To My 17-year-old Self...

If you've been anywhere near my Facebook presence lately, you couldn't miss the fact that my 40th high school reunion came and went a couple of weeks ago. I was, as one of my classmates said, relentless in the pursuit to lasso as many attendees as possible. And it worked! We drew nearly 140 attendees, and though I didn't get around to talk to as many people as I wanted to, I hit the jackpot in the "I never knew that" department.

I never knew that some of the people I went to school with as a teenager had such challenges, or felt, as I did, so peripheral to the parties and the circles of friends that others had. (And lest you think I'm waxing pathetic here, let me say that I grew up just fine, with exactly the right amounts of insecurity and self-esteem, so that it balances out perfectly.) I never knew that some of the people who weren't in my line of vision four decades ago were so NICE. Some of the folks I got to know through developing the reunion were so supportive, so complimentary, so helpful, so kind and smart. And I have a few new friends as a result whom I intend to keep for life. (Whether they like it or not.)

And here's the one I loved the best: the handful of boys-now-men who told me they were crushing on me when we were kids. That my combination of brains and personality and 17-year-oldness added up to a pretty great package. Me: totally oblivious at the time, but so touched to hear it now that I didn't even scream, "WHAT? My whole life could have been different!" (Well, I did, in fact, say that to one of the guys...along with a suggestion that if he comes back in another life, he should be brave and tell the girl early on. Keep those options open.) And if I could advise my younger self? I'd say this: "Stop looking at what you think you don't have, take a look at what you do, and work it, girl."


© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The See-through Diet

Tomorrow, I'm having that procedure where they do the thing that nobody wants to talk about. Today's my clear liquids day, so I took my list of acceptable items to the grocery store and when I came home, I noticed that all my packages were green and yellow. So I've decided that I'm having a coloroscopy instead.

One of my friends says I over-analyze everything (but I'm convinced that's just because he never comes out ahead when I turn my lens on him). However, it is true that I'm a serial researcher, so I went online to find out everything that would make this easier or more effective or faster. Because I SO want to be on the other side of this at the earliest possible moment.

You can drink anything that you can read a newspaper through. Or shine a light through. (Gin and vodka not included.) That doesn't have red, blue, or purple coloring. Or that might impede the doctor's sightseeing on his or her journey. (Poor doctor. Isn't it great to be asleep for this whole event? I bet the doctor would prefer to sleep through it, too.)

So here's what I'm pretty sure is going to unfold. As soon as I start "the process," someone will offer me tickets to a Reba McIntyre concert tonight. Or Nordstrom's will contact me to say I won a $5,000 shopping spree that's good until midnight. And if that happens, I'm ready to turn down any options that come my way, because I have big plans. I'm going to read the paper through my Welch's white grape juice and 7UP. And then I'm going to shine a light through my chicken broth and lime Jello. I'm going to be very, very busy. Getting ready for that procedure where they do the thing that nobody wants to talk about.

© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

London, France and Golden Underpants

Le Mas Tourteron, Gordes

I have to admit that I only put the word "underpants" in my title so more males would read my blog. But also true is that I just returned from a vacation in France, and almost every time I heard "France" in my head, I thought of the Adam Sandler line from Bedtime Stories: "I see London, I see France, I see my golden underpants." Yes, I'm a seven-year-old sometimes. Who isn't?

Ah, but I digress. I really wanted to tell you about my wonderful vacance en Provence.  About les vins and fromages, charmant  villages, grande amitie...it was incroyable!

And the bees! Where there are lavender plants, there are bees! I am one of those people who is at risk of, um, expiring if I am stung and don't get help in minutes, so I was packin' a double holster of EpiPens the entire time. My friends knew that if a stinger met its mark, the drill was that I would shoot from the hip (or rather, into the hip) while they called for an ambulance. (Hmmm - it's the same in English and French. Duh, maybe because it's a French word to begin with. Yeah, I know, who cares? Get back to the story.)

This was a dream vacation, in many ways. I worked a wee bit, but not the entire time, for one. (Unfortunately, most of my previous vacations included answering lots of emails and finishing projects, and often postponing the day's plans—which my fellow vacationers really, really loved about me.) But that was before, and this is the new me!

We had amazing greenery and scenery in front of us every day (including lots of the aforementioned lavender...and Van Gogh-worthy sunflowers!); we walked on cobblestone streets in towns that blended the old with the new in a seamless, eclectic mix of color and accents and wonderful sounds and smells; visited the Palais du Papes in Avignon; enjoyed amazing cuisine like that at Le Mas Tourteron in Gordes; had a fantastic day touring and tasting at three Rhone vineyards; learned to say "pas de probleme" about every small glitch in our plans and paddled contentedly in the small sparkling pool right outside the door of our Provence cottage. We had happy hour every day (that started earlier and earlier as the week unfolded), with regional wines—focusing on Provence's trademark dry rosé—and great local crusty breads and luscious cheeses and fresh-picked fruit; and talked and laughed and slowed the clock down enough to think about our wishes for that distant someday. (It's easier to find clarity about what we want to do when we grow up by stepping off the hamster wheel now and then.)

Quelle surprise—not a bit of it had anything to do with golden underpants, but you never know what your future holds, n'est-ce pas?


P.S.: Il convient que ce blog est publié le jour de la Bastille!


© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

How I Came Unglued, Was Dethroned, and Was Put Back Together

So I'm sitting at my dear old dad's last night, having a visit and watching a little Stephen Colbert, and he offers me a box of hard candies: "Try one of these - they're really good." Mmmm. Caramel. It WAS good. For about a minute. Until I bit down on it, and the one crown I have on my lower left side joined the candy as a free agent in my mouth.

