Street sign, fully heeded.

-

I’ve been to London a good number of times. We usually go at least once a year, sometimes twice, and the total number of trips Rand and I have taken there are numbering close to a dozen. I’m started convincing myself that I’ve seen all the city has to offer. I’ve been to tons of its museums – mainstays like the British Museum and more obscure ones like the Old Operating Theater and herb garret and the London Transport Museum. I’ve visited the Globe, and the Tate Modern, and the Tower of London; I’ve spent way, waaaay too much time shopping in Covent Garden and wandering around Borough Market.

I figured I’d seen London. Been there. Done that. Eaten those. Right?

But sure enough, every time I go, I uncover another corner of the city that I never knew existed. Some magical neighborhood that I’ve never even heard of, much less seen. This time, it was London’s east end – a collection of hip and quirky neighborhoods packed with independent shops and restaurants, street musicians and giant murals.

It was a wonderful reminder that, despite all my trips there, I’ve seen only the tiniest bit of this massive, diverse metropolis. There’s always something new and magical to uncover. Stores to browse in. People to meet. Cookies to eat.

Here are ten photos from our trip to London’s East End.

—————

1. Street sign for Brick Lane, as if the eponymous masonry wasn’t enough.
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2. Cheeky self-referential street art.
   
   -
3. Steaming paella near Notting Hill.
   -
4. Dinosaur, Einstein, and eyeball murals.
   

   At least, I think it’s Einstein. I guess it could also be the Fonz.

   -

5. Rand mashes a bagel into his face at Beigel Bake, on Brick Lane.
   

   “RAND …  chomple-gobble-smack … HAPPY.”

   -

6. The most glorious door knocker, ever, near Columbia Road.
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7. Taking the criticisms of a neon sign a little too personally.
   

   Oh, hush. It’s not about you. You only have one, and last I checked, it was rather clean.

   -

8. If a book can have a chip on its shoulder, this one would.
   

   Disclaimer: half of the pages are blank. KIDDING! I’m kidding. Kidneys are delicious, y’all.

   -

9. Bacon street murals.
   

   Note the total absence of bacon.

   -

10. Obligatory snuggle photo of me and Rand, Columbia Road Flower Market.
    -

-

I’m having trouble getting my thoughts in order this week. I’m once again hit with the obvious realization that I can’t be everywhere at once – certainly not literally, and not even on this blog of mine.

We got back from Sydney less than 24 hours ago (and we left for Australia less than a week after we got back from London). I would very much like to tell you about that trip, but even in the short time since I’ve returned, a lot has happened. I’ve found myself thinking about the people in my life, and how I never feel like I give them the attention they deserve.

I’ve been meaning to visit my brother in California for ages now, but that trip keeps getting delayed as new ones pile up. I owe my friend Chrissy a phone call, and my friend Deanna an email. I should probably talk to my mom, too. And I realize, in addition to all the people I’ve been neglecting as I travel around, there are a few places that I’ve neglected, too. I spent far too little time telling you about Milwaukee, and I managed to completely skip Portsmouth, New Hampshire, all together.

I feel anxious whenever this happens: when my blog can’t keep up with my life. When I can’t keep up with my life. It’s not something I can complain about, but it is something I feel guilty about. There are people in my life who deserve more of my attention; there are also places that deserve more of my attention.

So I hope you’ll forgive me for moving backwards, figuratively at least. There are trips that are still floating in my head, and until I write about them, they won’t seem real.

Today, I want to tell you about Portsmouth, New Hampshire. We were there last November before a storm. Even though it’s sunny outside my window this morning, I can still remember those few days we spent in that little town quite vividly – how the wind howled through the streets as I ran from store to store, trying to keep warm while simultaneously seeing the city.

My friend Deanna, whom I met through this blog of mine, was born in Portsmouth. Since she’s one of those many people I’ve been neglecting as of late, it seems only appropriate to spend the day talking about her birthplace.

Deanna: consider this the blog equivalent of a Facebook “poke”. To be fair, I’ve never really understood what a “poke” was for, but I think it a gentle way of saying, “I miss you, and I’m thinking about you.”

Which, for the record, I am. As well as that little town of yours. Forgive me, but most of these photos are of food, or streets lit up after dark. It seems that I’m drawn to stuff like that.

1. Neon jungle inside The Friendly Toast restaurant. 
   

   The toast wasn’t bad, either.

   -

2. Chocolate-dipped s’mores at the Mainely Gourmet Chocolate Factory.
   
   

   I got one of these for Rand. I even let him eat part of it.

   
   -

3. Glow of a salon window, Deer Street. (Incidentally, it reminded me of this painting that we saw in one of the galleries in town.)-
4. Street near downtown, slick with rain.
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5. Corner shops looking very New Hampshirey.
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6. Chocolate-bacon cake with salted caramel, Black Trumpet Bistro.
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7. Shop signage.
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8. The local church in the sunlight.
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9. Shark mural near the waterfront.
   

   So. Many. Teeth.

   -

10. French toast, Colby’s Restaurant.-

We stayed near the water in Mouille Point, and waking up every morning to this view helped take the edge off of not being in Bushman’s Kloof:

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Leaving the Kloof was hard. I’m not even going to pretend otherwise. It was blissful and beautiful and it pulled at my heartstrings a little to leave. Driving away, it felt like it was the last day of camp, or the morning after a really great slumber party (you know, the ones where no one breaks down crying and the first person to fall asleep doesn’t have peanut butter smeared on her toes by the other guests).

We’d had a lovely time, and we were happy about that, but damn it, it was hard to see it end. It was tough to say goodbye.

Reliving the experience, as I have over the last few weeks on the blog, has been delightful. But it’s now time to move on, once again. Before I figuratively drag you all back to Cape Town (and eventually, out of South Africa all together), I wanted to take one last look at Bushman’s Kloof. Here are twelve photos that I felt best captured our time there. You may have seen some of these before in my other posts; my apologies for that. I didn’t mind looking at them again, and I hope you don’t, either.

1. The long and winding road to Bushman’s Kloof.-
2. The not-quite-infinite infinity pools near the main lodge.-
3. My husband is the cutest thing ever (during a morning hike).-
4. View from the patio of the Koro lodge.-
5. Cave painting of an ox, between approx 2,000 – 10,000 years old.-
6. High tea goodies.-
7. Getting the stare down by a zebra during an evening drive.-
8. Flowers outside our suite at the main lodge.-
9.  Rand tries to decide which of the springbok he will bring home as a pet.-
10. A wary gecko interrupts our dinner at the Koro Lodge.-
11. Kissing my beloved during an evening drive. -
12. Saying goodbye to our absolutely amazing staff at the Kloof.
    -

Street crossing in Downtown Milwaukee.

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The main drawback of communicating mostly through sarcasm (if, indeed, there is any) is this: on the rare occasion when you are sincere, people don’t believe you. They think you are being a snide jerk, and the more you try to convince them otherwise, the worse it gets.

This happened time and again whenever someone asked me what I thought of Wisconsin (and of Milwaukee and Green Bay and the stretch of highway in between).

I answered them honestly. I loved it.

They stared blankly at me.

“Seriously?” they say, hoping for some haughty reply, a cheeky revelation, a well-placed put-down.

Instead, they got this: “Yes, seriously.”

I loved it all. I loved the people and the food and the atmosphere. At some point, I screamed it to Rand.

“This place is amazing. The people are friendly and there’s lots of great bars and EVERYONE IS A PACKERS FAN. We have to move here, immediately.”

He agreed with most of my sentiments, but wasn’t so keen on the last bit. Even if it did mean he could watch every Green Bay game surrounded by a sea of fellow fans.

Clearly, everyone needs a little more convincing when it comes to Wisconsin’s awesomeness. These pictures from our trip should do the trick.

1. Getting my ducks in a row. Riverwalk, Milwaukee.
   

   Note: Running after them while screaming, “DUCKIES!” will not, as I had previously thought, make you look like a total badass.

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2. Milwaukee Public Market sign at dusk. (Is it just me, or does the sign look kind of familiar?)
   

   Of course, they have the good sense to put their market indoors …

   -

3. Window display on the Comet Cafe, Milwaukee.
   

   I concur.

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4. Chalk art in the Historic Third Ward, Milwaukee.
   

   What is it about fictional-witch homicide that’s so hilarious?

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5. A throne fit for a Rand. Mader’s German Restaurant, Milwaukee.
   

   Now he knows what it’s like for us short gals.

   -

6. Old facades, downtown Milwaukee.-
7. Quadracci Pavilion, Milwaukee Art Museum. -
8. Old Pabst Brewery Sign, downtown Milwaukee. -
9. High Life Cruiser, Miller Brewery.
   -
10. Exit sign for Waldo, Wisconsin(pop. 503)
    

    “Oh my god. Rand, WE FOUND HIM!”

    -

11. Sunset, as seen driving back from Green Bay to Milwaukee.
    - 
12. At Lambeau Field, Green Bay.- 

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Indeed, that might be the understatement of the year. If my beloved is reading this, he’s probably done a spit take all over his computer while sputtering, “YOU THINK?”

My poor, maligned love. He puts up with a lot. From me. And during the holidays, from his in-laws, too. Which I argue is his fault.

I mean, I was born into them. I had no choice. He walked right into this situation, mostly sober. THE FOOL.

Don’t get me wrong: my family can be delightful, and they seem to really like Rand. But they are all, each and every one of them, certifiably insane. Absolutely mental.

There are a few exceptions – dear women who, for reasons I can’t quite articulate, decide to throw a crazy wrench into the machinery of their normal lives, and married into my family.

Other than this glaring lack of judgement, they seem rather sane. It’s only a matter of time, though, before they become as nuts as the rest. As any medical professional will tell you, being bonkers is highly contagious.

In the meantime, Rand has them with whom to commiserate, to look at with wide eyes and shake his head, or shrug and say, “Eh. The in-laws … am I right?”

This post is for them – it’s advice for people who are about to visit an Italian household (whether it be in Italy, or in the U.S.). Rand and those poor souls who married into my family learned most of this stuff already, the hard way.

It might be helpful to the rest of you, too. Especially if you have managed to fall in love with some hirsute Italian boy or girl, and are planning on spending time with their family this holiday season. (I’m not sure whether to congratulate you on your luck, or pray for your soul. I might do a bit of both.)

And with that, here are my 24 tips for visiting an Italian household during the holidays … or any time, really.

1. If you are staying in someone’s home, note that bathrooms will likely not contain trash cans, nor will any of the bedrooms. In fact, it’s incredibly hard to find any sort of garbage receptacle anywhere, and you will likely need to make your own. After collecting refuse for several days, and then presenting it to your hostess, she will be mortified that you have been hoarding trash, and will likely clutch her heart and may possibly faint. Be prepared for this.
   - 
2. If you say you are not hungry, know that the comment will be perceived in any of these ways:
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   “You are a terrible cook.”
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   “You have failed as a mother/grandmother/aunt/provider.”
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   “I don’t love you.”
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   (This goes ditto for not consuming seconds.)
   - - 
3. Note that saying that you are hungry can be equally disastrous. This is tantamount to claiming that you are near death from starvation, and may expire at any moment. Large quantities of food will be presented to you, and must be eaten in a frenzy. Instead, even if you are famished, state that you “could have a little snack.” Understand that said snack will be a banquet.
   

   Your starter will be pasta. Your main will also be pasta. And for dessert? Pasta.

   -

4. Though appearances might suggest otherwise, the house was not decorated by an aspiring club promoter circa 1986 (probably). Despite being abreast of most fashion trends, the majority of Italians seem about twenty years behind when it comes to interior design. A framed poster of the Colosseum? Sure. A few dozen Patrick Nagel prints? YES.
   -
5. The woman wearing knee-high boots and a leopard print top is someone’s grandmother. Don’t think about this too much.
   -
6. “What do you mean you aren’t Catholic? … Methodist? What the hell is that?”
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7. Espresso will be offered to you in the morning. Also at 10am, noon, 3pm, 5pm, and 8pm. You will be expected to partake in at least half of these opportunities.
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8. Should you get the shakes after consuming half a gallon of coffee, expect several people to gently squeeze your shoulder and tell you to calm down. They will blame your nerves on “city life”, “working too much,” or simply “being American.” But obviously not the coffee.
   - 
9. “You paid how much for that bottle of wine? You know Carlo Rossi is two gallons for $7 and it’s just as good.”
   - 
10. The greatest contributions to society have been made by Italians. Mostly by Galileo, Da Vinci, and DeNiro.
    

    Also, all art and history and culture and language and good things come from Italy and nowhere else.

    -

11. You will inevitably share a meal with someone who is dressed in only a shirt and bikini briefs. 90% of the time, said individual will be a male. Roughly 50% of the time, he will be over the age of 50. DO NOT BREAK THE HORIZONTAL PLANE.
    -
    
12. At some point, you will see a 100-pound, middle-aged woman demolish a plate of pasta roughly the size of a pile of laundry, along with a loaf of bread and maybe some salad. She will then skip dessert because “that stuff makes you fat.” Resist the urge to punch her, as she is probably my mother. (And all her goddamn genes are recessive.)
    -
13. If you are a vegetarian, you will be offered prosciutto as an alternative to meat. If you are gluten-free … please get over that, or leave the house immediately.
    – 
14. Andy Garcia is Italian, as is evidenced by his role in The Godfather, Part III. It is best if you do not argue this point, despite glaring evidence to the contrary.
    - 
15. Jon Stewart is Italian, too.
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16. Obviously Colbert is as well. (Your failure to know this stuff is just evidence of the media’s rampant anti-Italianism.)
    -
17. Unless you have been specifically instructed by the host to sit at the head of the table, do not even think of doing so. Ditto for the foot of the table.
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18. High decibel yelling and screaming, standing up and waving limbs, hysterical crying and slamming of fists on the table are all part of standard conversation and should not be misconstrued as signs of actual conflict.
    - 
19. The same can be said of the brandishing of weapons and/or rosary beads.
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20. If you are dating a woman in the family, expect to sleep on the couch, or in a twin bed in her little brother’s room, or possibly outside.
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    If you are dating a man in the family, you can totally sleep in his bedroom, but note that the hushed conversations, disapproving looks, and head-shaking are totally about you.
    -
    (Note: I’m presuming heterosexual relationships here. I don’t know how Italian chauvinism translates to gay and lesbian culture, but I suspect it would be a fascinating study.)
    -
21. If you give someone a gift, you will find that gratitude is often expressed through guilt and tears. For some reason, simply saying “thank you” and being happy isn’t appropriate. But serious grief and distress over the bracelet you bought them totally is.
    -
22. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to rise from, or remove the dishes from, the dinner table within the two hours immediately following a meal. Your unwillingness to sit and talk to your hosts for 120 minutes is a clear sign that you hate them.
    -
23. At any given time, someone will be running around in a state of hysterical panic. It’s cool. Just let them do their thing.
    - 
24. “What are you wearing? You’re going to catch cold in that.”
    -

Man, I should have written this for my husband years ago. Eh, better late than never.

Happy Chrismukkah, baby.

—————-

Note: I know that stereotyping is lame. I realize that not all Italian families are the same. Hell, not even all crazy families are the same. I’m just sharing what I’ve learned from my family (a family that happens to be Italian. And crazy.) So if you are tempted to write me some hate mail, may I kindly suggest you take your anger and direct it back to Instagram, where it belongs? Apparently they are stealing your IP and setting fire to puppies, or something.

From our eventful and nail-biting last road trip, in Ireland.

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Rand and I are currently in Boston; in a few days, we’ll be driving up to New Hampshire for a conference; a few of his colleagues will be making journey with us.

That’s right: we’re going on a road trip. WITH PEOPLE WE LIKE AND CONSIDER FRIENDS.

Oh, dear.

Forget all those trust-building exercises where you have to assemble a puzzle together, or fall into one another’s arms with your eyes closed, or break into an paramilitary complex, undetected, in order to erase any evidence of your existence (that last one is a thing, right? I’ve been unemployed for a long time). I cannot imagine a more rigorous test of any professional or personal relationship than being stuck in a car together, with only the fickle bastard that is Google Maps to guide you.

Think of how much you learn about one another as you struggle to …

• navigate roads that should have been decommisioned in the 70s!
• choose a snack at the gas station that isn’t produced by a company primarily specializing in petroleum products.
• find a radio station that doesn’t describe itself as “playing the hits of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.” (Parenthetically, when did those weird moan-yodel noises that all the pop stars make become substitutions for actual singing? Also, music is too loud, my hip hurts, and the kids need to get OFF MY DAMN LAWN. #oldpersonrant)

It is not a situation to be taken lightly.

Now go fetch me some Halvoline cupcakes. Like mom used to not make.

-
And so, to ensure that Rand and I do not traumatize his colleagues, and due to the “success” of my 10 Commandments of Air Travel (hate mail counts as success, right?), I’ve decided to issue another ten commandments – this time about riding in cars.

These aren’t rules for driving, per se (because there are a a hell of a lot more than ten of those), but guidelines for when you decide to pile into a vehicle alongside people with whom you’d like to remain on speaking terms long after you reach your destination.

1. Thou canst not call “shotgun” unless thou can actually see the vehicle. Also, no calling shotgun for future trips, because that sort of shit is bound to get people really angry (and rightfully so, because thou is being a dick).
   -
2. Regardless of whether or not thou hast called shotgun, thou shalt let the tallest/largest passenger ride in the front seat when thy vehicle is full. The tallest/largest passenger should initially decline this offer, but thou shalt continue pressing the issue until they take the damn front seat.
   -
   (If thou is not the tallest occupant of the vehicle, thou may still request to sit in the front seat on grounds of motion sickness. However, thou hast better have some serious evidence to back that claim up. Either that, or thou should just take thine own car.)
   -
3. When thou is a passenger, thou shalt pitch in gas money for all trips over 15 miles, unless thou is doing someone a favor by going to the destination with them (then thine friend should probably offer you lunch or something). This situation does not hold true for professional trips, when the most senior individual should be responsible for covering the bill and enduring the dreaded expense report that ensueth.
   -
4. With regards to flatulence, thou shalt “hold it in” for as long as possible (for though physical discomfort may fall upon thee, no real harm to thy person should occur) and wait for the opportunity to unleash thy foulness outside of the vehicle.
   -
   If such an opportunity does not present itself, thou shalt roll down the windows ahead of time before passing gas inside thy vehicle. Thou is not exempt from this rule, even if it is thine own car.
   
   –
5. Thou shalt defer to the driver’s choice of music. If the driver’s taste is really terrible, thou must suck it up, except for trips lasting longer than 20 minutes, at which point thou and thine driver may take turns controlling the stereo.
   -
   The content of mixed CDs shall not be considered grounds for ridicule, because we all went through the stage where we thought that “Breakfast at Tiffany’s“ song was catchy. (Don’t lie. Thou didst, too.)
   -
6. Unless it interferes with thou’s legroom, thou shalt not critique the cleanliness of thy friend’s car. Nor shouldst thou mention that weird smell.
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7. When the car is full, that person bearing the shortest legs shouldst offer to sit in the accursed middle back seat. After they have done so voluntarily, their position must then be referred to as “sitting awesome” instead of “sitting bitch.”
   -
8. Thou shalt take any opportunity to use the restroom, even if thou doesn’t really have to go, in order to reduce the chances of needing to stop in the future.
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   If thou feels thine bladder or bowels reaching fullness, thou should make it clear that a bathroom will be needed soon, so that thine driver has time to find a convenient place to stop.
   

   Otherwise you might be forced to pee out the window. While zooming across a bridge.

   -

9. If thou is deemed navigator, thou shalt give directions in a clear and timely manner, providing the driver with more than 15 seconds to move three lanes to thine right. Those who point vaguely while repeating, in escalating urgency, “Go there … There! No, THERE.” willst be flogged.
   

   The phone CANNOT teach you how to drive.

   –

10. If thou ist driving, thou shalt defer to the opinions of those forsaken souls in the backseat when determining vehicle climate controls. Those who are doomed to spend an eternity (or, you know, 20 minutes, but it feels like forever) burning in the hell of the backseat should be allowed full control over the A/C.

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And, and one last thing you should take into account before venturing out on a long trip. It’s less of a commandment, and more just good, common sense (Rand, you listening?):

Thou should never, under any circumstances, think that watching YouTube videos are enough to teach thou how to drive stick-shift. Especially not in Ireland.

But there is no border between the two places; we drove seamlessly from Northern Ireland to the Republic, and back again. The countryside remained lovely, the people continued to be friendly, and glasses of Guinness flowed freely on either side.

And so, because our similiarities in this world should always triumph over our differences, I’ve mashed all my photos together in one post. (Also, I was feeling kind of lazy.)

1. Most covered lattice, Castle Leslie Estate, Republic of Ireland.
   

   You lichen? GET IT? LICHEN? HA.

   -

2. Caution: Horses sign, Castle Leslie Estate.
   

   I wanted to add little fangs to the silhouette and change it to say “Caution: VAMPIRE HORSES” but Rand mentioned some nonsense about defacing property or something, so I didn’t.

   -

3. “I have Clamidia” post-it Note, Belfast, Northern Ireland.
   

   On the plus side, it’s great to inform future and past partners when you discover you have an STD. However, you may want to consider a different medium than a Post-It note.

   -

4. Giant’s Causeway columns, Northern Ireland.
   

   And a rare spot of sun.

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5. Ginormous mirror on the ground, Dublin.
   
   -
6. Dried ivy, brick building, blue sky, Dublin.
   
   -
7. Rand gets contemplative at the Peace Wall, Belfast.
   

   He wasn’t sure what to write.

   -

8. Mixed messages, Dublin.
   

   OH GOD WHICH IS IT?!

   _

9. Hillside near Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, Northern Ireland.
   

   The beautiful spoils of our harrowing drive.

   -

10. Obligatory photo of the two of us, Guinness Brewery, Dublin.
    -

I’ve adhered to many of these rules for a while now, and I figured they were common knowledge. But the more I travel, the more I realize that they most certainly aren’t. So please forgive the obviousness of some of these edicts, but they must be stated. And with that, I give you the Ten Commandments of Air Travel:

1. Thou shalt do all thou can to hold in thou’s farts. If thou really can’t contain thine own flatulence, thou canst either get up and release it in the bathroom, or at the very least turn on thy little overhead fan thingy.
   -
2. When other people are trying to sleep, and thou has a window seat, thy little plastic curtain shalt be lowered so that the blinding light of the sun does not shine directly in the faces of other passengers.
   

   Thou should not do as this man hath done.

   -

3. Thou should store only one bag directly above in the overhead compartment, and the other bag should be placed underneath the seat in front of thou. I’m sorry if that gets in the way of thine legroom, but those are the rules. Thou should have thought about that before lugging all of thine crap onto the plane as carry-on luggage.
   -
4. Thou shalt be forgiving and patient with crying babies, for they are in pain and in need of sympathy. (Thou can totally feel free to get angry at any of the following: bratty children who art old enough to know better, drunken frat boys, and anyone who speaketh so loudly, they can be heard from more than three rows away).
   -
5. Thou shalt not bring really stinky food onto the plane, if thou can help it. I understand that thou is hungry, but that stuff is going to stink up the cabin for the next three hours. Seriously. I don’t know how thou can eat that stuff.
   

   Thy food is odoriferous.

   -

6. Flight attendants are not thine own personal slaves. They should be treated with respect and kindness because they work really damn hard and don’t need thou giving them a hard time or hitting on them.
   -
7. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s arm rest. Unless, of course, thou is seated in the unholy and accursed middle seat, at which point thou gets to use both armrests, because that’s only fair.
   

   Also, thou should keep thy unkempt toes to thyself.

   -

8. If thou hast an aisle seat, thou shalt get up without complaint when others in thine row need to pee.
   -
9. Thou should really be able to lift thine carry-on into the overhead compartment by thyself. If thou really needs help with that sort of thing, perhaps thou should have packed more lightly.
   -
10. Thou shalt not kill.

-

Hanging out in the hospital exam room.

-

I was hoping that brain surgery would teach me a thing or two. That I would wake up from my operation with some sort of hidden knowledge that’s only accessible to those who’ve had their skulls cracked open.

It’s not that I thought I’d wake up speaking French or anything (though I wouldn’t have been against that. I’ve always wanted to learn French). Rather, I imagined I’d groggily rub my eyes and look around with a new appreciation for the world around me. My new perspective would prevent me from getting upset about the small stuff.

I thought that after brain surgery, I could rise above the trivial crap we often find ourselves miring in.

And for a while, that was the case. They say that your true self comes out when you are heavily medicated, and my true self, to everyone’s surprise, was an absolute sweetheart. I loved all my nurses, even the blond that Rand had dubbed “the nasty one” (“You just don’t understand her like I do,” I said, drooling onto my gown). I declared my mother the best mother – NAY, the best HUMAN – in the entire universe. I was even tempted to call a few people that I hated and tell them how I had changed my mind about them, how I was wrong to suggest that if they were a crossword puzzle clue, they’d be “a four-letter word that starts with ‘c’ and rhymes with punt.”

Trust me, no one was more shocked than I about my new-found niceness and goodwill.

Of course, I was hepped on something ten times stronger than morphine, and I suspect that had something to do with it. For when I finally came down from that stratospheric high, many many days later, I found I was back to my old, cranky, ill-tempered self.

And for a while, I moped, because I had gone through all that brain drilling and learned positively nothing.

In hindsight, though, this isn’t entirely true. I did learn a few things. I learned what it’s like to have a brain tumor. What it’s like to get an MRI and a CT scan and what it’s like to be completely and utterly knocked out. I learned what it’s like to have staples in your head and what it’s like to have them removed.

I learned what it was like to have brain surgery.

Hell, not even my doctors, who are experts in the field, have been through that.

Here are some of the things I learned from my experience. I tried putting them in some sort of coherent order, but that kind of failed miserably, so instead, I’ve just plopped them all into one big list.

Call it a brain dump, if you will.

1. Trying to diagnose yourself over the internet is a terrible idea. The world wide web, once a dear friend, purveyor of porn, and shopping buddy, will turn on you. And, as my friend Chad so brilliantly puts it, you will come away thinking that you have a life expectancy of three or four minutes.
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2. Rather than asking Google all those questions rolling around in your tumor-ridden head, I found it best to write them down and direct them to your doctor. Every. Single. One. (Well, every single one that pertains to brain tumors. Don’t go asking your doctor about where you can find those naked photos of Prince Harry from Vegas. He might know, but it will just get awkward from there.) If you don’t write them down, trust me, you will forget them the second you enter the exam room, and will conveniently remember them again well after you’ve gotten home.
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3. Feel free to run around the house doing your best Arnold Schwarzeneggar impersonation, saying “It is a tumor.” Trust me: it will never get old.
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4. Note that the tumor is not the sole reason behind your tendency to enter a room and forget why you went in there in the first place. If that were the case, everyone on the planet would have a brain tumor. My mother would have 17 of them.
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5. However, the tumor may be the reason behind your headaches, your hormone fluctuations, and why you think that Sorority Boys was a good film.
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6. It’s okay to be scared out of your mind.
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7. If you are claustrophobic, getting an MRI may cause you to freak out. Calm yourself with notion that the process is similar to being inside a big front-loading washing machine. Become the dirty laundry.
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8. You will have to remove all metal on your body. That includes body-piercings. This means that at some point after your MRI you will find yourself staring at three metal hoop earrings, and you will not, for the life of you, be able to figure out which one was in your nose and which two go in your ears.
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9. If your pants have metal on them, you will be given hospital scrubs to wear, which are comfortable, but not really designed for big-hipped gals. I give you Exhibit A:-
   

   So Cosmo says I’m fat, but I ain’t down with that.

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10. I kept asking the technician a bunch of “What ifs?” (What if he passed out, leaving me inside the machine for hours? What if the building suddenly lost power, and I was stuck inside?) After going through every unlikely scenario with me, he finally said (with a more than passing degree of exasperation) that in an emergency, I could crawl out of the machine. So remember that: if the zombie apocalypse happens while you are getting your juicy brain scanned, you can always crawl out.
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11. MRIs are insanely loud. The noises fall somewhere between those of a garbage disposal, a semi-automatic machine gun, and a semi-automatic machine gun that has been put inside a garbage disposal. Fortunately, you’ll get earplugs and (if you are lucky) headphones, too. So you can listen to NPR and replace some of the dendrites and synapses that you lost to irradiating your head.
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12. You will likely be quite calm for your first MRI, because you have convinced yourself that it’s just a precautionary measure to ensure that nothing is wrong. You will likely freak out for your second MRI, because clearly, something is wrong and THAT IS WHY YOU ARE GETTING A SECOND MRI. Fear not: the technicians are often quite used to hysterical crying (however, when you finally do lie down for the scan, the snot from your crying fit will clog your sinuses something fierce).
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13. Once the scans start, you can’t move at all. Take care to pick any wedgies beforehand.
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14. Compared to an MRI, a CT scan is like a walk in the park. A very short walk.
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15. Tumors are like meth-cooking tenants in a cheap apartment complex. Even after you give them notice of eviction, they can be hard to get rid of. And they often trash the place before leaving.
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16. Naming your tumor is a great way to show that you are dealing with the situation in a light-hearted manner, or may be a subtle signal to your friends that they should stop asking you when you are going to have a baby, because you have a FRIGGING BRAIN TUMOR and that is occupying most of your time right now.
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    If you do chose to name your tumor, DO NOT name it after one of your in-laws. That will not come off as the heartfelt tribute you intended it to be.
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17. You may be tempted to try and figure out why you presently have a brain tumor. This is a waste of time. Brain tumors can be the result of a myriad of things, so it’s nearly impossible to pinpoint one cause.
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    Unless, say, you spent your childhood sticking your head inside the microwave and turning it on. Because that’s probably why you have a brain tumor.
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18. There is no shame in eating an entire dish of brownies or half a dozen cupcakes in the span of six hours. If anyone questions your behavior, explain that you are eating for two.
    

    A small sampling of some of the several dozen cupcakes I was sent.

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19. Suddenly, Rihanna’s half-shaved haircut will seem completely reasonable.
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20. The upside of this experience is that you now have a great excuse for forgetting people’s names. Behold:
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    “I’m sorry, I just had brain surgery. What should I call you?”
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    “Mom. You should call me mom.”
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21. A bit of life-long retrospection is normal. If you look back upon things, and your biggest regret is that you should have spent less time working out and more time eating cake, then you can’t really complain. If the only mistakes you’ve made involve seeing too many Ben Affleck movies while they were still in the theater, then consider yours a life well lived.
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    Even though you’re pretty convinced that you still deserve a refund for Daredevil.
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22. Yelling at those close to you is a completely normal and shitty consequence of being scared.-
    

    Sorry about that, baby.

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23. Screaming at the TV or internet is perfectly acceptable, too.
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24. While one would hope that learning of a potentially cancerous legion on their brain might make them gain perspective, sadly, often times, the opposite is true. Rather than worry about the bigger issues before you, it is easier to focus on the fact that your tailor totally botched the alterations of your dress.
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    Of course, part of the reason you’re so pissed about the dress is that if someone can screw up fabric, just imagine what they can do to your head.
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    Then remember that your doctor’s machinery will be slightly more advanced than a Singer sewing machine.
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25. In my experience, most neurosurgeons do not get sarcasm. If you openly ask them what are the odds that your tumor is a rogue Lego that you shoved up your nose at the age of 3, they will likely explain to you in detail the high improbability of that.
    

    Warning: Do NOT insert in nose.

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    They do, however, get a kick out of hearing you say, “Just take a little off the top,” when you are about to go in for surgery.
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26. Odds are, you will not be able to take your tumor home to have it bronzed, because for some reason your doctors say they need it.
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27. The following are unacceptable nicknames for your neurosurgeon: Buddy. Champ. Bubba. The Slicer. The Dicer. Iron Mike Slice-on. The Widow-Maker. Extreme Barber.
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28. Have someone you trust speak with your neurosurgeon. They should ask a long series of questions, and investigate your doctor thoroughly before your surgery. This is to ensure that your surgeon is not, in fact, a zombie, and this entire operation isn’t a ruse to get to your delicious, delicious brain.
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29. Upon revealing that you have a tumor to friends and family, you may find that they react in different ways. Some may express their sadness at learning that you are not the prime physical specimen they always believed you to be. Others may openly show signs of guilt, because honestly, they never expected that Voo Doo doll to work.
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30. You may notice that friends will start to look at you differently. For example, they may stare at you intently for minutes at a time, or peer into your face, seemingly in search of something.
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    Fear not: they are probably just concerned about you and are looking for any tangible signs of illness. Either that, or they are trying to figure out by your facial expressions which of your things you will bequeath to them in a will if things go badly.
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31. Understand that your medical condition provides a rare opportunity to serve as a life-lesson for others. Be sure to offer your services to friends or relatives with small children. If the child has a nasty habit, this is a great way of getting them to kick it.
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    “Why do I have a brain tumor? Because I picked my nose too much when I was little. You don’t pick your nose, do you, Jimmy? Because that’s basically like ASKING for a brain tumor.”
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32. The look on your loved ones’ faces after you tell them about your tumor will remain etched in your mind and heart until probably the day you die. Considering that, it is probably best to tell your parents what’s going on over the phone.
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    Do not lead with “I have a brain tumor.” That sort of tends to freak people out.
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33. You may have a parent who is not inclined to voicing his or her affection towards you. After a phone call with said parent, you may tell them that you love them, and they will reply with, “Yeah.”
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    This will be weirdly comforting, because if they had said, “I love you, too,” then you’d really start to worry.
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34. You’ll be amazed by how many people you know have gone through the same thing. There’s nothing more calming than having a friend say, “Your tumor is only a centimeter long? Pssh. Mine was the size of a golf ball.”
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35. You may find that your husband has taken to wandering around the house, playing the ukelele, and singing some of your favorite songs, as a means of coping with the stress of this situation. It is best not to look directly at him when he does this, or there is a good chance that your heart might explode.
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36. Nor should you think about the way his eyes twinkle in the light of day (again, because of risk of heart explosion).
    

    And holy crap, do they twinkle.

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37. It’s entirely okay to spend the night before your surgery catching up on Mad Men. Be warned, though, that you might wake up demanding Pete Campbell’s testicles on a plate.
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38. The idea of having your head cut open is much more acceptable when you learn that the only other option is to literally pop your eye out and go in through your ocular cavity. (Which I still SWEAR must have been a joke. Right?)
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39. Proper trousers are for those with intact brains. You may feel free to wear pajamas all day for at least a week or three.
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40. Before surgery, make sure to clean your house and pay your bills, because the only thing you’ll want to do after surgery is sleep and eat pudding. Sadly, after extensive research, I can definitively say that sleeping and eating pudding will not result in a clean house or paid bills.
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41. The last part of your body to wake up from anesthesia is your lower intestine. (Translation: You will not be able to poo for days and days. Do you hear me? DAYS AND DAYS.)
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42. Good friends will listen to your post-surgery constipation stories. Great friends will high-five you when you tell them that you are actually able to poo again.
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43. Fruit bouquets are pretty much the best thing you can send anyone recovering from anything.
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44. Drink plenty of water the day before your surgery, since you won’t be able to have any the morning of (and you’ll be so dehydrated, the nurse will have to rub your vein in order to get blood drawn, which is all kinds of unpleasant).
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45. Have a clever one liner prepared for when you come to. Since I had a bunch of metal in my head, I decided to go the Terminator route, and held a photo of Edward Furlong circa the mid-nineties, asking my husband if he had seen this boy, John Connor.
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    He didn’t get the joke. Once-in-a-lifetime set up AND HE DIDN’T. GET. THE. JOKE.
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46. Occasionally, surgeons will forgo putting a metal plate in your head and just rely on the bone to fuse on its own (or for scar tissue to develop and protect the hole in your skull). This means that you will be running around with a soft spot in your head for several months. Make friends with babies. They understand how fragile you feel.
    

    At least you aren’t a jellyfish; their whole bodies are soft spots.

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47. If the surgeons skip the metal plate, they will leave a drainage tube inside your head for a little while after surgery. Depending on where your tumor was, it may extend incredibly deep into your brain. Removing it is akin to picking the biggest wedgie ever. It will be glorious.
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48. Also, the removal of the drainage tube will be gross and horrifying to all spectators. Even those who gave birth to you, and who have presumably seen a lot of disgusting things come out of your body.
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49. Worse still will be when they staple shut the hole the drainage tube left in your head. I’m not gonna lie: that will hurt like hell.
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50. Realize that this experience will make you an unmitigated bad ass. Feel free to bring it up constantly, even when it doesn’t pertain to the conversation at all.
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    “Congratulations on your promotion! Did I mention that I had brain surgery? Because I did. Me. Me. Me.”
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51. The total bill for my surgery was around $57,000. We paid about $2,000 out of pocket. Health insurance is a godsend. I wish everyone had it.
    
    

    20 minutes in this room was pricier than any hotel I’ve ever been to.

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52. Sometimes going for a short walk can feel like a huge achievement unto itself.-
53.  Ditto for eating four desserts in one day.
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54. For the first time since 1985, you will find yourself needing your mom’s help to get into the bathtub. And to wash your hair. And to get out of the bathtub. And to dry your hair. That’s okay. That’s what moms are for.
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55. Your surgeon will put a grease in your hair in order to part and hold it in place prior to the surgery. It will take several long washes before it comes out. On the plus side, it smells pretty good.
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56. Depending on your surgery, it will take you any where from several days to several weeks before you start feeling even remotely like yourself. Use this downtime wisely. Take up a new hobby (like seeing if the staples in your head are magnetic) or take some time to appreciate the artistic menagerie that is daytime television.
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    (Don’t be too hard on yourself if you can’t follow the plot. It’s mostly the copious amount of drugs in your system, and not a sign of cognitive damage.)
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57. Despite your proclamations that your bladder is as dry as the Sahara, you will probably have to get a catheter put in for your surgery. You probably won’t remember it being inserted or removed. But afterwards, your bladder will spasm like hell and you’ll have to pee every five minutes.
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58. Having your staples removed doesn’t actually hurt at all. But you can pretend that it does if you need extra sympathy points. Just be sure to get the physician’s assistant to play along.
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59. Unless it says, “take as needed,” your medication is not optional. Your whines about the horse pills you have to swallow will be largely ignored by your caretakers and husband.
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60. Being on the sidelines is scarier than being in the operating room.
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61. Contrary to what movies, TV, and The Simpsons have taught us, you don’t magically “wake up” from surgery the way you would a nap. You don’t really remember coming to. Instead, you’ll be in haze of drugs and anesthesia for several days.
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62. During that time, you will say many embarrassing and inappropriate things. Pray no one has a video camera.
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63. Even under sedation, The Muppets Take Manhattan is entertaining.
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64. Steroids stop your brain from swelling. They are crucial and life-saving in this respect. They will also turn you into a moon-faced teenager. Expect to have mood swings, eat everything in sight, and break out unceremonially.
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65. Random bald spots or facial and neck bruises (from where they clamped down your head) are completely normal. If anyone asks about them, explain that you tried making out with a badger.
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66. When people offer to help, they aren’t just being polite. They want to help. That’s why they offered.
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67. You may not remember very much of what happened during the days and week after the surgery. Try not to write any ill-advised screenplays.
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68. No one is actually expecting thank you notes, but it’s a nice gesture if you send them, anyway. Bonus points if you write the note from the perspective of your tumor.
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69. For the love of all that is holy, go easy on yourself. (I went running three weeks after my surgery. That was stupid. Running when you are healthy is bad idea. Heck, running at any time when you aren’t being actively chased is a BAD IDEA.)
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70. Don’t pick at it.