DIY Wart Begone

I had an innocuous little wart on one finger. Not particularly noticeable, but I wanted it gone. 

The last time I treated warts I was a kid. I had one on the back of my hand, and classmates were shrieking "What is THAT?" in exaggerated horror. Ta bought me a treatment kit and it vanished rather quickly. 

This time around, I remembered that I had heard once that wart treatment is salicylic acid. The main ingredient in aspirin is salicylic acid. 

I double-checked with the internet and confirmed I wasn't (completely) crazy. Before bed, I dissolved an aspirin tablet in a dab of aloe, applied it to the wart, and covered with a band-aid. 

In a couple of weeks—vanished. 

Girls and Their Toys

"Ta, I'll go out and shovel." 

"No, no, I'll come too." 

"But it's not necessary. Stay inside and keep warm." 

I went to change into snow-shoveling gear. While I was clambering into my warmest sweater, Ta appeared, all booted up. 

"Ta!" 

"I thought you were feeling under the weather."

"We have been in this house together all day, and I never said that." 

"Maybe that was last week?" he said vaguely, drifting towards the door. 

"Ta. Please. Can I use the toy first?" 

He did not answer. 

"TA!" 

The toy in question was the brand new, fresh out of the box, assembled that morning (by me) Snow Joe Cordless Electric Shovel. A standard snow blower for us is not feasible in terms of available storage, and no cord could cover the ground needed to shovel. So when I came across this baby . . . 

I never ended up using the toy. Ta snatched it from my hands and cheerfully went to work, while I struggled with the standard shovel. Although, this was why I bought it: Every time shoveling was necessary I feared for his back, and that was only the beginning of my fears. 

Ergo, watching Ta merrily plow through the drifts with ease, grandly declining our neighbor's offer of snow-blowing our walkway, made the gadget even more beloved to me. 

 

Assembly, however, had not gone smoothly. The handle arrives unfastened and folded over, with the thick power cord running through. I was supposed to fit two bars together and fasten it with a screw. But the cord was bunched up inside, and no matter how I leaned or forced or yanked or swung, the two pieces wouldn't slide together. 

I pulled up the product reviews, because I remembered plenty complaining about difficult assembly. One wrote he unscrewed the handle from the rest of the unit, which allowed him to tug the cord down. 

The thought had occurred to me, but once confirming that another did it without damaging the unit I scurried off for a Phillips screwdriver. The handle came off, I tugged down the cord, and the pieces slid smoothly into one another. No problems screwing the handle back to the unit either. 

After charging the battery (supposed to take, at most, two hours), my toy was ready to go. It will only go on if two buttons are pressed initially, and a finger must hold down the trigger for it to continue purring. Less chance of doing something idiotic, like getting a hand stuck down there.     

Accept the Inevitable

"If you take raw garlic daily," I had told her confidently, "you don't get colds." 

I expected too much of that garlic. It kept me hale and hearty through a trip overseas (I usually return with a leaky nose), through a week (and change) of jet lag, but then . . . 

Leaving work on a Friday afternoon with a song in my heart (and stuck in my head), I couldn't understand why nervous preoccupation gradually edged out my cheeriness. 

The cause? A suspicious rippling in my belly. (A gut feeling! Get it?) A stomach bug cometh, I realized with dread. No. No! I would not accept this quietly! I was going to fight! 

Three times that night, I downed raw chopped and aerated garlic. The next morning I awoke smug—the queasiness and pangs were gone. 

Except now I had a fever. Ha ha. Well, some more garlic then, eh? 

I hobbled about wrapped in a blanket for the rest of the day. I felt crummy, but I have felt crummier. 

Sunday dawned fresh with promise. Except my nose was oddly drippy. Allergies, I thought confidently. My room just needs a thorough vacuuming, that's all. It can't be a cold. I garlicked like mad! 

It was a cold. Good thing I stocked up on Kleenex lotion tissues the prior week. I fished out the neti pot and knocked back echinacea. And raw garlicked some more. 

I must admit that while it was definitely a cold, it was a mild one. My head didn't feel stuffed with cotton wool, my throat didn't hurt, I coughed but a few times. 

My nose was rubbed raw—a Rudolph honker can't ever be avoided—and I did terrorize passerby with a few violent sneezes.  

I was meant to be sick. No wiggling out of it this time.  

Introduction to Composting

I bear a certain—well, I'm not sure how to phrase it. Quirk? Condition? Compulsion?

Throwing away food makes me sick. 

If I wanted a cop-out, I would blame it on genetics. I inherited my Babi's love of animals, adoration of cream, hopefully her wit, and her inability to discard edibles.  

While such a predilection could presumably be virtuous, there are heinous downsides. Like swallowing down impossible-to-store leftovers despite fullness lest it be cast in the garbage. It's worse on major occasions, like family dinners or heavily-guested Shabbosim; invariably there is one salad or—heaven save me—a POTATO side dish that will not survive the night.

I am cognitively aware of the illogicality; I aspire to Spock, after all. Yet every time, I flinch as though pinched whenever good food goes into the trash. (Ma sometimes manages to hurriedly chuck it while I'm not looking.) Yet it's certainly no better when I eat when stuffed for the sake of a starch. 

In my searches, I had come across the whimsical concept of composting—collecting kitchen scraps and other waste for the purposes of sparing landfills, and in return gaining garden nourishment. What my house discards in daily banana peels alone could power an alternate-fuel RV.   

I began cheerfully hoarding kitchen scraps, purchasing a merry green compost collection pail for the purpose. It soon became clear that one would quickly overflow on heavy output days, like erev Shabbos; I bought a second for spillover. 

So what can be composted? Well, a lot of things. Not just vegetable peels, apple cores, and watermelon rinds, but egg shells, used paper products like towels and tissues (provided that questionable chemicals haven't been applied), tea bags, coffee grounds, dead flowers, and junk mail, for starters. Some say not to compost meat, dairy, or heavily fatty scraps, lest messy critters like raccoons be attracted, but trace amounts are fine. 

The test was a visit to my sister for Shabbos, an outing that typically ends in my "noble" consumption of residue. This time I toted along my new pail. Child-abandoned challah? I carefully wrapped it in a napkin and put it in. Cooled cholent? In it went. Limp cabbage salad? Heartlessly scraped in. 

I even—I even—I even managed to—oh, how it pained me—to ram in a slice of kokosh cake.

I happily hauled home a brimming pail, my belly spared a diabolical end. 

In our next session, we'll explore what to do with all that schoira.    

Sprout!

Beware, unsuspecting audience: I am now on a sprouting kick. 

Since I am rather impressionable, the internet doesn't have to say much to get me to think I have been eating my grains and beans wrong all these years. 

Supposedly sprouting reduces starches and makes the nutrients easier for the body to absorb. If you've got cheesecloth (a necessity for those who cook chicken soup), then you can sprout.

I sprouted mung beans, then cooked them. The taste was much sweeter and pleasant than when un-sprouted, and they were pretty good then too. 

Via panihatiarogyaniketan.org

Not all grains or legumes sprout—like standard barley and millet (the latter I learned myself). But quinoa does, quite quickly, actually.

There is a basic system to sprouting. 

1) Initial soak. 

2) Rinse and drain two times daily. 

3) Sprouting times vary. 

Quinoa requires only 30 minutes to 2 hours of initial soaking, while dried beans and grains (like wheat berries) need an overnight drench. 

Any container will do. Place desired seeds, grains, or legumes into a jar or tupperware or glass. Cover with cheesecloth (there are sprouting lids available that I may purchase) and secure in place with rubber band (or if using a ball jar, can use the ring top). Pour water through the cheesecloth for the initial soak. 

The next morning (8 hours or so later) pour off the water, rinse again through the cheesecloth, then invert the jar so the liquid can drain off. Takes less than a minute.

Via kaletothequeen

Come back 12 hours later or so and repeat. Rinse, drain, invert. 

I've also made alfalfa sprouts for Ma, despite my scar-worthy childhood memory of a beautiful, innocent, whole-wheat egg salad sandwich contaminated by those sprouts. To this day she insists that topping my sandwich with sprouts was the greatest expression of love. I had spent a half-hour picking out every single sprout. 

These are expressly for her. 

Via whataboutpie.blogspot.com

Bards Shall Sing of My Bravery

A blood-curdling shriek emanates from the basement. 

"He's got me cornered!" 

I launch away from my breakfast, grabbing a "bee-deader" (Luke's childhood name for a fly-swatter) as I hurl down the steps. There he is, my antennae-waving prey: A fat cricket. 

Ma is the fearless one. She wacks ants with her bare palm. She dismisses the terrified wails of the kinfauna when faced with a spider. Mosquitoes fear her. 

But crickets, you must agree, are a different matter entirely. They're disturbingly intelligent.

 

I creep toward my target. He doesn't move, dreamily rubbing his legs. I hold my breath. He doesn't bat a lash. I slowly, slowly, raise the swatter. He yawns. I lunge. 

He's gone. 

On those jumper legs, he's across the room in a blink of an eye. I've lost him. 

 

Last year Succos-time, with murderous fall upon them, they actually had the nerve to brazenly emerge from the basement, strolling about the den as though invited. It was insupportable. They had to die. 

I researched a number of options, and settled on glue traps. I didn't expect much, really. I baited the center with a little sugar, leaving three in the hot zone—the boiler room—and few more at random points to tempt the survivors. 

Hot diggety damn. The old-timers were the first to go, large and immobile with their heads drowning in sugar. Then, the next generation was caught, small and un-cute, four on one strip.

All that was required of me was to gingerly pick up the cluttered trap with "ew ew ew" forefinger and thumb, then chuck it into the garbage. 

So is the end for the creature that mocks me.  

Turmeric, Magical Cure-All

I'm prone to mysterious stomach maladies. They are not, thankfully, as common as they used to be, but can still stab if not given the right digestives. 

From Yogi Cameron I learned of two natural potions that proved potent. The first, as a remedy for acid reflux, is a few pinches of saffron simmered in a cup of whole milk for 8 to 10 minutes, to allow the benefits to infuse. 

Via recipeshub.com

For my acid reflux-prone family member, this concoction swiftly neutralized esophageal agony. 

Saffron, however, is quite expensive and not always readily available. As my internet browsing informed me, turmeric possesses all the bam-pow benefits without the price tag. I've made the acid-reflux remedy with both saffron and turmeric, and the latter performed just as well as the former. 

The second remedy is congee, white rice that is overcooked in copious water from anywhere between 30 minutes to overnight. For one suffering from an angry belly, sipping this mush (sweetener is permitted) provides nourishment without further demands of the compromised stomach. 

Via farinakingsley.com

Awaking one morning with an aching tummy, I chucked together the rice and water, but then also added turmeric and a slosh of oil. Turmeric is fat-soluble (that's why for the turmeric milk, whole milk is best). Then I left it to simmer for as long as I could.

Via slowcookedrx.blogspot.com

My stomach pain vanished. Gone. And the next time, and the next.

To keep my stomach happy, I've started adding vigorous shakes of turmeric to my daily lunch soup. The taste is mild enough that it doesn't overwhelm the other flavors.

*Note: Turmeric stains something terrible. It may not even be possible to wash it out. So don't wear anything treasured while cooking/consuming it.

**Second note: Do not confuse the uses for turmeric milk and turmeric congee. If suffering from a stomach bug or upset stomach, milk will kill you. Not literally, obviously, but it won't be pleasant. Strictly for acid reflux.   

TGIF

• How to be productive;

• BP's stylish, don't we know it;

• Gigi's Salad Prep Method;

• Only people of low birth pressed questions likely to embarrass.—Norah Lofts, The Concubine

"Out, Damned Spot!"

"And what do we have here?" 

Lurking about my brother's kitchen one Friday night, I discovered a forgotten pot on the back of the cold stove. Within was a wedge of divine, oily potato kugel, my great love and nemesis. 

Wishing to avoid inquisitive questions from my tablemates—and worse, the polite requirement to share—I tore off an edge and nibbled it where I stood. 

I watched, in horror, as a glob of grease dropped . . . right onto my skirt. My bright-hued, cotton, long-enough-without-being-yachnish skirt. D'OH! 

Come os, damage control! First, I sprinkled some D.E. on the stain, and let it sit overnight. I think it sucked out a good amount of grease, lessening my work. 

There are a number of stain removers in my laundry room; I selected Spray & Wash ("with Resolve power!") as my first champion. I followed the directions diligently, then rinsed off the spot (the skirt is officially dry-clean). 

The stain was fainter, but still obviously there. Next knight? 

OxiClean! Again, a diligent following of instructions, then a messy rinse of the area. 

When I came back a few hours later, expecting to have to do another treatment, I couldn't find the stain. I looked for it, up and down. There wasn't even any discoloration of the fabric. I couldn't believe it. It was gone, like the potato kugel never happened.

On the skirt, that is. The calories is something else.    

Diatomaceous Earth

"What was that now?" I inquired faintly. 

"We, er, um, well, so, yeah, have . . . bedbugs." 

"Nosferatu! Nosferatu! Out! Out!" 

My paranoid mind scrabbled to recall how many times she had entered my house in the last few months. I attacked the internet, my hysteria growing at the inflammatory articles available. 

There was one comforting one on Slate; bedbugs are, apparently, not so contagious, nor so necessarily impossible to vanquish. I managed to suck in a few breaths. 

However, I still wanted to comfort myself (and be unafraid to cuddle once again in my own bed) by taking some precautions. But if I didn't yet have a visible problem, I didn't want to poison myself with pesticides. 

With a little more digging, I came across diatomaceous earth. It's clay, and some even nibble on it for the silica content (it's also used in pools, so make sure to get the "food grade" D.E.). Harmless to humans (and kids), the dust is murderous on bugs of all kinds, being hazardously sharp on the microscopic level. 

Via richsoil.com

Once applied, it can be easily vacuumed up, along with the remains of any it has annihilated. 

Peering at the options, I decided on one that came in a squeeze bottle for easy dispersal. I dusted areas around furniture legs, my mattress, and tossed some around the basement where crickets were making an unwelcome appearance. 

After a few days, I felt secure enough to hose up my preventative measures. The powder from pillows, mattresses, rugs disappeared without a trace up the vacuum.   

Analyzing the fine print, I discovered other uses, like absorbing stains and removing odors. So after an einikel wet my bed (that's right, my bed) I sprinkled it on top and left it there for the day. I vacuumed it up in the evening, and sniffed—no smell whatsoever. 

With Pen and Paper

Routinely there will arrive by mail the stunted envelope shape announcing, "I am the thank you card!" Even though most of them contain an atrocious scrawl with a rote statement, "Thank you for your generous gift and may we always share in simchas," it is the occasional one that gushes in detail that touches the heart.

"Baby Avrohom Zev loves his new teddy! He sleeps with it every night. Thank you so much!" 

Aw. 

It was with a jolt when the thank-you card from a bar mitvah boy contained not the cramped, laborious efforts of a grateful 13-year-old, but bland, pre-printed words. Yeesh, how touching.

The thank-you card, I always believed, was a rite of passage, as much as that oversized black fedora the new little men are so eager to don. With privilege comes responsibility; get a present, you have to sit down and tediously express thanks. 

Via digisecrets.com

Of course, as the tapped word overcomes the written word, composing a mannerly missive is in a state of flux, as Guy Trebay observes in "The Found Art of Thank-You Notes." But there are still some who wave the snail-mail flag with one hand and a Papermate in the other.

Additionally, handwriting, as recently reported in the Science Times, has import beyond good behavior. Maria Konnikova reports in "What's Lost as Handwriting Fades" that writing by hand, as opposed to by keyboard or keypad, activates the learning process.

When I attend shiurim, I insist on toting along a notebook and penning down the speaker's thoughts, as then I truly hear and remember. It's not the same when typing, since then I focus on simply getting out each word, rather than the concept as a coherent whole.

To all the parents out there, make sure to emphasize old-school writing. It guarantees good learning skills and good manners.         

Bugs Begone

"Back! Back, you misbegotten bloodsucker!" I manage to whack it away, but too late. A swelling, itching spot has appeared. 

After discovering the highly effective insect-repelling power of lavender, I bought a few bottles of lavender spray. However, it was only this past summer that I did not get a single bite. (I'll cop to two half-bites. You know, like the mosquito changed her mind in the middle, so there was only some momentary itching and a teeny blemish that went away in no time.) 

Method: Every morning, I sprayed my legs and neck with lavender spray, and managed to get to the office unattacked. By my office desk, there is a second bottle of lavender spray, and before leaving in the evening the legs get a second dose. 

On occassions when I wear stockings, such as Shabbos, I spray up my bare legs first, let them air-dry for a few minutes, then sidle into hose.

Last summer mosquitoes were apparently a problem, as I saw many with bleeding sores on their legs after they had scratched themselves to pieces, and my area was even sprayed to combat West Nile. But I knew nothing; the devilish blood-suckers kept their distance. 

Products: 

Alba Botanica Very Emollient Natural Sunblock SPF 45 Pure Lavender: It was when I was using this sunblock that I noticed that I was getting less bites, and made the leap that lavender was a repellant. (By the way, Alba Botanica's Emollient SPF line is great. It blends in easily, and my sister, who has tried every single sunblock out there on her brood, price regardless, hails this line as the best.) 

Aura Cacia Aromatherapy Mist Calming Lavender Harvest: This has a distinctly high concentration of lavender oil, which some brands seem to skimp on.

Heritage Products Flower Water Lavender: I didn't think this would pack as sufficient punch, but it did.

Or, get lavender oil, add a couple of drops to water in a spray bottle: Aura Cacia 100% Pure Essential Oil Lavender.    

Lavender is also known to be soothing to harried souls, so spraying it about the room before bedtime is an idea, or using it as a laundry mist. It's also great for taming curls—give that a google. 

I Shall Vanquish Thee!

Mustfallasleepmustfallasleepmustfallasleeeeeeeeep . . .  

Obviously, I wasn't falling asleep. 

I don't operate well under pressure. My cousin's wedding, complete with Shabbos Sheva Brachos (and lechtzin was good and late, by my standards) was nigh. Additionally, Ma had succumbed to a flu-like illness that was making its merry rounds, having flattened uncles, aunts, and cousins; I could tell it had its eye on me. 

Ta and I warily circled her with shirts pulled over our noses, but I feared the worst. Whenever my sleep has not been at its best, my immune system commits hari-kari, and in waltzes, unchallenged, various bacteria and viruses, delicately stepping over the inert corpses of my white blood cells. An effortless coup, if there ever was one; I should just rename my immune system the Vichy government. I have attempted to surreptitiously toot my nose during the maelstrom of sheva brachos speeches more than once. 

I needed to bring in the big-gun mercenaries. 

I had a method—drug-assisted nights, elderberry, neti, and my new discovery, raw garlic. After a failed attempt at valerian root, time was running short. The wedding was that night, and I had—gulp—a tickle in the back of my throat. Like Ma had had. 

For the last month or so I had been religious about dosing myself with raw garlic, which meant my morning commute was rather close-mouthed. Taking it more than once a day in order to keep in tip-top shape would leave me a social pariah, although it must be better than hacking and wheezing. 

There is enough internet babble about the immune benefits of garlic (anti-baterial, anti-viral, anti-fungal, etc. In a study, it was found to be 100 times more effective than antibiotics in treating food-borne illnesses) so I simply had to hit upon a better method of consumption. This option turned out to be the most painless and the least stinky of breath.

Unlike other medications, the body doesn't adapt to the benefits; the garlic defends indefinitely. 

Raw Garlic Supplement for Cold, Flu, and Everything Else Prevention

1) Mince a raw garlic clove. It must be raw, not frozen or pre-diced.  (The easiest way to get the skin off is to wack the clove with a wide-bladed knife, then mince.)

2) Let it "breathe" for a minimum of five minutes, no more than a half hour. This allows the immune-boosting components to manifest; but don't wait too long since eventually they diminish. 

3) Mix with a spoonful of honey. (I'm not really a fan of honey, but I purchased this one and I really like the flavor. Raw honey has anti-bacterial and anti-allergy properties as well.) 

4) Try to get it all on the spoon, and swallow it down in one go. The honey helps coat the potency of the garlic on the way down, so no serious tearing or gasping, and no garlic breath either!

5) Keep a banana on standby. Sometimes, when the garlic is at optimum potency (10-15 minutes of airing) even the honey isn't enough to prevent a "HOOOOO!" response. Gulp the garlic-honey and follow with the banana. 
 

I took a "dose" twice a day while my sleep was in shreds and I shared a roof with Typhoid Ma; since then, I take it once a day. While I usually spend my winters being attacked by every minor fever and cold, since I have been taking it . . . well, that little tickle at the back of the throat just stayed a little tickle at the back of the throat, until it quietly faded away.  

During the wedding itself, the haggard zombies of the flu victims surrounded me, but I feared none. At the Shabbos Sheva Brachos I was actually sneezed directly upon by one, and shared a fork with a niece who began suspiciously coughing just after, but I sailed through the airborne pathogens unassailed. Perhaps because breakfast, lunch, and dinner were followed with my "medicine"? 

I shared my divine discovery with as many as I could, but few heeded my call. Fine, sneeze then, see if I care.

I have garlic on my side.         

Just Breathe

"MOOooOOooOOooOOooMMEEeeEEeeEE!" 

Ah, the joys of babysitting. 

She really is too old for this. I slung her over my shoulder and dragged her up to my lair as she continued to wail and howl as though I was extracting a molar sans anesthetic. 

I threw her down on the bed, lecturing her as I made the preparations for bedtime, drawing curtains, clicking on night-lights, finding the blanket that was just the right weight. At which point I noticed that her hands were clamped over her mouth. 

"I wanna stop but I can't," she sobbed piteously. 

At which point, of course, I ceased to be Admiral Aunt, and mellowed. "This is what you do," I crooned. "Breathe in . . . and out . . . breathe in . . . and out." She loudly sucked in and expelled air, and within the minute she was calm. I had just started reading a book when she thankfully dozed off. From 60 to 0 in five minutes.

I had learned this simple breathing trick the hard way, from experience. 

I'm not the best of travelers, and small, shaky jets inflict the worst damage. I actually had to use my air-sick bag. 

Via deviantart.com

I staggered off the plane, near tears, knees dangerously wobbly; I collapsed onto the first chair I saw. Then a Voice began to soothingly instruct me from somewhere to the left. "Breathe in . . . and out . . . breathe in . . . and out . . ." I automatically obeyed, and despite my sniffly disbelief, was shocked that practically immediately I felt human again. The Voice belonged to a smiling middle-aged nurse, who was really so kind to talk me off the edge. 

Take two with my niece occurred but a few weeks later, when I arrived on my brother's doorstep for Shabbos. The parents were going to a dinner that night, leaving the brood in my care. As soon as I stupidly informed her of that fact, she disappeared. Then the telltale caterwauling rang from the depths of the house. 

I tackled her, hauled her downstairs, bawling her out as I did so. "Such a big girl to behave like this! I'm not going to tell you anything if this is how you behave! This is not how a big girl acts! And now—we are doing yoga breaths! IN! OUT! IN! OUT!"

The fuchsia-mottled face, composed mostly of open mouth, subsided into a creamy-hued doll-like visage in about 74 seconds. She lay on the couch, blinking dreamily. Her stunned elders sisters, who had witnessed my "cruelty" with wide-eyed horror, could not quite process the magical result. 

"Yoga breaths," I said smugly. 

I kept invoking "yoga breaths" the whole night. By the tenth time, the 12-year-old said, "Oh! She's saying 'yoga breath,' not 'yogurt breath'!" 

Call it whatever you like; it gets the job done. 

If I feel overwhelmed, short of temper, ready to collapse—I slowly inhale, expanding my stomach, and gradually deflate. Then repeat.  

Clear that Clog

There is much frustration when a clogged sink will refuse to be accommodating.  

My bathroom sink hasn't been very cooperative. I had purchased "healthy" drain cleaners, which only seemed to compound the problem. If driven to desperation, I will use bleach, but remain in terror of it corroding clean through the pipes.

After a little searching, I came across the drain snake.

I purchased one for $4 at my local hardware store (available for less at a larger chain), and, brandishing my weapon, launched to battle.  

It wasn't pretty. I saw things I never wanted to know existed down my drain. But afterward, no lingering liquid remained in my sink, simply scurrying down to the mysterious yonder with a satisfying "glurp."

I chucked the now grimy drain snake, which was cheaper than the many used up bottles that had claimed to be drain cleaner. In a matter of minutes, my sink was hospitable again, without fumes or chemicals.  

Months later, it is still behaving itself. 

Daydreaming Has Criteria

So sayeth Jon Methven in "How to Daydream." 

I Will Break You

While I was trying to do my nails, my nose kept running. In consideration for the still-damp polish, I grasped a tissue between my wrists. 

Then dawning realization. No, not a cold. Not now. 

It was the eve of my nephew's bar mitzvah Shabbos. I can't have sneezing and coughing and disturbed nights! 

Red alert!  Attack mode activated! 

First: Neti. I grimly washed out my sinuses. 

Second: Elderberry. I popped three. 

Third: Nyquil. I know the only way I can successfully fight off a cold is with sleep. I gulped down a cupful at 8 p.m., knowing it must have near twelve hours to work its drugged effects out of my system.

Fourth: Go to bed. Thanks to the lovely opiates now coursing through my bloodstream, I was successfully unconscious in record time. 

Fifth: Linger in bed. After 8+ solid hours of sleep (I don't believe I moved at all) I refrained from hopping out at 6, when I usually do, instead rested a bit more. The body has an amazing ability to heal itself, but it requires rest to do so. I lay happily huddled beneath the blankets, visualizing white blood cells nuking the cold virus.

I arose, sniffle-free, and was able to party that evening with nary a tissue in sight. Success!

The months passed. A bare month following a cold, I began to suspiciously sneeze by my office desk. I was adamant: No, I just had a cold. I won't, I refuse, to put up with another one. 

I scoured the wonderful internet, and came across this: Raw garlic. 

Nothing to it, Google burbled. Just chop it up and swallow.

Uh-huuuuuh. 

Well, potentially diseased people cannot be particular. I might suggest, however, not to try it on an empty stomach. 

I minced a clove, poured some warm soup on top, and manfully chugged. 

Hoooooo boy. 

I was aware that I had a stomach, that's for sure. No event that night, thankfully, considering the garlic breath. 

But, the next morning, my symptoms were gone, although my belly still twinged.

A few weeks later, the drippy nose came back. Come on! 

I tried the raw garlic with some yogurt, like someone recommended online. Big mistake; I ran to the bathroom in fear I was going to hurl. 

The drippy nose didn't go away, but it didn't get any worse. I dosed myself again that night, but I tried something else. 

I cooked a potato, drizzled it in oil, and mashed in the raw garlic. (Perhaps I should mention that I am a serious potato lover.)

Via simplyrecipes.com

Sooooooo yummy! 

I had gone to sleep that night with serious garlic breath, with my throat beginning to twinge. Yet by morning, while my throat and glands felt swollen, they didn't hurt. My nose ceased to drip, being replaced by puffy nasal passages, which thankfully did not leak. 

Another garlic potato for breakfast! Mmm mmm mmm.

I think were it not for that garlic, my day would have been terrible. My body felt heavy and achy, my throat thick, my nasal passages all swelled up. But my head and throat did not hurt. I was able to function at work. 

Dinner? Garlic potato!

Breakfast? Garlic potato! 

I was obviously over the worst by the following day; I was able to walk without feeling wobbly, and my nose was non-drippy (I was still practicing neti, and dosing myself with elderberry). 

I felt so smug with this delicious boosting-of-immunity discovery, but quite obviously I am unoriginal. 
 
Since my immune system seems to be compromised due to my nervous tendencies, it I must partake of regular garlic potatoes to keep me well (mmm). Flu season approaches, after all.

Baaaack, Baaaack You Bloodsuckers

Mosquito season in my neck of the woods is not pleasant. 

Avoiding DEET, I purchased a variety of "healthy" bug repellants, which usually are unpleasant yellow oil that can potentially stain clothing. And the success rate is not even the best; I even bought a sunblock with the aforementioned grease with claims of bug repelling, and came home with four bites on my legs.

One day last summer I tried a new sunblock—not as a repellant—and was surprised that day after day my legs were unmolested. 

The sunscreen is Alba Botanica Lavender Sunblock. The lavender, it seems, was keeping my skin whole. 

Along with the sunscreen, I purchased a lavender body spray, which I used liberally throughout the summer. I sailed through August with barely any bites, and the smell is pleasant and soothing. I used it on the kinfauna when I took them outside; no  more worries I was going to return scratching children to their parents. It's great because I can apply it on Shabbos, as opposed to greasy creams. 

I ran out in the beginning of September. I didn't bother to restock, since how long could the mosquitoes last? 

Almost into October. I was one, big, itching welt.

This year, I bought the BIG bottle of lavender. And will definitely reorder if it gets low.

For on-the-go refreshers, I purchased a travel-sized atomizer. In purple. ('Cause it's lavender, get it?)  

Lavender is a great bug repellant in general. Plant lavender around the property, and one can even use lavender incense for evenings outside. It has been concluded (I saw this on AOL, but misplaced the link) that the best moth repellant is lavender, not cedar, mint, or lemon. I got a bag of loose dried flowers to make my own sachets for my drawers and closets. 

Olympic Shopping

Shopping is not a fun, casual outing meant to kill time. Oh ho no. Those who sleepily roll out of bed at 11 and leisurely consume breakfast then trot off to the mall at 2 on Sunday, I am sorry, but you are not a shopper. 

Shopping is a sport. It involves endurance. Strategy. Patience. It is survival of the fittest. 

1) Sleep the night before is key. One has to have the energy, and one does not want to get sucked into the "I'm tired so I'll just take that thing to get out of here" trap. This is clothing we're taking about, the very thing that identifies a person to the greater world. Just dragging anything off the rack won't do. Make sure bedtime is strictly observed the night before a shopping outing.  

2) Plan that to be the first one on the doorstep.  If the mall opens at 10, leave however earlier than that to be the first in the door. By 12 parking will be a nightmare, and no one wants to have a shouting match with a guy who can pass for a bouncer arguing over who had dibs to the spot.  

When there are less people grabbing and pushing, making an informed decision is easier. 

3) Going shopping in ballet flats? Uh-uh, I don't think so. For the hours I spend on my feet, I need sneakers. Not dorky walking sneakers, of course, but something that laces up, holding the feet in, with enough rubber on the sole to keep the foot supported.  Something fashionable, like the Puma Soleil in Black/Very Berry or Black/Limestone Gray. 

4) Provisions! I usually take along some whole-wheat crackers and string cheese; stopping into a kiosk for a Haagen Dasz or frothy frappacino will defeat the purpose of the outing: finding clothing that fit right. Consuming sugary calories will alter one's current size.

5) Be prepared not to find anything. One can't go shopping with the attitude, "I need a beige pleated skirt, and I have to find it today." That's not how shopping works. 

In order to shop successfully, an open mind is key. Find something that really flatters at the right price? Buy it, even if it may not be so necessary. Next week an occasion may arise, and the perfect thing will be already hung in the closet. 

If nothing was found that suits for the right price, don't panic. I have often gone home empty handed; on the flip side, I have often emerged from the store laden down with bags. Shopping is about the search, and stores schora is often seasonal; there will be times when there is less or more merchandise in stock.

If an occasion is coming up, don't push off the search to a couple of weeks before; go now to look. More options, such as sales, will be available, so grabbing something and paying a fortune  out of desperation will be less likely. 

 
6) Make sure of the store's return policy. Sometimes I'll be in a dressing room weeping at the beauty of the clothing I tried on, only to realize at home that the hem can't be fixed or the price was too much or my waist is not defined. Return it rather than kill yourself over it. 

If the store it was purchased in is too far away for a second trip to return, many department stores will accept returns by mail. I have sent back garments via Priority Mail boxes, and while $10 may seem like much it's a lot cheaper than gas and tolls. 

7) Unless the man in one's life will be a help, don't bring him along. Leave him with the kids at home; dragging around a whining crew will torpedo any chances of finding anything. They'll harass  you so much you'll be too frazzled to shop successfully. Without hubby and children, purchasing a wardrobe for both in peace is more probable.

Before You Buy

I seriously research and compare before purchasing a product, whether it be makeup or skincare. Often, when typing a name into Google along with "reviews," the first link will be to Makeup Alley.

In Thursday Styles of NY Times, Makeup Alley is being hailed for informing consumers. The reviews are submitted by actual everyday buyers, and the rating makes it easy to decide whether to buy it or drop it.  

While one can see snippets of reviews while not being a member, it is easier just to become one. I know it was a useful tool for me in my "research," and makes the whole selection process simpler.