I must say, I'm not one to talk about stuff like this. (Or maybe I am, because I'm writing about it, huh?) I don't like admitting that my beautiful set of pearly whites, one of my best features, are compromised in any way. But there I was, with a space between my teeth that felt, to my exploring tongue, like the Grand Canyon. Meanwhile, that tiny little tooth impersonator was secured in a snack-sized Ziploc so I could get it fixed today.

I started calling the dentist at 6:59 this a.m. (they won't answer until 7:00) and was told to come in at 1:00 p.m.  More time to spend with that weird gap. (I don't like any spaces between my teeth that are wider than a piece of floss.) And then the renovation work started.

Dr. D. explained that he had to first isolate the area (which sounds really cool, like it might involve those neon orange cones and a guy directing traffic, but only amounted to packing about a pound of cotton pads on either side of the "work site" so that I was properly gagged and silenced). Then he had to clean the area, dry, prime, dry again...and apply glue to the crown and put it back into its proper place. I felt like a DIY renovation project. The kind where someone forces you not only to taste glue (and by the way, it wasn't the fun white glue that everyone tasted in grade school - this was grown-up-cement-your-crown-back-in-nasty-glue), but then you pay a gazillion dollars for the experience.

I'll tell you one thing: no more hard candy caramels for me. Well, at least no more on the left side of my mouth. I'm not completely traumatized, you know.

© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Strep Tease

Ugh. I'm sick. But I'm getting well. I swear I am. 

It started with a cough last week, then a sore throat, and I kept thinking it was going to pass, but the weekend came and I got worse. And worse. Finally, on Monday, I decided to see a doctor... and then realized it was Memorial Day. Of course it was! My timing has always been impeccable when it comes to all things medical.

Cursing myself for not thinking about this before, I started calling around to urgent care clinics. Closed. Closed. Closed. Closed. ARRRGGHHH! Finally, I found one, not too far away, that opened at 10 a.m. So clutching my handful of Kleenex, eyes running and throat raw, I stood before their door at 9:50, doing everything but peeing to mark my territory so the other three people who came early and looked just as wretched as I did would know that this was MY door, that I was first in line, and they'd better stay back because I was getting the first doctor. I was pretty sure my life depended on it.

Not even an hour later, prescriptions filled and back at home, I continued the misery of the last three days, but with a probable diagnosis (strep) and with a course of action (I'm a girl who loves an action plan). The rest of Monday went by. Still bad. Same with Tuesday. I kept looking for signs of recovery, and I found small ones. My sore throat was abating, and the rate at which I was using tissues was slowing. But my mean cat, who always seems to know when I'm really sick, wouldn't leave my side, so I knew this was still serious. Or else she was just terribly worried nobody would want her if I passed in my sleep.

Here it is, Wednesday morning. My vocabulary has returned; hence this blog. And one hot hot shower and a piece of toast later, I'm starting to feel human again. Ugh. I'm sick. But I'm getting well. I swear I am.

You Are The Best Person I Know

I received an email a few hours ago that was short - just one sentence - but it made my entire day. It will probably make my week, too.

It said this: "Dear Anita, you are the best person I know, and you have a nice laugh."

It was from my 10-year-old nephew and godson J., with whom I've forged a bond that, according to my sister (who is his mom), no other adult has. He's a good kid, and like so many other youngsters, is challenged by a few things in life.

J. is adopted, which I mention here not as a familial distinction, as he is in my heart as firmly as every other child in my family. I say so because this poor boy was subjected to some things by his biological mother in utero that affected his ability to learn easily and socialize and manage his emotions. He can be a handful. And he can be vulnerable and sweet and thoughtful, too. It's this side of him, I know, that the one sentence came from. That one sentence that cracked my heart open when I read it on my phone, and that made me sit down and write this as soon as I walked in my front door.

How easy it is to make someone feel great just by telling them something we see about them. We need more of that in this world! We need to give it to each other! So even if I don't know you well, and even if I've never heard you chuckle, I know you must be a good egg with a sense of humor, because you've read this far. That's why this one's for you: right now, you are the best person I know, and you have a nice laugh. Oh, and you have great taste in blogs, too.



© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Easter, With a Needle in My Arm

It's Easter morning, and I'm ready to walk out the door, but I'm not going to a sunrise service or to an egg hunt. In about 90 minutes, I'll be hooked up to a machine that pulls the platelets and plasma out of my most vital fluid, and then cycles the blood back in.

A constant supply of platelets is needed every day for cancer, surgery and transplant patients, and those with blood diseases. One platelet donation delivers what would take five whole blood donations to produce. And for people like me, who have dense platelets...well, I've been told that one of my donations can yield up to three times the usual amount. So I feel honored, since I have so much, to share what comes easily to me with someone else who needs it.

Before I got the call last Thursday, I was expecting that I'd have my usual early Sunday walk with a friend.  Before I got the call, I was planning to go to church with my family and listen to my sister sing with her choir at 10:00 today. Before I got the call, I didn't have to take so many iron supplements to raise my hemoglobin that - well, I'll spare you the earthy details on that one.

But I did get the call. And that's when I found out that, as with other holiday weekends, donations were low - dangerously low, in fact. And I knew this about my walking friend, my family and especially my higher power...none of them would mind if I celebrated Easter with a needle in my arm.



If you're able to give platelets or whole blood, please consider making just 4 donations a year - one for every quarter!  If everyone eligible did that, think of how easily our supplies could be replenished! U.S. donors can visit www.redcrossblood.org to make an appointment today. 

© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie