Photo of the Day: Stop and Smell the Roses

Mornings are usually very hectic for me; I often arrive late at work with wet hair (that, or it's so dirty it looks wet) and end up putting my on my make-up once I'm settled into my cubicle. So it's rare I take the time to enjoy anything, even a cup of coffee, before I get to the office.

But this morning I decided to take my time doing things. I hit snooze for half an hour (which is not so unusual), I helped Kyle get the trash out, I loaded and started the dishwasher, I attempted and failed at an outdoor run, and I took the dog for a short walk before dropping him off at the vet for his check-up. On the way home, without Jack tugging on the leash to get through the front door, I had a minute to stop and snap these roses before the Midwest heat kills them.

As far as roses go, these aren't so bad. You see, I'm not really a rose fan. In fact, if you said, "Emily, I am in love with you and want to send you flowers to show my affection. What should I send?" I would reply: "Anything but roses." (I would think not sending carnations would be a given.) But, someone planted rose bushes in the front of the house we rent and, unlike Jack, I'm not one to destroy someone else's landscaping. It was a good reminder to just slow down and be a bit more deliberate about things sometimes.

Of course, with my dilly-dallying and chasing the cat around the house to give her meds, I was half an hour late to work today. But I had mascara on when I got there, and I remembered to take my lunch — that I had planned the night before — so that's something, right?

(Not) Recipe: Eggs in Tomato Sauce

This isn't really a recipe, and that's exactly what the person I stole (er, adapted) it from said, too. But it is delicious, and easy, and affordable, so I wanted to share.

I posted yesterday about my failure to plan meals, and got some great tips from my friend Ruth. One was to keep frozen shrimp in the freezer. Always. The other was to make eggs in a quick tomato sauce. Because Ruth is usually right about most things, and because I love eggs and tomato sauce, I tried it.

Here's what I used: 

2-3 tablespoons olive oil

1 large, white onion, chopped

A pinch of crushed red pepper

1 28-oz can of crushed tomatoes

About a teaspoon of honey

A few pinches of dried basil (because I didn't have any fresh basil handy)

3 cloves garlic, minced

3 large, brown eggs

A handful of shredded Parmesan cheese 

Salt and pepper to taste 

Here's what I did: 

I sauteed the onion in the olive oil in a pan over medium heat. When the onions became translucent, I added the tomatoes, garlic, honey and spices, and cooked everything down until what was in the pot resembled a red sauce. I then salted and peppered it to taste and (tried to) gently crack three eggs into sauce. I let the eggs poach for a few minutes — until the whites were cooked and the yolks were still runny. Then, I transferred it all to a bowl and sprinkled some Parmesan cheese on top.

Then, I put it in my mouth. I expected it to be good, but it was even better than I imagined. The white Two Buck Chuck I had in the fridge didn't hurt the situation.

I still had about half of the red sauce left over, and since I bought two cans of tomatoes and a dozen eggs, that makes four easy, affordable meals. Definitely not a great option for when I'm cooking for Kyle and myself, but a wonderful naturally gluten-free dinner for one (or for two who don't require a meat and a starch every night).

Cheap Cheat: Dollar Sushi

One thing I need to do better if I am to succeed at this project is meal planning. It’s something I've always talked a lot about, but have never actually pulled off for more than a day or two. In fact, I'm not really good at eating regular meals at regular times and it's been a point of contention in my marriage.

It's not that I don't like to eat — anyone who's ever seen me in person can probably imagine the vigor with which I put back pulled pork — but I like to eat what I want when I want it. Sometimes it’s a bowl of Brussels sprouts and a glass of wine at 10 pm, other times it's a really late lunch followed by a few spoonfulls of peanut butter before bed. That doesn't necessarily work in in a marriage, especially when my partner is on a very regular schedule, and doesn’t feel satisfied without a big slab of meat, a side or two of something starchy, and a sweet treat at the end. (I, on the other hand, could go without dessert for the rest of my life without noticing.)

Kyle is great about planning and making those meals for us. And I am great at eating them. Sometimes I even do the dishes. But when it’s my turn to think about dinner, I think about going out. I don’t like feeling rushed when I cook, and I don’t usually have time to think about anything other than work when I’m at work. It’s just easier to go somewhere and have someone bring us food and take away the dishes when we're done. But eating out so frequently is a big part of what’s gotten me into this financial mess, and I know I need to make some serious changes to my eating habits if I ever want to pay off my student loans.

I just haven’t made them yet.

Distracted by birthday celebrations, gardening, Mother’s Day (I have a mother, a step-mother and a mother-in-law to worry about, and for a few hours on Sunday, I honestly thought my biological mother was dead) and a sick kitty, I didn't do any planning or grocery shopping over the weekend. By the time I got home and did a few things around the house after work yesterday, I was ready to eat, but there was nothing ready for me to eat, and really nothing that I could prepare quickly. We hemmed and hawed for a while, and then got into the same argument we always do, except this time I was more difficult than usual, because I wouldn't consider the option of going out for an overpriced dinner. 

I was just about to send Kyle out on his own, and turn to my trusty jar of peanut butter, when I remembered that it was Monday, therefore it was Dollar Sushi Night.



Now, calling this weekly special “Dollar Sushi” is a bit of a stretch, because only the sushi is $1.00 a piece. Rolls are $3.99 each, and the miso soup we always order is regular price. But it was much more affordable than it would have been any other night, even if our $25 bill didn't come close to the realm of extreme frugality. It was, however, exactly what we needed, and because it was nice out, we were able to walk there and back.

Tonight, I will go to the grocery store on my way home from work. I just have no idea what the hell I’m going to buy when I get there. 

When Furry Babies Cry

Last night, after we got back from a Mother's Day dinner over at Kyle's parents, we plopped down on the couch like we always do. Kyle flipped through the channels and found something to watch on DVR while I finished up a freelance project.

I didn't notice that my cat, Eve, wasn't sitting behind me on the couch like she does every night.

By the time I made my way upstairs, Kyle was in bed, almost asleep. I started my evening routine, and as I was brushing my teeth, I heard a hiss come from our bedroom. Then a low howl, like a cat in heat, or one in pain. Then the same thing, again. I ran into the bedroom to see what was going on. Kyle (who, most days, could care less about the cat) was upright, and I was just confused. "Where is she? What's going on?" I asked. Kyle pointed to the closet.

Eve was in there with her head down in one of my shoes. She wouldn't look at me, so I very carefully bent down to see her face. It was puffy, probably twice its normal size — she's a very petite kitty — one eye was swollen shut, there was a dried steam of blood under her nose, and it sounded like she was having trouble breathing. She also smelled, well, infected.

Of course, I freaked out. Eve is my baby. I've had her since I was 18. I got her when I was working in a church office in New York City's West Village. One of the parishioners — who was quite literally a crazy cat man — heard I was looking to adopt a cat. This man owned a beautiful Tribeca loft that took up the entire floor of a building, but the only things visible in the whole place were stacks of newspapers and cats. So many cats. He rescued them, apparently. But instead of finding them new homes, for the most part, he just let them live among his other cats (and their collective stench) and the newspapers (which, when stacked high, were actually great scratching surfaces). But Eve was different. For some reason, he thought I should have her. I did, too, even though, at six months, she was completely feral and wouldn't even let me touch her.

The first two weeks I had her, she never came out from under the bed, at least not when I was home. Eventually, she let me pet her, but if I touched her in the wrong spot — which was anywhere on the back half of her body — she'd scratch or bite me. Over the years, she got more comfortable with me, and when I was lounging, would hop up on the bed or couch, though never in my lap.

Everything was always on Eve's terms. If she wanted to be petted, she would let me know by nudging her head against my hand or shoulder, or, if I were asleep, gently sticking her claws in my face to wake me up. The only thing she couldn't control was moving, but she sure did try. Eve has lived in nine different homes with me, eight apartments and one house. That's seven trips in the carrier — which always ended with me looking like I'd botched a suicide attempt — and one three-day journey from Brooklyn to Kansas City in the back of a U-Haul. 

Not long after arriving in KC, I adopted Jack, a Beagle-German Shepherd mix, as far as anyone can tell. Eve didn't want anything to do with him, but he was determined to play and get a good whiff of her butt whenever she passed by.

One day, when Eve decided she wanted to try Jack's food, he tried to ward her off with a growl and a nip. He ended up with a clawed-up face and no control over his own food bowl (I remedied the situation by feeding them at the same time after that) or much else when it came to Eve.

But last night, Eve wasn't in control. I'd seen her sacred, but in the 13 years I've had her, she's always had some fight in her. I think that's what scared me most, the fact that she just seemed so helpless. So, I called the 24-hour emergency vet's office near our house. Without seeing her, they couldn't tell me anything, so I went downstairs to get the carrier... which turned out to be a terrible idea. Getting her into that thing was always beyond stressful for both of us, and my half attempt to get her in there let me know she actually did have some fight in her. Being the Lady MacGyver that I am, dumped out the contents of a laundry basket, put her in it, and taped a box on top in case she tried to climb out. It looked pretty janky, but we didn't have far to go and she wasn't making any attempts to escape.

As soon as we arrived at the animal ER, the staff was super helpful; it was a much better experience than any human emergency room visit I can recall. The technician immediately took her back, and the receptionist explained to me exactly what they'd do, and why it was best if I stayed in the waiting room. I agreed completely — my presence would just cause poor Eve (and poor me) more stress.

Within about 20 minutes, the doctor came out to talk to me. Apparently Eve had suffered some sort of trauma to her face —an altercation with another animal, an insect bite or sting, or something else — and that it could have happened any time within the last few days. (Though I try to keep her inside because I think she's going deaf, she still sneaks out every now and then, and there are lots of stray cats in this neighborhood. And possums. Disgusting, awful possums.)

The next step, he said, would be to put her under, shave her face and try to find the source of the infection.

I felt like such a shitty cat mom asking how much it would cost. "It starts around $350," he told me. The visit alone was already going to cost me $83.

"And can I set up payments?" I asked.

"No, all services would need to be paid for tonight," he said.

I had the cash. But that was a lot of cash. And once he found the source of the problem, it could have cost hundreds more to fix it.

"And if I don't opt for that, is she in any danger of dying, or will she be in a lot of pain? Is there another way to treat it?"

He assured me that she wouldn't die, or be in any more pain if he started her on pain medication. If she didn't get better in a few days, he told me, I could just take her to our regular vet for further examination. (For the record, if her life were in danger or she would be in more pain without it, I would have paid any amount to treat her.)

So, they gave her an antibiotic injection, put her in my laundry basket, taped the box firmly back on top, and brought her out to me with pain meds and antibiotics that they explained I would I need to give twice daily. Anybody who has ever tried to force a cat to do anything knows the terror that went through my mind at that moment.

The bill came to $162.88. It was a lot, but it could have been a lot more. And the truth is that if I weren't doing this project, I might not have even had that. I usually just treat myself the weeks leading up to and following my birthday, and I usually end up in the red.

I was glad I was able to pay the bill. And if this gets worse before it gets better, I'll be able to take care of Eve and still be able to eat and put gas in my car. I think this is the first time in my life I've ever felt that way, and I've only been frugal with one paycheck.

As far as Eve, she's doing okay. I had to put her in Jack's kennel last night, and this morning, she didn't want to come out. I set her up in the corner of the living room with a blanket, some soft food, water and a litter box. She hasn't touched any of it. Giving her pain meds is actually less bat-shit insane than I thought it would be; she's resisting, but not running. Her face is still puffy, and she's not moving much, but her breathing sounds better, which leads me to believe the swelling is going down. I'm watching her closely, and administering the medications as directed. If she's not moving around or eating or going to the bathroom by tomorrow, I'll take her to our vet and see what we need to do to get my little Evila back to her sassy self.

Carrots (Hopefully)

Yesterday, we planted our community garden plot. It's about a block away from our house (though we have to cross a busy four-lane street with no light or crosswalk to get there). This is the second year I've had this plot, but the first year I've had Kyle to help. Last summer, he was working at a camp in Wisconsin, and left to my own over-eager devices, I just kind-of shoved lots of seeds in my 6 x 2.5-foot plot. I ended up with some Brussels sprouts, lots of lettuce and kale, a pretty decent tomato yield and a bounty of herbs. Other things didn't do so well, especially my carrots.

Determined to have a more successful garden this year, we planned, plotted, purchased, measured, marked and planted. 

Everything has enough space to grow — and maybe even thrive.

While we didn't start with as much as I did last year, I'm pretty sure our harvest will be more plentiful. Over the next few months, we should have various herbs, lettuce, kale, broccoli, Japanese eggplant, Brussels sprouts, peppers, green beans, tomatoes and carrots (hopefully).

Closet Shopping: My Birthday Suit

 

This is the first year of my adult life that I didn't buy myself something new to wear on my birthday. So last night, before Kyle took me out to Justus Drugstore — our special occasion place — I had a hard time finding something in my closet I wanted to wear. Over the last few years, I've given away so many clothes, I really felt like I had nothing but dresses and t-shirts left. But it was too cold for a dress so I went with jeans and a flowy linen and lace top that could (and probably someday will) be a maternity shirt. For now, it does a great job of concealing my food baby.

I did end up wearing one new thing: the sweet harmonica necklace my friend Diddy (not that Diddy) got me for my birthday. I promised Kyle I wouldn't play it in the restaurant, but I may have drunkenly played it in the cab on the way home. Maybe.

jeans, shoes, cardigan: Target | top: Purchased in 2008 at Dalaga in Greenpoint Brooklyn | ring: Vintage | necklace: JennsJemsJewelry.etsy.com | bag: TJ Maxx

Photo of the Day: Bitter Old Coot

No, this pricey cocktail from Justus Drugstore is not in my budget, but someone bought it for me, so that doesn't count, right? Right. Plus, as of last year, this drink is my new birthday tradition.

This is going to get a lot harder when people stop buying me birthday drinks.

Day 1: A Coffee Crisis

Yesterday was my 31st birthday. It was the first day of the rest of my life, sure, but mostly it was the first day of my year-long commitment to extreme frugality — or at least what will feel extreme to me. It was easy. There's a complimentary coffee bar at work, my coworkers brought treats that became my breakfast and lunch, and my wonderful husband took me out for tapas and wine. (No, he is not committed to a year of extreme frugality, but that's another blog post for another day).

Why can't every day be my birthday?

Today, I'm home working on a freelance project. I got up early, went to yoga (we committed to two years at the gym about a month before I decided I was going to do this project; it would be more expensive to quit) and came home to get started writing. Except, my brain wouldn't work. It took me a few minutes to figure out why, and then I realized I hadn't had my coffee.

My initial impulse was to grab the leash and my wallet, and walk the dog to my favorite little coffee shop in all the land: Hi Hat. I always spend at least $4 there, if not $5, with tip. I should have made coffee here, but because we always get our coffee out, we didn't have any in the house. Plus, the screen from our French press was unfortunately covered with a stubborn mold that wouldn't even come off in the dishwasher. This was not our first replacement screen. (Always wash your French press when you're done with it, people.)

So, my options were these:

1. Just go get a cup of coffee already (it was 11:19 am).
2. Go get a cup of shitty coffee.
3. Buy a replacement filter and a bag of coffee, which is the most economical long-term solution.

I have to admit, I was leaning toward option 3. I mean, I totally imagined this blog filled with precious hipster-y pictures of my French-pressed coffee in a vintage Fire King mug in the late-morning light. And you have to spend money to make money; this freelance project was not going to do itself. But I couldn't very well buy something on the first day of my frugality project... could I?

Just as I was about to crack and make my way to Sur La Table for a replacement screen, I remembered that I had received samples of "nutritious" instant coffee at a food bloggers conference. I'll be honest: it sucks, so I won't name the brand. But it was coffee, or at least it claimed to be.

It may have tasted like foot, but I got my caffeine fix and my hipster-y picture.