The nearest EDA group...

Pickles keep getting recommended as a good source of salt. Back in the dark ages, when I was less of a hermit and more of a mere wallflower, back in Texas, where Bible Belt folk had parties that were more talking and hors d'oeuvres than drinking and carousing, I would spending my time being social by chowing down on two particular tidbits: 1) the Bisquick sausage and cheese balls (whenever a tray came out of the oven I was right there hovering over the host's shoulder) and 2) luncheon meat-cream cheese-dill pickle pinwheel slices.  In fact, I would sometimes make the later for myself as lunch.

These days, it is often hard to figure out why I am feeling a quart low (sodium, sugar, headache, etc.), but with the wild ride my heart was taking, I eschewed the high sodium diet I am on for the dysautonomia.  Given that I have been near-fainting quite often the past few days, last night when my blood sugar crashed and I needed to eat, I thought I would break out the jar of dill pickles that has been sitting in the cabinet and make some of those pinwheels.

I fetched the jar, meat, and cream cheese. I picked up the jar. I opened it. I sniffed. All seemed well. I decided to check the expiration date, even though I was certain I got them just before moving here. 2007.

Seriously, I need to find the nearest Expiration Date Anonymous Group.

I suppose getting those pickles just before I moved here really meant purchasing them in 2005 or 2006, thinking at the time I might make some of those party pinwheels.  I really was surprised to find them that out of date.  After all, I did a kitchen cabinet cleansing just last month, one that was preceded by a refrigerator cleansing the week before, and a similar effort was also done both before I even packed the contents of my kitchen to move here and again when I was packing up all the kitchen items (non-food) for donating.  Yes, I did have items from the 1980s still with me in late January, but being shocked to find those, I--ruthless in my assessment of what might be edible in times of nuclear war or something--was certain nothing really old remained.  I was wrong.

Discouraged by pickle jar still sitting on the counter awaiting emptying and recycling, I consoled myself with sauteing asparagus in olive oil and Kulp's homemade organic garlic seasoning salt and then warming up the luncheon meat in the pan to soak up the leftover seasoned oil for my lunch.  And I downed a Dr Pepper.

At the hospital, I met this nurse who is battling migraines, seizure migraines.  [At least I do not have those.]  Anyway, I told her that I had dutifully weaned myself down from two Dr Peppers a day to one.  She told me that very well could be a mistake.  People who are used to higher amounts of caffeine and then reduce that because of migraines can actually make them worse.  Given that caffeine does not bother me in the least unless I stop drinking it--by that I mean I can drink a Dr Pepper at midnight and go right to sleep afterwards--I decided that I would go back to my two-a-day habit without guilt.

With Monday's abject failure in trying to accomplish something positive still weighing heavily upon me, since then I have now paid all my outstanding medical bills, entered them into my medical expense spreadsheet, created a spreadsheet of my blood pressure readings, sent the latter off to my doctor, written two business letters I had been avoiding, and written, addressed, stamped, and mailed eight small notecards, five of which were long overdue.

Also, I created a bag for any future emergency hospital trips (NOT that I am eager to return).  Bettina sewed a small bag for me for Christmas (a GREEN pattern, of course).  Since the sight of it would most certainly cheer me in a similarly frightening and stressful situation as last week's unexpected outing, I chose it to fill with some key items:  a change of clothing, a toothbrush, a book, a spare charger for my phone (external brain) and one day's supply of my medications.  I will need to remember to set up an alarm  (I want to do it on Fridays) to switch out the pills each week so that they are never old.  The bag is hanging on the back of the door to the kitchen, which someone years ago thoughtfully covered with hooks.  The door is always open, so no one sees the things hanging there, but the hooks provide a bit of a closet space for the first floor.

What I need to do next is create a Caring for Amos binder.  It is not like I can pack up any of his babies or anything in advance.  But I can make a packing list for him, detail his routine, provide feeding instructions, give a few of helpful hints on managing the beast, and list his vet, license, and microchip information.

Right now, though, I am still resting from polishing the small table next to the couch just before lunch.  While my heart rate is blessedly back to normal, for me, if I am sitting or lying down, the smallest bit of activity still leaves me short of breath and with a pounding heart.  The poor antique wooden inlaid table was rather dirty and dry though.  It very much needed the attention.

Surely, the pickles were the last expiration date embarrassment, right?  Surely, there is...there will be...an end to ridding myself of the unhealthy things from the past, right?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!