voiceomt2002

This is a quickie trick that can develop into an obsession, I'm warning you. LOL! I've been doing this for about fifteen years, but I've been growing my own herbs and veggies that long or longer anyway!
 
It all started with a Purple Ruffles Basil plant. I loved that plant with its gorgeous purple leaves and mild basil taste. Then I read about making herbal vinegars by simply warming up your choice of vinegar, pouring it into an easily corked bottle (new cork, please!) and then adding herbs. I gave it a shot with white vinegar and a clear bottle that had once held wine. I was rewarded with a vinegar that slowly turned into the loveliest shade of purple and was a delight on any salad! I practically wept that winter when we used the last, knowing I'd have to grow more purple ruffles basil before we'd have more. My family made me promise to make several bottles, but it wasn't to be. My DH lost his job, and we ended up moving to Denver. We did without our purple basil vinegar for two years before I found another and successfully grew it again.
 
Now, you can get fresh herbs in any local grocer's produce section at almost any time of year and make many different kinds of vinegars! Tarragon vinegar is a delight! Regular basil vinegar is delicious!
 
What do you do with this liquid treasure? Salad dressings made with oil and vinegar. Marinades often call for vinegar. Homemade mayonnaise calls for vinegar. Some sauces call for vinegar, and one of the most delightful tricks on the planet is sliced cucumbers soaking in vinegar in the refrigerator on a hot summer day.

Just a short note. Who knows when I'll get back to this. I've gained weight since my DH's death. I won't blame anyone else but myself. I had a long talk with my therapist and we finally hit upon the catchphrase that seems to define how I'll lose all this weight-- I CHOOSE.
 
I'm a control freak whose life spiraled out of control the day my poor Randy died. Since then, I've made decisions where I felt there was no other option. For over a year, I had to decide based on bad vs good, not which one suited me. Finally, my therapist (Dr Marty Groble, for those in the Jacksonville area) pointed out that what went into my mouth was one of the few things I had a direct choice in making.
 
Well, my Band-Buds, it was an epiphany. There was my point of control, and I've been reveling in it for a couple of weeks. I've lost five pounds because I can look at the chocolate vs the peach and say "I choose the peach because I choose health." I have chosen to start walking again when possible. I've chosen to begin quilting again rather than sit on my butt playing mindless computer games. I've made so many choices, I'm smiling again.
 
Even the house I had to move into when Randy's death forced me into foreclosure is no longer a point of resentment and negativity. I've chosen to make it work rather than move to something less congenial if prettier. Sure, this is a 2-bedroom house 30 miles from my job. It's in a gorgeous neighborhood with a park, as familiar and comfortable as my favorite pair of blue jeans, and it's cheap. I can have my pets here. An apartment close to my work would cost $200 more a month and we'd have to get rid of our pets.
 
"We??" you ask? Yep, we. That gent who gave me the pearl ring? I chose not to marry him, but we're a happy pair of roommates. I chose him, too.
 
Lena

Just a short note. Who knows when I'll get back to this. I've gained weight since my DH's death. I won't blame anyone else but myself. I had a long talk with my therapist and we finally hit upon the catchphrase that seems to define how I'll lose all this weight-- I CHOOSE.
 
I'm a control freak whose life spiraled out of control the day my poor Randy died. Since then, I've made decisions where I felt there was no other option. For over a year, I had to decide based on bad vs good, not which one suited me. Finally, my therapist (Dr Marty Groble, for those in the Jacksonville area) pointed out that what went into my mouth was one of the few things I had a direct choice in making.
 
Well, my Band-Buds, it was an epiphany. There was my point of control, and I've been reveling in it for a couple of weeks. I've lost five pounds because I can look at the chocolate vs the peach and say "I choose the peach because I choose health." I have chosen to start walking again when possible. I've chosen to begin quilting again rather than sit on my butt playing mindless computer games. I've made so many choices, I'm smiling again.
 
Even the house I had to move into when Randy's death forced me into foreclosure is no longer a point of resentment and negativity. I've chosen to make it work rather than move to something less congenial if prettier. Sure, this is a 2-bedroom house 30 miles from my job. It's in a gorgeous neighborhood with a park, as familiar and comfortable as my favorite pair of blue jeans, and it's cheap. I can have my pets here. An apartment close to my work would cost $200 more a month and we'd have to get rid of our pets.
 
"We??" you ask? Yep, we. That gent who gave me the pearl ring? I chose not to marry him, but we're a happy pair of roommates. I chose him, too.
 
Lena

Just a short note. Who knows when I'll get back to this. I've gained weight since my DH's death. I won't blame anyone else but myself. I had a long talk with my therapist and we finally hit upon the catchphrase that seems to define how I'll lose all this weight-- I CHOOSE.
 
I'm a control freak whose life spiraled out of control the day my poor Randy died. Since then, I've made decisions where I felt there was no other option. For over a year, I had to decide based on bad vs good, not which one suited me. Finally, my therapist (Dr Marty Groble, for those in the Jacksonville area) pointed out that what went into my mouth was one of the few things I had a direct choice in making.
 
Well, my Band-Buds, it was an epiphany. There was my point of control, and I've been reveling in it for a couple of weeks. I've lost five pounds because I can look at the chocolate vs the peach and say "I choose the peach because I choose health." I have chosen to start walking again when possible. I've chosen to begin quilting again rather than sit on my butt playing mindless computer games. I've made so many choices, I'm smiling again.
 
Even the house I had to move into when Randy's death forced me into foreclosure is no longer a point of resentment and negativity. I've chosen to make it work rather than move to something less congenial if prettier. Sure, this is a 2-bedroom house 30 miles from my job. It's in a gorgeous neighborhood with a park, as familiar and comfortable as my favorite pair of blue jeans, and it's cheap. I can have my pets here. An apartment close to my work would cost $200 more a month and we'd have to get rid of our pets.
 
"We??" you ask? Yep, we. That gent who gave me the pearl ring? I chose not to marry him, but we're a happy pair of roommates. I chose him, too.
 
Lena

Less than one week until my lap band surgery and ol’ Nervous Nellie Lena can’t sleep. The reasons are partially fear and partially excitement. Last Friday, the day after Christmas began The Week Before Surgery on doc’s handouts, where certain dietary restrictions must be rigidly followed. This will last until this coming Wednesday, when I begin the pre-surgical “you can’t have anything solid” diet. I’m drinking my last caffeinated coffee right now, mainly because I forgot about that restriction.
 
Actually, Wednesday begins the three days of hell where I have morning shots of either Lovonox or Heparin as my substitute blood thinners. (gulp) For a needle phobic like me, this is enough to cause nightmares and insomnia all by itself. People, meaning to reassure me and not understanding they’re simply adding to my stress, tell me it’s subcutaneous injections in my belly and the needle is very tiny, even finer than what I might have if my weight had caused diabetes like the rest of the family. Thanks, guys. Now I have a very clear picture for my nightmares.
 
Strangely enough, I’m not scared of anything else. When I saw my favorite of the two surgeons on Monday the 22nd, he took extra time to reassure me and work out how we’d get around my well-documented “hard stick” problem.
 
Before we go on, let me explain the “hard stick.” Don’t bother stopping me if you’ve heard this before. It bears repeating. The record on getting an IV established in me remains at an all time high of 21, and last time OPMC managed to almost break that record at 17 sticks before they finally managed to get any vein at all. When I say I’m a hard stick, I mean I’m an impossible stick.
 
Medical persons have a hard time grasping this concept until they’ve spent hours traumatizing me and they finally must humbly admit defeat to the quivering and mindless wreck that was me. (And they wonder why I’m violently and insanely needle phobic and have the nerve to tell me I need a shrink?)
 
I no longer believe any medical person who confidently approaches with a look of determination, declaring they’re “the best with X number of years experience” at getting the job done. I’ve humbled “the best” at six different hospitals, honey. I’m not impressed.
 
Anyway, once I told the doc this, his big brown eyes got the size of saucers. I’ll give this one major points for at least acting like he cared, a distinct improvement over his partner. (See my blog entry, “Is Humiliation Part of the Treatment?” for more details.)
 
Doc Baptista listened, thought carefully about my suggestions of drugging me to my eyeballs on Valium, pouring me onto the gurney, and establishing a PIC line. He offered an alternative. He calls a PIC line “lazy” medical care. (Uh…hey, it works, doesn’t it?) He wanted me conscious when I was wheeled into surgery. (Privately between you and I and the whole darn internet, it would be best if I could aid in the transfer of my heavy body onto the operating table rather than give several nurses and orderlies hernias. I can understand that.)
 
No matter what, upon arrival I’ll receive that last subcutaneous injection of heparin. If I can tolerate that and remain conscious, they’ll wheel me into surgery without starting an IV immediately. Once I’m on the table, the anesthesiologist will give me nitrous oxide until I’m so happy I’m only semi-conscious at best, then they’ll establish a central line in my neck with a port so they can get blood for the lab rats who enjoy waking you up every few hours for blood tests.
 
Doc then explained that with a PIC line he’d have to have me admitted one day early on New Year’s Day so there’d be an experienced person to establish the PIC line, then I’d have to fidget overnight in a lonely hospital bed at the mercy of the lab rats until the next morning for surgery, and we’d be risking infection because of the PIC line. (He had me at lab rats, okay?) I agreed.
 
Doc also moved my surgery hour back on Position #2 instead of #1 on that day. That’ll allow me time to drive across town to the hospital, give the guys time to convince the fearfully shaking wreck that is normally Lena to get out of the car (wry grin), and give the staff time to prep me. If they come at me with an IV needle, doc had better be prepared for the screaming about betrayal. Yes, it’s happened before where a doc’s promises meant nothing. The trust most people feel for medical persons and the belief they actually care about the welfare of the individual patient was shattered long ago. Granted, there may be a few sterling individuals who still care, but I think they're rarer than hen's teeth.
 
Right now I’m taking everything day by day. I made it through Christmas Day without the usual gorge on sweets, but I still ate way more than the 30g of carbs I’m allowed. At least in my mind, I broke my diet with meat and veggies, not pies and cakes. Maybe that counts for something. Doesn’t matter. The past is in the past and cannot be altered. I can only change today. I’m back on the diet and behaving. I’ve lost officially 11 pounds, and I hope to make it more by next Friday. :embaressed_smile: