I cannot believe how much can happen in 10–11 days since my last blog post.
Ski weekend came and went. I was sore for days and still not entirely sure whether I mildly injured myself or just aggressively rediscovered muscles I forgot I had. Nevertheless, I skied all the way to the end — just much more conservatively on Sunday. Arnica, Traumeel, and a good lymphatic drainage massage can fix almost anything, right?
Naturally, I immediately started planning the next trip. It already got canceled. I am still trying to squeeze in two more trips before the end of the season because the excitement and exhilaration I feel on top of a mountain are absolutely worth the drive — even if I have to drive myself rather than ride in a bus.
By then I had finished preparing the backdrop for my mom. It arrived. The quality was very different from the previous one I ordered elsewhere — better in some ways, worse in others. The picture came out pixelated. Only afterward did I realize I should have consulted my friend ChatGPT more aggressively and increased the resolution before cutting out the figures. Live and learn. Overall? Not bad. Plenty of room for improvement — as usual.
Two days before my mom’s birthday, I decided it was time to finally execute projects I’ve been mentally planning for years.
Enter: epoxy resin.
I had molds. I had blades. I had ferrules. I had ambition. What I did not have was enough epoxy for all the grand plans living in my head. So I narrowed it down: a serving tray, phone stands, and cream cheese spreaders.
Let me just say this — everything you see on Instagram and YouTube where someone creates an ocean floor or a masterpiece coffee table in 90 seconds? Lies. Beautiful, hypnotic, edited lies.
Every “expert” contradicts the next. Pour first. No, place decorations first. No, half pour. No, full pour. Guess what? None of it works the way it does in the reel.
My serving tray idea was a meadow — blue sky, green grass, bumblebees, ladybugs, dried flowers. I carefully positioned everything. Then I poured blue epoxy for the sky and green for the grass.
They mixed.
Everything floated.
Chaos.
The bees migrated. The flowers drifted. The meadow turned into an abstract emotional state.
And then I learned Lesson #2: your surface must be perfectly level. “On a table” does not mean level. One corner floods. The other starves. My brother wisely suggested using an actual level next time. Revolutionary concept.
The phone stands turned out… acceptable. Not perfectly even. Fortunately, my mom’s phone fits. Mine doesn’t. Apparently molds are designed for iPhones, not for Samsungs. Noted.
The cream cheese spreader handles? Visually — gorgeous. Three very Jewish, complete with glittery Stars of David. Three whimsical: butterflies, ladybugs, seashells.
Functional? Absolutely not.
The ferrules were too small. The blade hole was too narrow. At present, my mother owns six beautiful objects that can function as chess pieces but not as spreaders. The serving tray, by the way, is still drying four days later.
This is precisely why I always plan multiple projects. Because:
A) I never have enough time.
B) Something always fails.
C) The rest never look like they did in my head.
March 1st arrives — my mom’s birthday. Sunday. A day of rest. My alarm goes off at 5:30.
I tear down Valentine’s decorations, put up honeycomb flowers, and prepare the grand backdrop with my son. Then I take the dog for a long brisk walk. Then grocery stores. Two heavy bags later, I begin birthday breakfast.
I rejected at least 100 recipes. No bacon. No meat. No 40-minute prep. I know my limits.
I settled on birthday waffles with whipped ricotta and no-bake brownies.
Internet photos lied again.
The waffles were fine. The whipped ricotta required a wrestling match with the hand blender. The brownies — walnuts, almond butter, cocoa, coffee powder, salt, vanilla, dates — sounded brilliant. Tasted… almost brilliant. The salt was unnecessary. A bit of honey would improve chewiness. The dark chocolate ganache redeemed everything. Next time I’ll edit the recipe like a civilized adult.
Thankfully, my brownies were not the only dessert. My mom, being wiser than all of us, made Basque cheesecake — light, fluffy, crustless. Fewer calories by technicality.
Inspired by my cancer twin, I bought Wonder Woman birthday candles. We use only as many candles as the second digit of your age. So one candle. One heroic candle.
We sang. We drank. The day unfolded exactly as it should.
And then — just like that — the day you’ve been waiting for all year, planning for months, ends like any other Sunday. And Monday waits patiently.
Next dilemma: vacation planning.
Not too long.
Not too cold.
Not too hot.
Not too far.
Somewhere everyone likes.
Impossible.
Tonight I am exhausted after endless driving and passing the corner of Woodman and Riverside five times thanks to my daughter’s activities. I am going to bed — only to wake up in five hours because I desperately want to photograph the lunar eclipse. The famous red moon. 3:00 a.m. is peak viewing.
This time I am prepared. Tripod set. Camera settings ready. All I have to do is pull on pants, stumble into the yard, locate the moon, and attempt magic.
If it works, I will be ridiculously happy to share it.
And through all of it, I remember: I am well. I am back to life.
Even if I occasionally check whether my implants have shifted or why they hurt when I walk.
Nevertheless — I keep moving.
Because after everything, showing up tired still counts.