, minus the bowl of what could be a cucumber. Finally, I said, "You know that's a zucchini, don't you?"
Silence.
"You just aren't going to admit it's a zucchini because then you'll have to explain how you managed to confuse a cucumber with a zucchini, right?"
"Pretty much."
So we had a good laugh about it (I laughed more than Michael) and it sort of took the tension off the rough week. However, if you plan on making the above recipe for veggie wraps, I do not recommend zucchini as a substitute for cucumber.
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