By Thursday, I was 90 percent vocally normal post-tonsillectomy, so I was excited to attend another MoveOn.org Call for Obama party.
I love calling parties—schmoozing with smart, likeminded people, and feeling useful. I enjoy talking to voters in states that count, unlike Marxist Massachusetts. And the free munchies are a bonus. Yay, Democrats for Fruit Plates and Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies. Plus you never know what single, straight, available liberal man might show up.
MoveOn parties are open to anyone. You just click some buttons and pick a destination from a list of local hosts—some have politically correct warnings like “we have two dogs, one cat, and serve peanuts” or “three steps up, no other access.” Sometimes I’ll choose the closest one, sometimes I’ll venture farther to the one with the best title, such as “Obamarama.”
Once you click the “Yes, I’ll be there” button, you get the host’s name (usually first only), street address, and time. I confess to paranoia on behalf of these people who post their address on the Internet for all to see—come on over, we don’t prescreen. If I opened my home to total strangers, the first thing I’d do is hide any medications. I’ve been working with drug addicts for years, and they’re awfully creative.
Last night, Carol and Paul opened their beautiful hillside Victorian to a group of about 15 strangers, mostly middle-aged, some experienced callers, some not. We reviewed the call script and got down to it. I got three lists of 14 first names, all living in Ohio. Folks on the list are MoveOn members—the goal is to sign them up to volunteer this weekend at their local campaign office.
Carol and Paul had ample space for the group to spread out, so I staked out my turf at a small round table at the end of a full-length granite-topped kitchen island. Cellphone charged and ready to go, I began pressing buttons.
A man picked up and I asked for Marjorie. He said it was Trick or Treat night and she was at the door, passing out candy. One night early? Turns out they have town football on Friday nights. Must not be an Orthodox Jewish enclave, I'd gather. “We’ve got a ghost and a Barbie and a soldier in camouflage here,” he said, “but I’ll get my wife. She’s a witch. I mean, she’s not a witch, she’s dressed as a witch.” Marjorie the Witch said she’s canvassing for Obama this weekend. You go, Marjorie.
Mostly I got machines, or people who were already volunteering. One confided he was calling for MoveOn but had to keep it a secret from his neighbors. Not only is the area non-Jewish but it’s heavily Republican.
I caught some snippets from the kitchen alcove—the caller was a nice-looking guy in his forties (wedding ring, oh well). “Oh, you’re getting married this weekend? Well, good luck to you! But don’t forget to vote on Tuesday.” Or, “Oh, you’re loading your moving van right now? Well, have you voted yet? No? And you’re moving two hours away? Make sure you go back and vote on Tuesday.” Not everything stops for the election. Life goes on.
After a break for some crudités and candy corn, I dialed another number. Someone with a deep voice answered and I asked for Brittany. “This is Brittany,” the person replied. “Umm, it is?” “Yes.” Uh huh. Something’s off. Maybe he doesn’t want Brittany to come to the phone, but maybe Brittany has a bad cold. I pressed on.
“This is Debbie, I’m a volunteer with MoveOn.org and we’re reaching out to members in your area to work at the local office this weekend talking to voters. Are you available to help Obama get elected?” At which point, Brittany said, slowly and very deliberately, “We don’t work for niggers.”
I felt an instant wave of heat and anger, but I quickly said, “I see. Thank you for your time,” and hung up. Whoa. Deep breath. No, do not engage with a racist. He just wanted to shock me. Let it be. I debriefed with the others, who were supportive.
On my last call, I reached Sirhan. Sirhan was young and cheerful and not only agreed to volunteer on Saturday but knew exactly where the Democratic headquarters were. “Thanks for your help,” I said. "Have fun!" “Thank you for all you do,” he answered.
Come Tuesday, and it can’t come soon enough, I’ll be thinking of you, Sirhan, my evening’s success. You’re one of the 8,724 swing-state volunteers we recruited for this weekend, according to MoveOn.
And I’ll be thinking of you, too, Brittany, because if the polls and the mood of this country are true, you, my dear, will wake up on Wednesday to a new reality, and you will have to deal, like it or not, with President Barack Obama.
