1-hr bee sting cure- not just for humans

P-dog (aka Penelope the pitbull) Her eye swollen
from the be-sting (why must the bee choose the eye?)

The distance between my house and my next door neighbor is, as Mr. Collins described, "separated by but a lane." Yet ours is not full of manicured hedges nor wild flowers. It is frought with overgrown maple trees, rogue blackberry bushes and a sliding ledge that descends off the narrow, rock path, five feet down in to the hole of unknown badness.

Still, our neighbors left for ten days and gave us the keys to their kingdom: it's small, but has the value of a pool and a garden that looks like the cousin of the jolly green giant, for no matter what I do, the onions and tomatoes are twelve times larger than my own. But I digress.

p-dog is so forlone, my youngest comforts
her with a hug

It was here, on this path, after a dip in the pool with my children that our illustrious P-dog, the ever-present she-beast who follows us, got stung on the eye. In a matter of moments it puffed up, covering the inside corner of her eye. For those who wonder 'how did you know it was a sting versus a mosquito?' it is this: A mosquito bite doesn't begin to itch for a day or so, and on my pitbull, rarely even leaves a mark bigger than an eraser head. On the other hand, a bee sting puffs immediately, is red, and the dog doesn't want to try and itch or touch it.

This is my 20-year old apis

I figured it was Apis, the homeopathic remedy used for us homosapiens, but I'm not sure. I call swami, who confirms it is indeed, Apis. Apparently, what's good for the servant is good for the master (as my husband says, I'm never the master when it comes to my own darn dog).

30 minutes after the first does and the swelling is down

Apis, in case you aren't aware, also works for bugbites and sunburns. I love this remedy. I think I have six in my little satchels all around the house and in my cars. So useful. This last Friday however, I was out. I ransacked every last location, finally turning to my 20-year old red container my mom made for me when I left for college. When I'm on the phone with swami, I tell him it's all I've got.

"Unlike western medicine," he begins, his eastern-Indian drawl thick, "homeopathic remedies last forever. 200 years even." All I can think is- heaven forbid I last two hundred years. I'll be the walking dead.

1 hour later, it's back to normal, with a teeny-tiny red! I
seriously love homeopathy.

"Every half-hour," he tells me. What do I do, after insert the tiny white pill in her jowels (for she spits it out the first time, then I put it in her gums and massage it until I think it's dissolved)? I whip out my camera. This I gotta record.


Half-hour later, not much has happened, other than it's a little less red. But an hour later? All gone!

Bats in the attic

Two am. Scratching on the roof. It's raining. The chances of a bird being out in a moonsoon is nil.

I can't sleep. I listen. It's not on the roof. It sounds like it's in the house, like a mouse scratching within the walls. Except there are no mice. You know why? We have no open airways or ducks between our walls. You see, where modern, well-built, normal homes have insulation, we have solid wood. That's what happens in the northwest when you purchase a "project." You deal with some things and i
mprove others.

Poor, misunderstood northwest bat.

But no matter. At 2:20 am, I'm not thinking mice. I'm thinking the new squeaking sound I'm hearing is coming from the massive lava rock structure twenty feet in front of me, the same one that extends up and down three stories in the center of my house. Anyone who has visited knows the rock centerpiece is hands down, the best part of this labor of love I call my abode. If the Earth falls apart, this vertical rock and cement structure that is home to 3 different fireplaces will still be standing. In fact, I'll probably be buried within.

No matter. By 2:30, I'm wondering how many little bats have made their home in the fireplace this time around. I'm transported to all those summer time nights spent at our cabin, high in the mountains of California, where we'd wait until the bats came out at sunset, flocking from the attic to do a turn or two before darting out an open window. We didn't bother with brooms, much to my mother's dismay. We thought they were cool. Besides, Dad was right. Bats are good. They eat bugs, not humans.

I fall asleep, comforted that the little black darts will come swooping out of my fireplace to eat a random spider asleep in the high corners of my windows, gulping a lost mosquito.

Today, (5:14 pm on a Friday night), I hear the little buggers squeaking again. They were out last night, scatting around, slept it off and are now rousing. A few days ago, when I was picking my daughter up from a day at her friends, it was around 9 pm and the sun was setting. The bats were flying out of the barn and we were all looking up, counting our flying friends.

"I'd much rather have bats than mice," my friend Barb says. As I have no choice in the matter, I'm in full agreement.


