Perimenopase--The Things No One Tells You About It

Perimenopause is the time before the body reaches full menopause where menstrual periods stop, just so we're clear. Medically, you are not considered to be menopausal until you have been period free for a year. Perimenopause is a condition that I am finding not many people talk about, and if they do so, they do so uncomfortably--like the ER doctor who saw me a year ago when I had my first bout of 'flooding' which scared the crap out of me. He did a cursory pelvic exam, told me I was just getting old, and sent me home. That was a 4-hour middle of the night ordeal after which I was put on birth control pills, which actually worsened my symptoms. I had an ultrasound. This caused a visit to my specialist who did an endometrial biopsy--and she told me to stop taking the hormones that my other doctor had prescribed. Well meaning as my primary doc was, she hadn't realized that I was not menopausal. My blatant symptomology was just beginning at age 50.

I'm writing this blog because I just discovered last night--a year into my journey--that consumption of even small amounts of alcohol can cause flooding in some women at certain times in the flow which for many of us has ceased to be a regular cycle. I noticed that for two nights in a row I had shocking bouts of flooding just before bedtime. During the day it cleared to mostly what I would call heavy spotting, but these two nights were truly spectacular. It didn't take me long to realize that the one thing I do in the evening that I never do in the day time was my cocktail hour (great, just when I need a drink it's the thing I have to give up...). Let me just say that if you're a man reading this and you're thinking TMI, stop reading. If you're a man reading this because a woman you love is going through perimenopause--good for you. It's easy to get sick of this shit. I'm married to a woman, and she's sick of my griping and staining everything in sight. She's sick of my bouts of crabby exhaustion, and my volaltile moods. In tears one night because of flooding so heavy I only had a good 15 minutes between rushing to the bathroom to change everything, I did some research on the Internet and found the blog of this blessed woman: http://menopause.tripod.com/lblanchsite/meno/bleeding.html. She confirmed my suspicion about the alcohol. Alcohol apparently increases estrogen levels (does this explain why so many babies are conceived after romantic dinners with alcohol involved?). When our bodies are failing to regulate themselves with regular cycles and ovulation, menstrual flow is apparently regulated by some wacky stuff.

I'm not a doctor, or a medical professional. I'm just writing an experiential blog. You should not miss any scheduled checkups especially during this time. You should not hesitate to involve your doctor if you have symptoms that are worrisome or bothersome or affect your quality of life. At the very least the doctor may need to rule out things that might be going on, such as cervical or uterine cancer. The biopsy I had was only mildly uncomfortable and hugely reassuring.
I may still talk to my doctor about more permanent solutions, such as ablation, but NO ONE mentioned to me the connection between the alcohol and the flooding, and no one mentioned to me the possible anti-inflammatory benefits of taking NSAIDS during periods of flooding (see above blog). I would have thought that would make matters worse. I think we need to be informed, even anecdotally, so we know what to speak with our doctors about.

With love,
Ahnna

The Salad Game, A Love Story for Father's Day

My parents divorced when I was six. My father moved to an apartment closer to his job at a prestigious university. My weekends became a maze of predictable events. My father would come to pick us up in his Ford convertible. My parents would exchange words--not particularly kind ones--she at the front door, and he at the end of the driveway. I think she had a restraining order against him, but she had to let us go with him. So, we'd walk the gauntlet to his care and he'd let us ride, sitting on the roof folded down on the back of the car, until we got to the end of our private dirt road. He did this secretly, waiting to let us do it until we were out of sight of the house because my mother felt it was dangerous. Sitting on the back of that bench seat unprotected by doors and windows felt like flying to me. My brother and I would scream against the wind and laugh until our stomachs ached.

Invariably, we would stop next at the dry cleaners for his shirts, and the cheese shop for his cheese. The kind shop owner never complained when we ate all his samples, because my father was such a regular customer. When Daddy put the bag of cheeses in the car I would ask him, "Daddy, why can't you get normal cheese that doesn't stink?"

"Cheese stinks. That means it's good," he boomed. "Get in the car."

If we hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks--sometimes he simply failed to appear--we knew it was a good time to hit him up for a guilt trip to the toy store, but most of the time we stopped at the Star Market for weekend provisions and to see if there were lobsters in the tank.

"I pity the man who marries you," he would tell me--a jab at my expensive tastes--as I always picked the largest lobster for the lobster man to steam.  In truth, it made my mother laugh to hear all that we had soaked him for over the weekend, and I liked to make her laugh. 

My brother always had his filthy hands in the pickle barrel beside the deli counter.  My father ended up buying a lot of pickles, tied up like long green fish in little plastic bags with their pickle juice. My brother would eat every one of them by the end of the weekend. 

The last stop would usually be the liquor store, or Dad would simply leave us alone in the car while he went into a bar to get a drink. This wasn't particularly upsetting to us. It was just something he did sometimes. We once consumed an entire bag of Wise potato chips waiting for him to return, and I threw up in his car. When I told my mother this story it was confusing to me that she ran to call her attorney. He was a nice man. I'd met him often, although I was aware that his arrival often meant there was trouble. My daddy caused a lot of trouble. 

Mom, Dad and me on my first Christmas

 But, on those Saturday nights when we were safely home in his apartment on the sixth floor in downtown Cambridge, all our troubles melted away. If we didn't have lobster, Daddy would broil a steak, and bake potatoes. He'd put bowls of vegetables on the table, and cruets of oil and vinegar, and celery salt and bacon bits--real ones, not Bacos--and blue cheese and mustard, and he'd let us make our own salad and salad dressing. Every weekend. It was part of the ritual. I learned what it meant to use too much salt, or too much vinegar. He would rarely give us a second chance, angry if we wasted food. The rule was we had to eat what we made. We made stuff that was so truly terrible that the challenge to eat it became part of the game. My father was not usually present for this debauch, still tending to dinner in the kitchen. We were always relieved to see him appear with the steak and potatoes, to soak up the mess we had made in our stomachs.

 Sometimes, I would visit my father alone. The salad game wasn't the raucous game it was when my brother was with me, but the time alone allowed me to hone my skills. I got quite good at making salad dressing with no instruction, other than my taste buds. Many times I would drink what was left of it straight out of the bowl, as a way of savoring my creation. 

I always thought of the salad game as a quirky Dad-ism, because that is how my mother saw it. She would often, and with good reason, roll her eyes and guffaw at his antics. But, I realize now that my father, the scientist, my father, the professor, was teaching us to experiment. He was teaching me to trust my instincts and rely on my nose and my taste buds. I learned about how one flavor can overpower another and ruin what had started off well. I learned to dip my lettuce leaves into the dressing before pouring it willy-nilly over all. Oddly, my father who was so often not even present was refining me and teaching me to enjoy food by playing with it. My mother was a superlative cook, but from him I learned a base-note love of food without which, I would not be the cook I am today. I am a true master at throwing things together from what is available.  And, I love him for that.

In the evening, after the salad and the steaks were gone, I sat, often in the crook of his arm, and we watched The Honeymooners and The Jack Benny Program on his black and white portable TV. He'd have to reach around me to get his martini. Sometimes shared an olive with me. I would fall asleep hearing his fine, deep laughter vibrating in his chest. For all his faults, he was mine, and I was his.

When I was nine, my mother remarried. When I was ten, my father disappeared. He'd been fired from his job at the university for his alcohol usage. He didn't want anyone to know. And, I think he felt that we would be better off without him. It was a blow to me, but it turned me toward my stepfather, with whom I might never have developed a relationship if my father had been present.

My stepfather, Russell, was a Virginia born, country doctor's son. He could wax rhapsodic about food like no man I've ever known. I saw not only his family's peach orchards from his rich descriptions, I saw the sticky little boy beneath the tree gorging himself in the summer sunshine--a little boy I knew only because of his stories of his love of food. His Aunt Miriam's watermelon rind pickles, and her home-canned spiced peaches. Homemade peach ice-cream he cranked until his arms ached and then shared with his father late at night after his father came home from an emergency house call.

 Russell loved ice cream. One day when I was grown, and Russell was shifting into a reflective old age, he said to me out of the blue, "You know why I love ice cream?"

 "No, why?"

 "Because it's what I remember most about my father--talking and eating ice cream. It was his special time for me."

 In that moment I realized that all of his stories, all of his beautiful contemplations about life and food were also stories about loneliness he suffered. I leaned over and kissed him.

He smiled at me.  "We should go get some ice cream," he said.

I learned very different things about food from the men in my life than from the women. I learned about hungers, and hunting--and ultimately bagging the best steak, the finest cheese, or the perfect peach. I learned that food covered with mold is not necessarily a bad thing. I credit my stepfather's love for true Virginia ham, and my father's love of hand cured salamis for that. From them, I learned the adventure of food, the trial and error, the giddiness of trying, or creating, something new.

 Last weekend we had neighbors over for dinner. It was a lovely balmy evening. We ate our meal outside. It was a simple meal--grilled burgers and salad. Our friend, Mark, passed my salad dressing to his wife. "You have to taste this dressing! It's the best I've ever had. I could eat it off the spoon." And then he looked at me and asked, "Is that terrible?"

When Becca tasted it, she thought it was so good she drank what was left of it right out of the bowl. She saw the way I looked at her and laughed at herself.

"Is that just so rude?" she asked me.

"No, enjoy! You just reminded me of something. Or, someone actually." I hadn't thought about the salad game in years.

I was just going to post the recipe, but I thought it was a good time to write a love letter to my fathers, both of whom are gone now. In the kitchen at least, I still have all my parents, and my grandparents, too. But to my fathers, Russell and Cecil, I just wanted you to know that you still whisper in my gastronomic soul, and you always will.

Dijon Mustard Salad Dressing

1/3 cup white wine vinegar

Juice of one small lemon

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon fresh chopped herbs, such as dill or tarragon

2 large garlic cloves

1 teaspoon Kosher salt, divided

2/3 cup olive oil, see note

Note: Classic oil and vinegar dressings are three parts oil to one part vinegar, but I find this too oily for my taste. You can add up to another 1/3 cup oil to suit your own.

Sprinkle half the salt on a cutting board and finely chop the garlic, herbs and salt together. Put this mixture in a bowl and add the Dijon, lemon juice, vinegar and the rest of the salt. Whisk until smooth. Whisking with one hand and pouring with the other, add the oil in a thin stream, a tablespoon or two at a time.  Whisk thoroughly to incorporate the oil with the other ingredients and allow the dressing to emulsify each time you add more oil.  

Party Shoes

Why we had to go to Cobbler Bill's shoe store

I wrote this story some time ago, when a friend who still lives in my hometown sent me the picture of the old Hayes shoe store. I just found it unpublished on my blog. It's a sweet story. I don't know why I forgot to publish it. Better late than never.

Yesterday, my spouse dragged me to the shoe store. The picture above is a picture of the only pair of shoes I own.  I had been putting off this trip for as long as possible. It's been almost forty years since I've been in a real shoe store. It started casually. I could pretty much find something to shove my feet into at discount stores until the age of thirty. Then I started ordering shoes online. Then there was only one brand I could find online that would fit my feet. Then there was only one style of that brand. The last pair I ordered was exactly the same as the pair you see in the picture, but even they didn't fit correctly anymore. I returned them to the online store unworn. Our money was never refunded and when I went to complain about that, I found that there was no longer a business to complain to. I knew I was in trouble. While Asha is understandingly indulgent of some of my quirks, she wasn't going to put up with my ordering shoes and losing two hundred dollars at a whack. I had to go. Fortunately we have a shoe store in our area specializing in problem feet. My feet, bless them, have just about every difficulty known to man.

Ironically, I knew that if I went to a proper shoe store I'd never be able to just walk out of there with a new pair of shoes. They know too much. I remembered that from Mr. Hayes.

The site of the old Hayes shoe store in West Concord MA

Me No Pause, Journal of the Journey to Wise Woman's Garden

By the time I went to the doctor and was diagnosed with severe anemia (my hemoglobin was half of what it should have been), I had the following symptoms:

• Extreme fatigue
• Intermittent chest wall pain
• Extreme irritability
• Heart racing while resting (enough that I could hear it in my ears, and it would wake me out of a sound sleep)
• Depression
• Lack of ability to concentrate effectively
• Feeling cold, particularly in the evening
• Headaches with any kind of exertion, or nagging headaches that occurred later in the day or first thing in the morning

The interesting thing to me is, before I was diagnosed, I soldiered through all of my symptomology, blaming it on other things. When the doctor examined me and found that my heart was racing even when I was lying down, she asked me if I was having chest pain. I said no. I did have intermittent pain that I attributed to reflux, which I do suffer from and take daily medication for. I didn't think to mention it. I did mention my fairly nonstop menstrual flow, but I still had to ask the doctor specifically to test me for anemia. She checked the box on her paperwork only after I asked.

The strangest thing happened when the nurse called to tell me I was anemic and should start treatment with iron pills (along with vitamin C, which helps the body to absorb the iron). I physically crashed and began to notice all my symptoms. I was so shaky and weak at breakfast the next morning that I could barely hold my coffee cup. My gynecologist told me several days later that if my anemic condition had happened all at once instead of over months, I would have been hospitalized flat on my back, but my body had adjusted over time until my symptoms became this severe.

The racing heart and the chest pain went away completely within a few days of starting treatment, as did the nagging headaches, but the other symptoms took awhile to resolve. I was not able to leave home for about two months due to the extreme fatigue, which made me feel unsteady any time I exerted myself. It was shocking how sick I had become without realizing it.

Having said all this, it is important to get medical confirmation of anemia before starting to take iron supplements on a regular basis. A simple blood test will confirm it, and a doctor's exam will rule out other possible conditions. Iron overdose is highly toxic, can cause grave illness, and can kill a small child. If you do take iron supplements, store them safely out of children's reach.

I think that the reason women under 50 are twice as likely as men to die of heart attacks is largely because we tend not to notice our symptoms for what they are. We are so used to functioning through discomfort that we learn to effectively deny to ourselves that we don't feel well:  it was something I ate, I'm just over-tired, or I'm getting my period. We women are particularly good at talking ourselves out of our symptoms. We are often just too busy to be sick until it takes us down so hard that we're in trouble.

I didn't have a period for four months after my crisis. An ultrasound showed that my uterine lining had thinned sixty percent from what it had been the year before. A biopsy came back cancer-free. I sailed along happily for quite a long time thinking that perhaps I had reached the land of the free, when all of a sudden, it started again—the flooding flow. I became immediately depressed and anxious. I felt that all my well-being was flowing out of my body, too. This time I picked up the phone.

In my mother's day, a hysterectomy was the only solution for abnormally heavy menstrual bleeding. I still remember my father taking my little brother and me to the hospital to wave at my mother in her room on the second floor because she was hospitalized for ten days, which was routine then. We missed each other terribly. Now, thankfully, there are a few options that are not so radical.

I have chosen to have an endometrial ablation. This is a procedure that destroys the shedding layer, or endometrium, of the uterus by use of a laser or radio waves. It can be done as an office procedure and is very low risk. The downside is that it doesn't work for everyone—the younger you are, the higher the likelihood that you will need a second treatment—and depending on the shape and condition of the uterus, it is not as effective for some as for others. Fifty percent of women will stop having periods entirely. My gynecologist told me, and these are her words, "It is unrealistic to expect never to see another drop of blood come out of your vagina again because some of the cells that shed are in your fallopian tubes or other places, but you should see a dramatic drop in the amount of bleeding you're having, even if it doesn't stop entirely."

That's good enough for me. And I did choose to have my procedure done in the hospital OR because of my particular circumstances, but even at that I will only be unconscious for a few minutes. It seems a small price to pay.

The message of my story today is pay attention to what your body is trying to tell you. Even chronic fatigue or extreme irritability should be evaluated for an organic cause. I don't know why we always feel that we should put up with things and not complain, Ladies. This is pretty last century behavior. And spouses (and I know there are some of you reading this—good for you), if you notice changes in your beloved, it is loving sometimes to say, "Hey, maybe you can stand it Honey, but I can't stand it anymore," as my spouse said to me. She actually picked up the phone, put it in my hand, and said, "You want to stay married?" Yes I was angry for a little while, but I love her all the more now for caring that much and running the gauntlet of my extreme irritability to help me to take care of myself.

When I was young I used to think that being an old lady and going through menopause was the worst fate in the world. Cranky, ugly old ladies! Billboards, magazines, media in general is filled images of sexy, young women. Childbearing and child rearing are industries unto themselves. It is no wonder I felt that way.

You know you are more than your childbearing capabilities (whether or not you actually bore children). You deserve to be well as you enter the Wise Woman's garden. It's okay, and even essential to listen to that voice within and be well.

Homemade Irish Corned Beef and Vegetables

This recipe was published in our local paper, The Oregonian, last year. We made it and fell in love. It takes eight days to brine, so requires some planning but it is absolutely worth the trouble. It bears no resemblance to the weird colored store bought stuff. We've never used the insta-cure they talk about. I think it's entirely unecessary.

The broth (not the brine) that the brisket simmers in is salty, but really flavorful. I couldn't stand to waste it.I added a good deal more water to it and made a barley soup with it last year.


The uncooked corned beef freezes really well. This year we had a bigger brisket than we needed so we cut it in half after it was corned but before it was cooked, and froze it. All we had to do for a nice weekend dinner was to defrost it and cook it according to the cooking directions above. I do take short cuts from the recipe above when cooking. I put the brisket in Guinness, and water or broth to almost cover, and add about two tablespoons pickling spice--and that's all. I let it simmer that way for two and a half hours in a pot with a tight fitting lid,  and serve it with whatever suits my fancy at the time.

Homemade Irish Corned Beef and Vegetables

Published March 9, 2010

Makes 6 to 8 servings

Ingredients

For the brine:

·         6 cups water

·         2 cups lager beer

·         1 1/2 cups coarse kosher salt

·         1 cup firmly packed golden brown sugar

·         1 1/2 tablespoons Insta Cure No. 1 (optional; see note)

·         1/4 cup pickling spices

·         1 6- to 8-pound flat-cut beef brisket, trimmed, but with some fat remaining

Corned beef and vegetables:

·         1 12-ounce bottle Guinness stout or other stout or porter

·         4 bay leaves

·         1 tablespoon coriander seeds

·         2 whole allspice

·         1 dried chile de arbol, broken in half (see note)

·         12 baby turnips, trimmed, or 3 medium turnips or rutabagas, peeled and quartered

·         8 unpeeled medium-size white or red waxy potatoes (about 3 pounds)

·         6 medium carrots, peeled

·         4 medium onions, peeled, halved through root ends

·         2 medium parsnips, peeled, cut into 2-inch lengths

·         1 2-pound head cabbage, quartered

·         Horseradish, for serving (optional)

·         Mustard for serving (optional)

Instructions:

To make brine: Pour the water and beer into a large, deep roasting pan. Add coarse salt; stir until dissolved. Add sugar; stir until dissolved. If desired, stir in Insta Cure. Mix in pickling spices. Pierce brisket all over with tip of small, sharp knife. Submerge brisket in liquid, then top with a heavy platter to weigh meat down. Cover and refrigerate 4 days.

Remove brisket from brine. Stir liquid to blend. Return brisket to brine; top with heavy platter. Cover; refrigerate 4 days. Remove brisket from brine. Rinse with cold running water.

To make corned beef and vegetables: Place corned beef in a very large, wide pot. Add stout and enough water to cover by 1 inch. Wrap bay leaves, coriander seeds, allspice and chile in cheesecloth and tie with kitchen string to secure. Add spice bag to pot with beef and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover and simmer until beef is tender, about 2 1/4 hours. Transfer beef to a large baking sheet.

Add turnips and all remaining vegetables to liquid in pot; bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium and boil gently until all vegetables are tender, about 25 minutes. Using slotted spoon, transfer vegetables to baking sheet with beef. Return beef to pot and rewarm 5 minutes. Discard spice bag.

Cut beef against grain into 1/4-inch-thick slices. Arrange beef and vegetables on platter. Serve with horseradish and mustard.

Note: Insta Cure No. 1 is a mixture of sodium nitrate and salt that is used in cured and smoked sausages to prevent botulism. In this brine, its only purpose is to prevent the meat from turning gray, so it is optional. You'll find Insta Cure No. 1 at sausagemaker.com, and at stores that sell sporting goods or meat-preserving equipment.

Note: Chile de arbol is a thin, red, very hot, 3-inch-long dried chile. It is sold at some supermarkets, and at specialty foods stores and Latino markets.

From Bruce Aidells, Bon Appétit, March 2008

An E-Filer's Cautionary Tale

Don't hate me because I'm dutiful. It's not even the last day of January and my 2010 tax returns are filed with refunds on the way straight to my bank account. We have an agreement in our house. The person with the most income pays the CPA takes all the deductions. This leaves me still filing a 1040EZ. I used to be an April  14th filer. I think, one year, long ago in the days of paper forms one had to file out on one's own, I even filed for an extension because I blew the chore off too long. The IRS has made it easier and easier for average Americans with W-2s and 1099s to file our taxes. At first, the forms were simplified. Then you could use your push button telephone to file a return. Now of course, there's e-filing. I like e-filing. I enter my numbers, the software does the work. I get my refund or know how much I have to pay. I can leave it there until April `14th, or file it right away.

The IRS has one official website: http://www.irs.gov/. Do not go there through an internet search. Type the address directly into your browser. Doing this eliminates any possibility that you have been directed to any other site. In the past there have been IRS look alike sites that were phishing for information. They don't seem as prevalent now, but it never hurts to be cautious.

The official IRS site has  pretty much every form the average filer could want. Some of them, like the 1040EZ are 'fillable', meaning you can type your information into them, save your work and print it out when you are ready to file. E-filing is a slightly different process, in that the information you give the software is transmitted directly to the IRS electronically when you decide to file. You print out paper copies only for your own files after the return has been accepted. On the IRS website you will find options to e-file for free, or 'freefile'. If you click the link to free file you will be taken to a portion of the IRS website that tells you how to file your return for free electronically. This is verbage copied directly from  the http://www.irs.gov/ website:

• Free File companies have their own eligibility criteria, but none offer Free File to taxpayers with an adjusted gross income of more than $58,000.
• Other eligibility criteria may include your: age, state, eligibility for the Earned Income Tax Credit, and military status.
• Check the company's website for details because the companies' offers may differ. For example, some companies charge a fee for state tax returns and some may not support a particular form you need to file.
• Remember to begin your Free File return on IRS.gov or you may be charged a fee or asked to buy additional products and services.

There's a nifty little screening tool, if you're still not sure you're eligible to free file, but if you are eligible, as I am,  all you have to do is choose your site from an IRS provided list and you're good to go. But, herein lies my cautionary tale:

Last year I free filed, following a link to a provider's site directly from the IRS website. The software interviewed me and guided me entirely through the process. I still had a question for which I phoned the IRS directly and spoke to a person who answered immediately and was extremely helpful, but for the most part I completed my return without a hitch. I must have hit a wrong button and navigated past the piece of the interview that asked how much I paid in State taxes. I reviewed my work but trusted the software that I owed the State $900.00, even as this little voice inside me was screaming, "You made a mistake!" I submitted my return without listening to it. The software is almost too easy. It can lull you into submission. Literally. It was the stupidest mistake I ever made on my taxes. I had to hand file an amended return with the State. It took six months before I got my money back, and I had a threatening letter before that happened. I filed my State taxes through the same site I filed my free filed Federal return. There was a fee for filing my State taxes. It was nonrefundable. I paid a fee to make my mistake. I vowed be more careful in the future.

I liked the website where I free filed enough that I saved the URL in my favorites for this year. When I got my W-2, I hopped right back there efficiently. They had my information from last year. It was even easier to complete a return, although I was a little gun shy, so I did check it over pretty thoroughly. I noticed that the draft form 1040EZ I was looking at on the provider site did not match the form on the IRS website. The provider's form did not have the important added line for this year, "Making Work Pay". I wrote to customer service about that. They wrote back quickly to tell me where to find the credit on their form--that had been automatically given to me--and to explain that information is electronically submitted to the IRS, not the forms. The way their forms look don't actually matter, as long as all the information's there. It was still confusing, but at least they were prompt with their explanation. The explanation worked for me and I was finally ready to file. I entered all the information to get my return ready to file and hit the button, only to find that they wanted money for both my Federal and State return--to the tune of nearly forty dollars! WHAT?! I went back to the IRS website to double check that this provider was still on their free file list. They were. I wrote to customer service again to ask them why their software was trying to charge me when I clearly qualified for free filing.

The explanation was surprising. The provider site offers free filing as per the IRS, but they also run a commercial site for people who want to file electronically but don't qualify to file for free. If you come to their site somewhere other than through the IRS website--as I did when I saved the URL from the previous year--the software sees you as a commercial customer and there's no way to change it. The customer service rep did apologize for the misunderstanding and gave me an electronic coupon code to file both returns for less that my State return would have cost. They did make good, and I did file my returns, but hey people what about a link to your free site if someone eligible comes to your commercial site? Would that be so hard?

I'm a big proponent of e-filing. I'm sure it's easier on everyone and processing is cheaper, but you do have to be cautious and aware. Any mistakes you make are still ultimately your responsibility.

I know most people cringe at the mere mention of IRS. I once didn't open a letter from the IRS for a month because I was so terrified that I had done something wrong, only to find that someone at the IRS had refigured my taxes for me because I had forgotten to take the Earned Income Credit, and sent me a refund of nearly three hundred dollars. If e-filing is too much for you, you need help filing your taxes or you have issues around taxes from previous years, the IRS does offer help on all fronts. You can find information on the IRS website for anything from taxpayer advocacy services to IRS offices with extended Saturday services to assist you in filing your taxes.

I don't work for the IRS, I just have a die-hard helpful nature and I was thinking that someone might be helped by the story of my mishaps. I'm glad my refund's on the way. We can finally replace the carpeting downstairs. That's a big yay!

Be well. If you can't ignore the inevitability of paying your taxes, at least you can bash about in the world and enjoy yourself with the time you save because paying them is a lot easier these days. That's what I'm off to do.

What's for lunch? Ahnna's No-Mayo Tuna Salad

Before we worked Weight Watchers a couple years ago--which is a great program on which I lost thirty pounds sitting on my butt all day as I must--I would sometimes get a hankering for one of my grandma's tuna salad sandwiches on white bread, with mayo, chopped up olives and onions, and always served with greasy Wise potato chips on the side. Not very waistline friendly, but I certainly wasn't worried about that at six. Asha craved Subway tuna subs when she was pregnant with Wren. One six inch tuna sub has a whopping 30 grams of fat--most of which comes from mayo and other condiments. I was determined to create a healthier recipe.

We spent the better part of two years actually 'counting points' as per the Weight Watcher's regimen. During this time I lost what I actually believe was a craving for fat. I don't like mayonnaise anymore. I really can't even stand the sight of it. The sight of Jon Stewart attempting to down Baconnaise on The Daily Show (this is hilarious, don't miss it: http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-june-17-2009/heal-or-no-heal ) makes me confused about whether to laugh hysterically or run and lose my dinner.

Here it is. I declare this better than the mayo made version.

Ahnna's No Mayo Tuna Salad
Serves 2

1 7-oz can of tuna
1/2 cup of fat free sour cream (more or less depending on taste)
2 tablespoons capers
1 tablespoon prepared mustard
1 shredded carrot (optional)
2 tablespoons finely chopped onion (optional)

Put everything into a bowl and mix with a fork until well blended.

You can certainly serve this on bread as sandwiches, although I prefer really crunchy crackers, like Wasa whole grain crisp bread.

I don't even know if they still make Wise potato chips anymore--although I think they're better left to memories in my case.

Enjoy in good health.