It’s time to move on, Brittany. The world is changing. At last.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Small Bites
I munched a banana yesterday. It wasn’t easy, but with a little angling and careful nibbling, it went down, so I count it as solid food—the first since October 7.
In celebration of that milestone, I offer some tidbits to munch on this week, from a bedroom mystery solved to tales of the bar-tailed godwit, and some random musings in-between.
Fall Foliage
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve noticed tiny, crisp, dark flakes, almost like miniature leaves, scattered at the head of my bed. I’ve been sweeping them off the sheets with curiosity, half-heartedly pondering their source and purpose, but not committing myself to a full-scale investigation. Must be the cats. Must be something I trailed in when I grabbed my Boston Globe from the front stoop wearing only my socks. But they reappeared every day.
I looked up at the ceiling. Nothing. I shook my bed pillows for leakage. Nothing. I wondered if dandruff could somehow transform from white to black as a result of chronic insomnia or the aftereffects of general anesthesia.
I took a deep breath and examined the cats—dreading the discovery of some exotic scourge lurking in their fur. Nothing.
After a triumphant night’s sleep, my head cleared yesterday enough to identify the culprit. Since the surgery, I’ve been sleeping propped up with a crescent-shaped, neck-conforming pillow behind my head. I lifted the flap on its underside and spotted a minuscule opening at the zipper. Shake-shake. Buckwheat! I zipped it tight.
I’m so glad it’s not the plague.
Amazon's Kindle
Nothing says "you’re not completely well" like watching daytime TV. But I gave myself permission to watch Oprah yesterday and got sucked in to her frenetic and passionate pitch for Amazon’s new gadget, Kindle, which I’d heard about but hadn’t fully grasped.
It’s a handheld device onto which you can download newspapers and books, entire books, hundreds or (with extra memory) thousands of books, for an average of $9.99 each. I was enthralled and horrified. What will happen to libraries? How will this affect book deals? I want to hold my book when I sell it, grab its cover, turn its pages.
Then again, how amazing would it be to create your own portable library? Pretty cool. It costs $359, way out of my league. But if you’re in a different league, you can get one for $50 off through November 1 by going to amazon.com and entering the special coupon code OPRAHWINFREY.
I guess there’s some redemption in daytime TV after all.
Fish Wrapping
After reading James Carroll’s column in Monday’s Globe, "Courage, wisdom in an age of fear," about the threat of violence against Barack Obama, I wrote a letter to the editor. The editor called two hours after I hit "send" to verify my name and confirm that my letter was exclusive to them. Yup. No guarantees, but cool.
Around 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, tossing and turning as usual, I went online to see if the morning edition was up. There it was! As a writer, it’s always nice to see one’s words in print. Except they had changed one phrase, politicizing my point in a way I wouldn’t have intended and purposely avoided. My thoughts swirled. Oh no! Oh well. I’ll write them. What’s the point? Did they distort the meaning? Not that much. I like my phrase better, I chose my words carefully. In the last paragraph, I had written "For Obama himself to say it aloud, Yes, there is risk in a risky world, is an empowering act...." Shh. Relax. Let go. It’s only a letter to the editor.
But they changed it to "For Obama himself to say it aloud in referring to the shouts of the crowd at McCain-Palin rallies is an empowering act...." Ugh! Ptooey! Political and klunky. I’ve had my stuff edited before, cut, condensed, altered without attribution. But this just stuck in my newly opened throat.
Ah well, you know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish wrapping, right? No more. Now it’s online for eternity, including on my Google search. Shh. Relax. Save your moral indignation for the important things, like Sarah Palin’s Saks spree or those idiot racist rants about Obama and his grandmother.
Click here to read the letter.
It’s Saturday now. I’m over it.
Winged Migration
Sticking with the Globe theme, I cringed my way through the usual murders, rapes, deaths, and economic horror stories over soft dinner last night. Out of the misery and doom leapt an article with the lead, "The bar-tailed godwit, a plump shorebird with a recurved bill, has blown the record for nonstop, muscle-powered flight right out of the sky."
I was hooked.
Here’s the scoop. Scientists implanted transmitters in 23 birds and tracked their annual migration from Alaska to New Zealand. The godwits flew 7,242-miles in five to nine days nonstop. They could rest and refuel by taking a longer route with land stops but that option is risky and inefficient. What power of nature guides these creatures to make the choices they do?
Check it out here.
I’ve been searching for new role models lately—models of fortitude, goal-directed action, stamina, perseverance, self-abnegation, transcendence.
Thank you, bar-tailed godwits. I love you guys.
In celebration of that milestone, I offer some tidbits to munch on this week, from a bedroom mystery solved to tales of the bar-tailed godwit, and some random musings in-between.
Fall Foliage
For a couple of weeks now, I’ve noticed tiny, crisp, dark flakes, almost like miniature leaves, scattered at the head of my bed. I’ve been sweeping them off the sheets with curiosity, half-heartedly pondering their source and purpose, but not committing myself to a full-scale investigation. Must be the cats. Must be something I trailed in when I grabbed my Boston Globe from the front stoop wearing only my socks. But they reappeared every day.
I looked up at the ceiling. Nothing. I shook my bed pillows for leakage. Nothing. I wondered if dandruff could somehow transform from white to black as a result of chronic insomnia or the aftereffects of general anesthesia.
I took a deep breath and examined the cats—dreading the discovery of some exotic scourge lurking in their fur. Nothing.
After a triumphant night’s sleep, my head cleared yesterday enough to identify the culprit. Since the surgery, I’ve been sleeping propped up with a crescent-shaped, neck-conforming pillow behind my head. I lifted the flap on its underside and spotted a minuscule opening at the zipper. Shake-shake. Buckwheat! I zipped it tight.
I’m so glad it’s not the plague.
Amazon's Kindle
Nothing says "you’re not completely well" like watching daytime TV. But I gave myself permission to watch Oprah yesterday and got sucked in to her frenetic and passionate pitch for Amazon’s new gadget, Kindle, which I’d heard about but hadn’t fully grasped.
It’s a handheld device onto which you can download newspapers and books, entire books, hundreds or (with extra memory) thousands of books, for an average of $9.99 each. I was enthralled and horrified. What will happen to libraries? How will this affect book deals? I want to hold my book when I sell it, grab its cover, turn its pages.
Then again, how amazing would it be to create your own portable library? Pretty cool. It costs $359, way out of my league. But if you’re in a different league, you can get one for $50 off through November 1 by going to amazon.com and entering the special coupon code OPRAHWINFREY.
I guess there’s some redemption in daytime TV after all.
Fish Wrapping
After reading James Carroll’s column in Monday’s Globe, "Courage, wisdom in an age of fear," about the threat of violence against Barack Obama, I wrote a letter to the editor. The editor called two hours after I hit "send" to verify my name and confirm that my letter was exclusive to them. Yup. No guarantees, but cool.
Around 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, tossing and turning as usual, I went online to see if the morning edition was up. There it was! As a writer, it’s always nice to see one’s words in print. Except they had changed one phrase, politicizing my point in a way I wouldn’t have intended and purposely avoided. My thoughts swirled. Oh no! Oh well. I’ll write them. What’s the point? Did they distort the meaning? Not that much. I like my phrase better, I chose my words carefully. In the last paragraph, I had written "For Obama himself to say it aloud, Yes, there is risk in a risky world, is an empowering act...." Shh. Relax. Let go. It’s only a letter to the editor.
But they changed it to "For Obama himself to say it aloud in referring to the shouts of the crowd at McCain-Palin rallies is an empowering act...." Ugh! Ptooey! Political and klunky. I’ve had my stuff edited before, cut, condensed, altered without attribution. But this just stuck in my newly opened throat.
Ah well, you know what they say, today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish wrapping, right? No more. Now it’s online for eternity, including on my Google search. Shh. Relax. Save your moral indignation for the important things, like Sarah Palin’s Saks spree or those idiot racist rants about Obama and his grandmother.
Click here to read the letter.
It’s Saturday now. I’m over it.
Winged Migration
Sticking with the Globe theme, I cringed my way through the usual murders, rapes, deaths, and economic horror stories over soft dinner last night. Out of the misery and doom leapt an article with the lead, "The bar-tailed godwit, a plump shorebird with a recurved bill, has blown the record for nonstop, muscle-powered flight right out of the sky."
I was hooked.
Here’s the scoop. Scientists implanted transmitters in 23 birds and tracked their annual migration from Alaska to New Zealand. The godwits flew 7,242-miles in five to nine days nonstop. They could rest and refuel by taking a longer route with land stops but that option is risky and inefficient. What power of nature guides these creatures to make the choices they do?
Check it out here.
I’ve been searching for new role models lately—models of fortitude, goal-directed action, stamina, perseverance, self-abnegation, transcendence.
Thank you, bar-tailed godwits. I love you guys.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Off the Clock
The last time I had nothing on my schedule for more than a few days was seven years ago, just before 9/11. I rented a sunny cottage efficiency in Truro, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. For one week, my biggest decisions were whether to hit the ocean or the bay, where to eat lobster roll, and which sunset whale watch to take out of Provincetown. I had my beach pass, my umbrella, my sunscreen, and my pile of books. For one week, I lived in heaven—no plans, no lists, no responsibilities.
I’ve had one of those weeks for the last ten days. But recovering from surgery was hardly the vacation I’d hoped for. Rather than being driven by outward, hedonistic urges, I've been driven by pain avoidance, pain management, pain relief, and sleep desperation. I’d heard the horror stories and I'd planned for it. But you can never plan carefully enough. In my delusional optimism, I’d actually hoped to accomplish some things, like purging the 8,497 emails from one of my inboxes. Or stuffing a bag with clothes for Goodwill. That was for starters.
Then I figured I’d graduate to reading—just light fare such as Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith, and Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. And maybe, as I progressed, I’d hit my Guide to Literary Agents—I seriously have to get back to my book proposal.
But none of that was meant to be. I was reduced to the most basic, primitive needs. Liquids—cold or lukewarm? Nutrients—how soft can they be? Salty or sweet? Some semblance of rest—sitting up or leaning? The world revolved around me and my miserable biorhythms. Nothing else mattered. Except CNN.
By Monday, I finally lowered my expectations. I stuck a Post-it on my computer: “I give myself permission to be a zombie!”
No matter what, though, I was determined to make it to my Wednesday-night writing class, essay assignment in hand, having reviewed everyone else’s entries too. I read some submissions at 3 a.m., some at noon. It didn’t matter when. I was off the clock.
I hesitantly ventured into some non-chewy food options such as buttercup squash, Le Sueur baby peas (one by one), and coconut milk-vanilla soy yogurt, thanks to Susan's creative shopping excursions. Plus I found out Ardis the librarian, who’d had her tonsils out, was right: Jell-O is the ultimate godsend. Thank you, Kraft Foods. I won’t forget you when my ship comes in.
On Tuesday, I hit bottom. Agony. Swelling. Cumulative pain and insomnia. Nothing worked. Couldn’t reach the doctor. As I furiously stirred the strawberry Jell-O at dawn, scraping the metal spoon along the ceramic bowl, I thought I heard it crying “Help me! Help me!” Please someone, cart me away.
By Wednesday, after a medication change and a soothing round of ice chips, I actually left the house as a test run before my evening class—the world was different! Leaves were changing. Some trees were already bare. Gas was $2.79 a gallon, down from $3.39 when I went under the knife on October 7. I got to my class—and even read my essay aloud, very quietly, and lasted, intact, for three hours. Writing workshops are the best therapy. Then I came home and stared at the debate, half-listening, and collapsed. I slept for a total of five hours straight. My vacation had begun!
I stuck a Post-it on my microwave: “Smile! You are healing!” Uh huh.
In the next days, I read the Globe, the New York Times online, drank in the election coverage, cheered the Red Sox, very quietly, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! and rallied the brain cells to finish the Sunday crosswords. I stopped counting the hours between pills. I stopped clutching the banister when I went downstairs for my mail. Little signs.
On Thursday morning, I had a craving for fish. Now. Any nice hunk of meaty yummy juicy fish. Schrod. Salmon. Halibut. I didn’t care. I conjured fish purée, fish soup, mashed fish, bottled fish. But I couldn’t figure out how to get fish in non-chewable form. I was still thinking about it that afternoon when the words “gefilte fish” popped off the page of one of my classmates’ essays. Something about a Passover seder. In a daze, I got my body into some sweats and off to Shaw’s to comb the kosher aisle. It took all of my waning willpower not to open the jar of Kedem’s Original Heimeshe Gourmet Gefilte Fish in the car on the way home. It was worth the wait.
So vacation’s almost over. My throat feels like it’s been raked by coarse-grain sandpaper but at least the obstructions are gone. My sleep cycle is shredded. After my post-op doc's visit on Monday, it’s back to work, which means finding my appointment book somewhere in the piles. Eventually, I’ll collect my receipts and return some of my stash of uneaten baby food and weirdo health drinks. Then maybe I’ll save my pennies for a real vacation, someday soon, when I can recover from my recovery.
I’ve had one of those weeks for the last ten days. But recovering from surgery was hardly the vacation I’d hoped for. Rather than being driven by outward, hedonistic urges, I've been driven by pain avoidance, pain management, pain relief, and sleep desperation. I’d heard the horror stories and I'd planned for it. But you can never plan carefully enough. In my delusional optimism, I’d actually hoped to accomplish some things, like purging the 8,497 emails from one of my inboxes. Or stuffing a bag with clothes for Goodwill. That was for starters.
Then I figured I’d graduate to reading—just light fare such as Lean Mean Thirteen by Janet Evanovich, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith, and Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. And maybe, as I progressed, I’d hit my Guide to Literary Agents—I seriously have to get back to my book proposal.
But none of that was meant to be. I was reduced to the most basic, primitive needs. Liquids—cold or lukewarm? Nutrients—how soft can they be? Salty or sweet? Some semblance of rest—sitting up or leaning? The world revolved around me and my miserable biorhythms. Nothing else mattered. Except CNN.
By Monday, I finally lowered my expectations. I stuck a Post-it on my computer: “I give myself permission to be a zombie!”
No matter what, though, I was determined to make it to my Wednesday-night writing class, essay assignment in hand, having reviewed everyone else’s entries too. I read some submissions at 3 a.m., some at noon. It didn’t matter when. I was off the clock.
I hesitantly ventured into some non-chewy food options such as buttercup squash, Le Sueur baby peas (one by one), and coconut milk-vanilla soy yogurt, thanks to Susan's creative shopping excursions. Plus I found out Ardis the librarian, who’d had her tonsils out, was right: Jell-O is the ultimate godsend. Thank you, Kraft Foods. I won’t forget you when my ship comes in.
On Tuesday, I hit bottom. Agony. Swelling. Cumulative pain and insomnia. Nothing worked. Couldn’t reach the doctor. As I furiously stirred the strawberry Jell-O at dawn, scraping the metal spoon along the ceramic bowl, I thought I heard it crying “Help me! Help me!” Please someone, cart me away.
By Wednesday, after a medication change and a soothing round of ice chips, I actually left the house as a test run before my evening class—the world was different! Leaves were changing. Some trees were already bare. Gas was $2.79 a gallon, down from $3.39 when I went under the knife on October 7. I got to my class—and even read my essay aloud, very quietly, and lasted, intact, for three hours. Writing workshops are the best therapy. Then I came home and stared at the debate, half-listening, and collapsed. I slept for a total of five hours straight. My vacation had begun!
I stuck a Post-it on my microwave: “Smile! You are healing!” Uh huh.
In the next days, I read the Globe, the New York Times online, drank in the election coverage, cheered the Red Sox, very quietly, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! and rallied the brain cells to finish the Sunday crosswords. I stopped counting the hours between pills. I stopped clutching the banister when I went downstairs for my mail. Little signs.
On Thursday morning, I had a craving for fish. Now. Any nice hunk of meaty yummy juicy fish. Schrod. Salmon. Halibut. I didn’t care. I conjured fish purée, fish soup, mashed fish, bottled fish. But I couldn’t figure out how to get fish in non-chewable form. I was still thinking about it that afternoon when the words “gefilte fish” popped off the page of one of my classmates’ essays. Something about a Passover seder. In a daze, I got my body into some sweats and off to Shaw’s to comb the kosher aisle. It took all of my waning willpower not to open the jar of Kedem’s Original Heimeshe Gourmet Gefilte Fish in the car on the way home. It was worth the wait.
So vacation’s almost over. My throat feels like it’s been raked by coarse-grain sandpaper but at least the obstructions are gone. My sleep cycle is shredded. After my post-op doc's visit on Monday, it’s back to work, which means finding my appointment book somewhere in the piles. Eventually, I’ll collect my receipts and return some of my stash of uneaten baby food and weirdo health drinks. Then maybe I’ll save my pennies for a real vacation, someday soon, when I can recover from my recovery.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Op Art
Ten Good Things About Surgery
1. Everyone was on time, and everyone was kind.
2. Warm pre-op blankets. As many as I needed.
3. Reiki treatments before and after.
4. Singing along with Spring Awakening ("I Believe") as they wheeled me into the O.R.
5. The nurses laughed out loud with me, to relieve stress.
6. Lynn, the O.R. nurse, held my hand and read five times, as requested, "You are calm and relaxed. The surgery will go perfectly and you will heal beautifully."
7. So did the surgeon. And he sounded like he meant it.
8. "Next thing I knew" worked, as everyone promised. I don’t remember a thing.
9. I have nothing scheduled for ten days.
10. YouTube 24/7.
Ten Bad Things About Surgery
1. YouTube 24/7.
2. I feel like a zombie.
3. The pain gets worse after the anesthesia wears off, as everyone promised.
4. I spent $30 on a painkiller that wired me into oblivion. It’s nonrefundable.
5. The weather is perfect and I could care less.
6. The post-op nurse’s phone-side manner is . . . lacking.
7. Sophia and Sascha are picking up my zombie vibes.
8. Baby food tastes disgusting. Except for the carrots.
9. I can’t really brush my teeth because of the bleeding risk.
10. I can’t sleep.
So was it worth it? I'll let you know next week, if I'm still awake.
1. Everyone was on time, and everyone was kind.
2. Warm pre-op blankets. As many as I needed.
3. Reiki treatments before and after.
4. Singing along with Spring Awakening ("I Believe") as they wheeled me into the O.R.
5. The nurses laughed out loud with me, to relieve stress.
6. Lynn, the O.R. nurse, held my hand and read five times, as requested, "You are calm and relaxed. The surgery will go perfectly and you will heal beautifully."
7. So did the surgeon. And he sounded like he meant it.
8. "Next thing I knew" worked, as everyone promised. I don’t remember a thing.
9. I have nothing scheduled for ten days.
10. YouTube 24/7.
Ten Bad Things About Surgery
1. YouTube 24/7.
2. I feel like a zombie.
3. The pain gets worse after the anesthesia wears off, as everyone promised.
4. I spent $30 on a painkiller that wired me into oblivion. It’s nonrefundable.
5. The weather is perfect and I could care less.
6. The post-op nurse’s phone-side manner is . . . lacking.
7. Sophia and Sascha are picking up my zombie vibes.
8. Baby food tastes disgusting. Except for the carrots.
9. I can’t really brush my teeth because of the bleeding risk.
10. I can’t sleep.
So was it worth it? I'll let you know next week, if I'm still awake.
Friday, October 3, 2008
What’s in My Refrigerator
1 half-gallon Apple & Eve apple juice
1 half-gallon Apple & Eve white grape juice
8 quarts Gatorade fruit punch
1 quart Bolthouse Farms strawberry-banana fruit smoothie
1 quart Bolthouse Farms carrot apple passion fruit
1 quart grape Juicy Juice
1 pint Naked green medicine superfood juice smoothie
1 pint Naked bare breeze watermelon chill
1 pint 365-brand nutrient-enhanced Tropical Punch Power
1 pint 365-brand nutrient-enhanced Raspberry Renew
1 six-pack chocolate Boost Ensure
1 quart chocolate Silk Soymilk
3 half-gallon bottles 365-brand electrolyte-enhanced water
2 pints coconut O-water infused with electrolytes
1 quart Soy Dream vanilla-fudge swirl
1 pint Purely Decadent dairy-free so very strawberry frozen dessert
2 twelve-pack Jello-O chocolate-vanilla pudding pops
3 So Delicious dairy-free creamy raspberry pops
3 Wise Acre Frostea Honey Love mini-pops
1 Wise Acre Frostbite Cool Your Jets mini-pop
6 cups Lindy’s strawberry-watermelon Italian ice
2 four-packs Zen Soy banana pudding
1 four-pack Zen Soy chocolate-vanilla pudding
7 eight-ounce cups of Whole Soy & Co. peach yogurt
1 jar Earth’s Best organic rice and lentil dinner baby food
1 jar Earth’s Best organic summer vegetable dinner baby food
1 jar Earth’s Best organic vegetable turkey dinner baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s green beans baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s peas baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s carrots baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s sweet potatoes baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s squash baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s banana baby food
1 six-pack Shaw’s unsweetened natural applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s pear applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s mango and peach applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s strawberry-banana applesauce
1 can Wolfgang Puck’s organic creamy butternut squash soup
6 eggs
1 eight-pack Nature's Path organic instant optimum-power hot oatmeal
1 bag ice chips
I’m getting my tonsils out on Tuesday. I think I’m ready.
1 half-gallon Apple & Eve white grape juice
8 quarts Gatorade fruit punch
1 quart Bolthouse Farms strawberry-banana fruit smoothie
1 quart Bolthouse Farms carrot apple passion fruit
1 quart grape Juicy Juice
1 pint Naked green medicine superfood juice smoothie
1 pint Naked bare breeze watermelon chill
1 pint 365-brand nutrient-enhanced Tropical Punch Power
1 pint 365-brand nutrient-enhanced Raspberry Renew
1 six-pack chocolate Boost Ensure
1 quart chocolate Silk Soymilk
3 half-gallon bottles 365-brand electrolyte-enhanced water
2 pints coconut O-water infused with electrolytes
1 quart Soy Dream vanilla-fudge swirl
1 pint Purely Decadent dairy-free so very strawberry frozen dessert
2 twelve-pack Jello-O chocolate-vanilla pudding pops
3 So Delicious dairy-free creamy raspberry pops
3 Wise Acre Frostea Honey Love mini-pops
1 Wise Acre Frostbite Cool Your Jets mini-pop
6 cups Lindy’s strawberry-watermelon Italian ice
2 four-packs Zen Soy banana pudding
1 four-pack Zen Soy chocolate-vanilla pudding
7 eight-ounce cups of Whole Soy & Co. peach yogurt
1 jar Earth’s Best organic rice and lentil dinner baby food
1 jar Earth’s Best organic summer vegetable dinner baby food
1 jar Earth’s Best organic vegetable turkey dinner baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s green beans baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s peas baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s carrots baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s sweet potatoes baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s squash baby food
1 two-pack Gerber’s banana baby food
1 six-pack Shaw’s unsweetened natural applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s pear applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s mango and peach applesauce
1 six-pack Mott’s strawberry-banana applesauce
1 can Wolfgang Puck’s organic creamy butternut squash soup
6 eggs
1 eight-pack Nature's Path organic instant optimum-power hot oatmeal
1 bag ice chips
I’m getting my tonsils out on Tuesday. I think I’m ready.
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