PS If you want to get bats out of your house, here are a few tips.
(of course, I can't help myself. I have to put something in about getting rid of bats, as I anticipate my mother will shriek "bats in the house! think of your children!" Well ma, it's not like they are flying around like a caged condor, leaving droppings everywhere from which we'll contract the bubonic plague or something. Here is proof, taking from Bats Northwest:

"bats do not make nests nor can they gnaw, so they do not physically harm your home."  

Letting Go of 'No'

In a fit of personal honesty, I'll admit that I hold on to the word 'no' with the fierceness gripping the rope I use to scale and rappel up and down the mountain that symbolizes my relationships. My 'no' is the lifeline to my identity and power position in my relationship. Saying no means I want to scale the mountain by myself, when in reality, I get higher, faster, when I can say yes.

It's an interesting thing, the word no. As a toddler, we learn the impact of shouting no. It arouses fear, anger, laughter. This must make an permanent ingram in our psyche, because the rush of power is positively exhilarating. I'd like to pretend my uses of the word No is somehow noble, like jumping in front of a speeding train or standing up to an unjust boss. But...no. It's not. Worse, I've perfected the use of the non-verbal no, thanks to my slight knowledge of avoidance mixed with a scosh of passive-aggressive behavior. My dear husband might disagree. He says "there is nothing passive" about me. I "tend to come right out and say no." (This shows him how I snookered him).

It's easy to come across sites that suggest ways to say no at work (thanks Forbes), or specifically, saying no to your boss (thx cnbc). Having issues with cold-callers? Here are some tips to say no to pushy sales people.

Beyond the work world, saying no in social circles is less black and white. Grey in fact. It made me think of "fifty ways to say no" (I suppose a play on the 50 shades of grey, which I have not read, thank you very much).  I seriously enjoyed, and learned a lot, from the suggestions about saying no bluntly, saying no subtely, and just about everything in between. My favorites include, in no particular order:

• I have a conflict (one doesn't need to identify if it's a moral, ethical or other non-rational, emotional reason, if one lacks morals or ethics)
• I'm not planning on it
• You go ahead, let me know how it goes

But more than the advice, I love the categories, which includes:

• "passing the buck no"
• "no that leaves room for a yes"
• "considerate and gentle no" 
• and my favorite the "fatal attraction/restraining order no".

I'm still going to say no, I'm just now going to say it with a bit more grace. 

PS. For my mother, I've included this top 100 list of sassy/rude ways to say no.  This generally falls in the category of "I want to say this but I don't have the guts." 

Low cost, high impact herb path

The start of the path has a retaining wall to the right,
a solar light in the front and a hosta behind it. I've used
odd-shaped, upright flat stones as an effect to catch the eye.

In our hearts, all Americans want to come back in their next life blessed with some version of the English garden. To our untrained eye, the wild, mish-mash of flowers that are supposed to look naturally planted, yet were probably dropped seed-by-seed by a discriminating gardener, is the epitome of class and usefulness. Very few gardens in the western US have the French garden look, because let's face it: those manicured lawns only works in Beverly Hills behind some monstrous fence we are never going to get over.

This is the flat area. For the path itself,
I've used crushed rock. I've allowed the
moss to grow over the retaining rocks.
Hostas of different varieties line the path.

A flat sitting rock is a great, inexpensive effect

The rest of us, particularly on the west coast, favor paths that offer up the deconstructed look. I'm not talking monster, let's do the Darcy and Elizabeth walk around the property. A path can be a few strides long or maybe thirty seconds or a minute. I've seen small, herb paths in the back of a townhouse in New York that look as natural and interesting as one in Malibu or Philadelphia.

The effective ones have three things in common:

1. No hassle. Local plants, comprised of the flowering kind (spring, mid-late summer, fall) are mixed with roses, hostas and other readily available succulents.

A close up shot of the succulents that
spread, filling in empty spaces before
drooping over rock walls

The second rise, part sun, part shade.
I've placed most of the herbs on the right
side of the path

2. Are useful. As long as you are creating a path, make it an "herb path," by planting basil and thyme, along with some catnip and perhaps even a few strawberry plants to liven things up. I also added a sitting rock that I embedded in the bank. It's strong (crushed rock underneath covered by bark), then planted a few flowering plants around it, along with sheep's ear (you know, that soft, fuzzy plant).

This is an expanded shot of 3 different
varieties of succulents. You can see they
creep down in to rocks. A rose bush
isn't quite visible (lower left) but I also
like succulents because they don't overtake
primary plants.

I love succulents, particularly for the rock walls. Whether its near a pond, along the path or over by the roses, I can always find a spot for soft domed, colorful succulents that offer up year-round color and interest.

Poppies at the top are the reward for
making it this far.

At the top of the path, I opted for the poppies. The POW of color is great (again, for the 1/10th of a second they last). Still, the fuzzy green part is nice. I planted yet another flower I can't name, but it's small, vibrantly red and takes over where the poppy leaves off.

The Mexican plant (I also can't name--see, this garden stuff is not my forte. At least I know the names of the herbs:))

3. Are pretty. The first few years, I used two colors of moss in between my stone steps. Moss dies in the winter, but looks great in the summer. Yet I accidentally planted some thyme that crept in and eventually took over the moss. I LOVED it. The smell is amazing, and then I found something else--ground cover mint. Now, my entire path has herb ground cover, which bring forth this awesome aroma.

Basil after 2 wks of growth. Nothing like
a sprig on top  of buffalo mozzerella and
tomatoes. yum.

I also like to use upright, odd-shaped flat stones to give some dimension to a path. This works equally well on flat paths behind a townhouse in the middle of a city as it does in my country-bumpkin world.
 The tools:

• Flat stones for the walkway. Carried by most home store chains in the US.



Strawberries behind the thyme

• Plants (your choice). On my herb path, I have one rising area that leads to a flat section, then a second and final rise of six stones. To accent the top of the rise, I planted poppies, which are great, but they bloom for about 5 seconds then die. Next to it I planted a Mexican flowering plant (Thanks Janel, but I can't remember the name), that flowers for about a month had smells great.

The red flowers were planted underneath
the poppies. When the poppies died,
the red and pink flowers took their place.

The cost is minimal, since I tend to add a little bit every year. Watering isn't a problem (we are on a well), so I'm left with weeding. My realtor friends tell me an herb path is a great marketing tool for a homeowner (especially the woman) and the typically assign another $10K to the property value if it is included. (Of course you and I know it's all in the eye of the beholder, but if it helps your case with your spouse, I say use it as an argument!).

Add caption

Beware the dear though. They love roses and strawberries but don't
like the herbs. This year I have two fawns that walk up my
path every morning and take a siesta on my far lawn.

Steelhead Trout Northwest style w/dill sauce

Decapitating the trout

Rog brought home two ginormous trout last month, just in time for me to cook it for a couple out of town executives he told me we were entertaining (with 1 hour notice).



In that kind of time, there is only one choice, which, all things considered, works perfectly well for a party of 8-10, and requires limited prep. I highly recommend this simple, amazing, Sarah-created, recipe, along with the simple sides for a super meal.

Heat the oven to 325 degrees.

You will need:

• Tinfoil
• 2 lemons
• 1 medium to large onion
• Coconut oil (natural, unrefined if you have it)
• Lemon salt
• The trout

Open the trout (I had to cut the head off myself. Ugh. Good thing I have a big butcher knife). My ovens are the largest one can buy outside a commercial kitchen. This bad boy was so long, I had to tuck the tail under.

Directions

1. Fillet the trout (mine came filleted and gutted).
3. Lay out the tinfoil on the baking sheet (I used one with curled edges to prevent run-off)
4. Lay the trout inside
5. Open it up and using a spoon, knife or spatula, spread a nice layer of the coconut oil on the inside. Follow this with a sprinkle of the lemon salt/pepper mix, followed by the sliced up onions and lemons.
6. Close the trout, and repeat the process above. Even though you won't eat the skin, I'm convinced the flavours seep in to the fish.

Cook for approximately 2.5 hours, until the fish is just flakey. This is important. If it's truly flakey, like a croissant, it will in reality, be dry once the fish has a chance to rest.

Remove from the oven and let it rest for about 10-15 minutes. This is also key, as the fish needs time to come back together (e.g. firm up) before you start slicing it apart.

Serve with your choice of rice, asparagus or other salad and you are ready to go!

Now for the Dill Sauce.

I must say, I was a bit offended. The discriminating fishers who attended this feast liked the dill sauce as much, or more, than the fish itself (and this is saying something. The two guests, both in their late 50's, hovered by the oven, looking/poking, and have fished since they were boys. I was under pressure).

Dill Sauce

                  1/3 cup sour cream

                  1/3 cup mayonnaise

                  1 tablespoon finely chopped onion

                  1 teaspoon lemon juice

                  1 teaspoon prepared horseradish

                  3/4 teaspoon dill weed

                  1/4 teaspoon garlic salt

              Pepper to taste

Discarding food storage

A sunny day in Seattle is to be cherished. Adored like a bright, glimmering object that, like Cinderella in a bubble, will suddenly burst and leave us with a dirty floor and clouds. It is not a time to be squandered, indulgently spent indoors, downstairs, in the food storage room.

Yet today it was.

Old food stinks in any form

There is a backstory. With me, there always is. I've recently been asked to visit a woman who has been through some trying times. She and her husband, both accountants, are preparing to send their only daughter off to college, live in a lovely home and in their late forties/early fifties. Over warm banana bread, she revealed that her husband recently landed a job after being unemployed for three years. Through savings and a lot of food storage, they had made it through the first year and a half, relatively unscathed. After that, they had no money for food.

"When you are choosing between the mortgage and food, you choose the mortgage."

Their church welfare system helped out, making up the difference in food supplies. Her income afforded the basic necessities of utilities gas etc. Beyond the fact that I'd lived in complete oblivion of her situation (from the outside, I'd never have guessed, unless she'd confided in me), I was amazed she had stored away enough food for a solid year and a half. Enough for two adults, one child, two pets, and relatives that had come to stay at her home due to dire circumstances of their own.

Today after church, as Rog took the chitlens to the park, I passed on the gratiutous suntanning on the lawn an opted for the task of taking an accounting of my own food storage. I'd been preening to my mother about having a full six months of wet food (can soups and the like) and a year of dry goods (flour, oatmeal, dried eggs and milk etc).

"And what to my wondering eyes did appear, a whole lot of bad, near-exploding flood, instead of eight, shiny reindeer."

I was mortified to learn that the majority of my cans had not been rotated in a VERY long time (some dated back to 2003). While lots of vegies, fruits and soups were in the last year, a couple of gems were near to exploding, the metal siding pushing out like Santa after a post-Christmas gorge-fest.

As I pulled and dumped the offending items, I wondered what in the world to do with them. Local food banks? Nope. They won't accept food past the expiration date. Save for the worst-case scenario. "If you have no food and you are starving, you'll eat anything." So said my mother, who returned my call while on her vacation to speak to me like a true Swedish mother.

I looked on line for a few resources, that reiterated what we know about old food storage (losing taste etc, inability to cook right etc), but not what to do with the pounds and pounds of out of date food.

"Chuck it," said Rog.

I did the only thing a green-minded person can do. I forced myself to open each one, rinse and clean, then separate the cans and glass to be recycled. Let me tell you. Do NOT do this without either holding your breath or wearing a gas mask. Safety first. When I talk to mom next, I'll tell her my thoughts. I'm not going to eat something I can't stand the smell of, human food included. I'd rather starve.

Tennis Elbow or Carpel Tunnel? It may be your neck

For the last three months, Rog has been icing, rubbing, bending, turning and generally complaining about his 'tennis elbow.' With his fondness for self-diagnosis and the Internet, his favorite attitude is "I'm not a doctor, I just play one on TV." Finally, when he can't take it anymore, he asks me to call my Swami.

"Tell him to take Rhus Tox and Calendula 30c." Both are for swelling and pain in the joints and muscles. He does, and reports it has helped, but not cured the symptoms. Fast forward another week.

"Can you get me the name of that Chinese acupuncturist?" You readers remember. The one who is from the family that served the Chinese Emperors?

Sure, I tell him, convinced that he will never see someone who will charge him $125 an hour. Nonetheless, I give him the information and go on my trip to see my sister in Nevada. After a few days of "have you seen the acupuncturist?" I call Rog all excited-like. (see this article on how acupuncture works for tennis elbow)

"Rog! My sister has the cure for your tennis elbow. It's not tennis elbow at all. It's a nerve!"

My sister, she of the multiple issues with joints, stemming from the fact that one leg is slightly longer than the other (which, after years of misdiagnosis, was actually determined to be a joint thing, not a length thing) told me that she had the exact same issue. (and none of the alternative remedies worked).

"It starts here, right?" she asked, pointing to the muscle above the elbow, extending down to the wrist. "It feels tight, like carpel tunnel?" She proceeded to tell me she had what was thought to be carpel tunnel so bad she couldn't move her wrist up and down. When she went to a physical therapist (who also happened to be a chiropractor, specializing in athletes), she was told both diagnosis were wrong.

"It's the main nerve that goes from the neck through the shoulder (rotator cuff), down the tricep and to the elbow and finally, the wrist." When the nerve is pinched (although there is no physical symptom of a pinched nerve) the damaged nerve makes itself manifest in the muscle above the elbow and then through the wrist.

"Tell him to go to a chiropractor," she advised. "It took one trip, he adjusted me and within a day or two, the entire symptoms went away. Haven't had it since." The chiropractor also gave her a couple follow-up movements.

Rog being Rog (e.g. cheap) he doesn't want to visit the chiropractor. He asked me to record her description to see if he could do it himself.

Guess what? Whether it's mind over matter, or the nerve finally healed itself, about 3 days ago, he reported it had all gone away. Just like that. He gloated, of course, happy  he hadn't spent the money. That said, I for one, don't believe in suffering for three months in pain, with limited mobility (he couldn't even play golf--oh, the woes of the world). So the next time you think it's carpel tunnel or tennis elbow, go get a second opinion.

Relationships: Sometimes you need to go fishing when you want to cut bait

About two months ago, I was sitting across the table from Rog, our girls battling over the last piece of pizza when I had a relationship epiphany. Well, that would be an understatement. It was more like the Second Coming. The clouds parted. The sun shone down.

"I'll do it," I announced, my mouth speaking well before my brain thought to add some helpful context.

Rog's eyes bulged. He swallowed, a crooked, half-smile appearing on his face.

This isn't me. But it could be. Soon.

"Right here?"

It took me a moment before I giggled.

"No--no! I mean, I'll do it. I'll go on a fishing trip with you."

At that, Rog really did start to choke on his food. I kicked him under the table. Before he projectile-vomited across the table, I explained.

"I got to thinking that I need to woman-up on this and just get in the water. You've asked me to go, and I keep saying no, for no reason other than I think it's going to be boring and cold. But we can go when it's sunny, right?"

Rog, by this time, has taken a drink of water, and is vigorously nodding his head. "Yes, of course!"

The backstory

In order to understand why this is so gravitous in our relationship, you need to liken it to a pacifist suddenly offering to go shooting an AK-47 at the river like some redneck. It's like Nancy Pelosi and Bill O'Rielly. Me and river/fly fishing just don't go together.

Yet, over the years, I've got to thinking. These guys (3 to be exact) fly down in one of the guys jets (he has 3), hit a stream or ocean, sometimes in the freezing hail or snow, or crashing waves, but also in the sunny, warm and gorgeous climates. Neither men (who, by the way, I adore, even if they are married, one as thick as a walking potato, the other as lean as a straight line), ever, ever offer (or want) to take their wives. My husband has constantly asked to take me, (and they say "he** yes!), yet I keep say no.

For no good reason. Well, unless being warm counts as a good reason.

Finally, after nearly 14 years of marriage, I realized I was being an idiot. Here's a great chance to due my husband right, both by getting out of my comfort zone, but becoming a bigger part of his life. As I've aged, and watched couples split apart, the notion of 'we don't spend time together,' plays a factor. My easy excuse of sleeping in (they get up at the ungodly hour of 4 am), getting in the water or on a boat when the bats are still flying, truly doesn't sound fun. Yet, I'll get the time there and back (it's not always on a jet), at dinner or at lunch, and of course, let us not forget, I'll get what Roger calls, "kick-a** cute clothing).

I explained my general reasoning, but he'd already moved on, talking about the upcoming trips we could go on, what I'd need by way of outfitting, rod and line (am I getting that right?) and babysitters. Not one month later, we were driving to Montana, and hit upon one of the "top 2 fly-fishing spots in the world." That will be another blog of course, as I took pictures (let its suffice to say it's home to Ernest Hemingway's ranch).

As we near the start of our 15th year of marriage, I almost felt proud of myself. I'm not cutting bait on our relationship (and trust me, there have been times...). I'm doing the opposite. I'm going to go fish.