Why we do what we do

My favorite TV show used to be "Trauma: Life in the ER."

I was thinking about it today because Christopher from As Seen From Up Here wrote a poignant, tear-jerking, sweet, somber post (maybe not safe for moms) about his Life In the E.R.:

I've seen more death in 10 years than I've ever needed to see. After a while you build up a shield to protect yourself. You still care, don't get me wrong, but imagine how you'd feel if you didn't have that callous protection. I didn't realize I needed that protection until I saw the death that still haunts me.

My friend Reambo and I had a standing date to watch the show. I would make a big, macabre plate of some pasta with red sauce and we would slurp down our spaghetti while watching people get taken apart and put back together.

I think I loved it because I could never do what those people do and I admired their skill so much.

I move rather slowly and am baffled when I try to multitask. I hate being under time pressure or having people watch me as I work. Jeffrey Daumer would be a better choice for work in the ER than me.

I also loved the crazy situations like the guy who tried to commit suicide with a sword, but who did it wrong and just gave himself a mondo piercing through a fold of fat. He then lost nerve and came in with this big sword lying flat, diagonally across his chest, as if he were his own scabbard. Duh.

One day they asked one of the doctors why he chose the ER as his specialty. He said "It suits my pathology, I guess." I think he meant that his own needs for adrenaline, etc., were met by the job.

Today I was thinking about religion and how we choose ours to fit our pathology. My own form of mental illness is to want everyone to be happy all the time and to avoid conflict. So I chose Unity, a church that is so unchurch like that it calls itself a "School." We don't have a dogma or tell anyone how they should think or act.

Other people have a pathological need for structure, and to be right. So they choose a church that has rigid boundaries for behavior.

What about you? What is YOUR pathology?

What IS this place? What am I doing here?

What is this "blog" of which you speak? It sounds somewhat familiar...

That may have been the longest I have gone without blogging. I kept coming over here and blankly looking at the page, thinking "Yep, that's my blog. There it is."

Then I would go do something other important project, like trying to match my Mystery Socks. The most mysterious of the socks is the brown argyle one I have had since about 1997. I think I might oughta give up finding its mate. But it was such a GOOD pair of socks. Why did that one disappear and leave me pairless? *sob* My life: a never-ending string of micro-tragedies.

I have taken two days off work, so I have a four-day weekend. It was either that or Xanax. You think I'm joking? (bitter laugh).

So far I have slept in, eaten oatmeal and Girl Scout Thin Mints for breakfast, made a quadruple batch of dog food, and washed dishes 3 times (last night's, breakfast, dog food) and spent 4 hours (more or less) Twittering.

I ventured into new culinary territory by making beef-based dog food.

Until now I have only dared to cook that least meaty of meats, boneless chicken breasts. I was inspired to bust out of my rut by the sight of a big slab of pot roast for $1.47/lb. on sale at Vons.

I have never really cooked beef before and I had certainly never encountered something like a 7 bone roast.

The label said something about browning it on both sides and then braising it, which threw me into a panic. I didn't have a pan big enough to fit this monstrous cow side into to brown on both sides, and I didn't want to chop it up because I would then have to *actually touch beef.* Eeew.

I know some people cook meat every day without a problem but one of the main reasons I became a vegetarian 23 years ago is that I am too much of a wimp to handle raw meat.

The sight of a rare roast beef sandwich almost made me faint in a deli when I was about 14. I was standing there with my mom, holding the tray with sandwiches on it, looked down and became transfixed at the sight of a bloody rare pile of meat between two slices of bread.

Suddenly the world took a big swoopy turn and my mom had to grab the tray and sit me down to recover...I'm not making this up - I am truly that annoying of a person.

To attack the beast, I got out my biggest soup pot, kind of scored the roast down the middle with my sharpest knife, folded it like orgami and submerged it in water. I simmered it forever and it came out looking shreddy and burrito-meat-like. Voila.

I'm not disparaging people who eat meat - au contraire. I feel like it is me who is the lily-livered wimp and kind of admire people who can tear into a filet mignon like it is actual food and not a slab of Quivering Horror.

Clearly, I have issues. Let's look at the sunset, shall we?