Saturday, April 30, 2011

life in general

MiniMan has learned how to harvest our wacky daffodils (note short stems)

I'm sorry for all the bitchy posts.  I have really been feeling crummy, lately, or maybe more accurately, been more aware of it.  I think this is good.

We managed to find daycare for MiniMan that would be $600/month, five days a week.  We don't need five days a week, but maybe it would be good for my husband to actually (!) have some time to himself, or be able to pick up extra shifts at work.  I'm going to check her out next week, but I have the feeling it will be okay.  She's been in business for about twenty years, a friend referred us, and she has an opening.  I've got my fingers crossed.

Work is okay.  It is still kind of overwhelming being back in the hospital.  I really thought that I had kind of made peace with my hospitalization and what happened in the fall, but I've started to realize that even though I don't want to and don't think I should, I still feel ashamed (for failing) and guilty (for being unreliable).

I still dread talking to anyone and have pretty much cloistered myself in my office (which has a door!).  Actually, the workspace is comparatively good.  It's really different from being in a clinical environment where I never had my own chair and was always searching for a free computer even when I was doing long-term projects like re-drafting policies.  Now I have a large desk, two fucking file cabinets that are not filled with other peoples' junk, and my own chair.  I do share my office with one of the new analysts, who seems cool.  I am kind of relieved not to have a cubicle because that just seems too much like Dilbert.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

I can't sleep

Still haven't figured out the daycare situation yet.  I wonder if I should quit the new job.  Today was my second day at work.  I like that I can hide in the corner of the hospital and not have to interact with very many people.  On the other hand, I've been doing mostly data entry that is tedious and boring and generally reinforces my feelings of inadequacy.

I am really starting to hate work.

I can't even imagine wanting to have any kind of job.  I don't know what's wrong with me.  I don't want anything.

I haven't wanted to write about it, but I don't even want to take classes or go to medical school.  I can't think of a single thing that I'd ever want to do.  I just keep sort of tentatively planning to take a class in the fall hoping that eventually I'll feel more like myself.  Right now, all I really want out of life is to sleep.

I don't know why I even have this blog anymore.  Sometimes I think I should delete it.  I don't really blog about the healthcare profession very much, anymore, instead just how much I've screwed up my life.

Monday, April 25, 2011

bankruptcy via daycare

This is a disaster.

I guess it could be worse.

After spending the entire day calling local day care councils (apparently there is one in most counties), checking craigslist, and taking suggestions from everyone and my mother we have still not come up with a plan.

Almost everyone who I called was all filled up.  One lady didn't have any openings until 2013!  I did visit one woman who was running a daycare out of her home, and although I guess it could have been worse, it was just not right.  When I got there I knocked on the dirty white door.  An uncentered no-smoking sign hung from the door.  The daycare woman was on the phone with DSS discussing one of her teenage sons.  The daycare kids were only allowed in one room of the house which was probably about 15 by 20 feet.  This room was also filled with cats (which I was told by one of the toddlers are NOT friendly), dogs, random knickknacks, random antiques that were on the floor but the kids were not allowed to touch, and random dolls that the kids were also not allowed to play with.  Talk about NOT childproofing.    

Thankfully, one of our friends, a stay at home mom who is stunningly smart and beautiful (but also leads this strikingly sparse life which includes not currently owning a functioning car) has offered to take MiniMan this week.  This will buy us a little more time.  Unfortunately, she lives like forty five minutes from our house in the opposite direction of where I work (which is about twenty-five minutes away from my house).  This means I'll spend about four hours each day driving around to drop MiniMan off at her house, and then back through the area where I live and to the hospital, only to do it in reverse at the end of the day.  At least it is only temporary.

I'm really starting to wonder if going back to work is futile.  My mom sent me all these listings for students at the closest ivy-league who are interested in babysitting.  It seems unreasonable to pay anyone significantly less than $10.00/hour, but when I add this up, just to do the three days a week, we'd be spending around $1200.00 for part-time daycare.  That is more than my take home is working full-time, so essentially, I would be working only to a) pay taxes and b) procure benefits.

If I didn't work at all we'd qualify for the NYS health insurance for poor people.  I don't know.  I'm just wondering what the point of all this is.  Right now, it seems like I'll mainly be going to work "for the experience" since likely, almost my entire paycheck will go to childcare.  And right now, I really don't think I'm going to give a shit about the experience.

The whole thing is seriously bumming me out.  Daycare sucks.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

blog silence

When I stop writing, it's usually because things are overwhelmingly good, or really, really, overwhelmingly bad.  Right now, I'd have to choose the latter.

Unfortunately, too much marriage-stuff, which is off limits for this blog, will have to be saved for my memoir, which will either be published when I am dead or when my parents die.  I can't decide which.

On Friday, our new daycare provider called me to let me know that she had given away MiniMan's spot to her cousin's child, who is having some kind of daycare emergency.  Unbelievable.  Guess who has the daycare emergency, now?  I'm supposed to start work on Wednesday.

I don't typically find myself getting irate, but seriously, this woman screwed us over.  So now, on a holiday, we're looking for someone (who does not cost more than I make) to watch MiniMan in a matter of days.  I think my husband (a nurse) may end up trying to work evenings or overnights until we can get into a regular program.  I guess it's great that he has that kind of scheduling flexibility, but I also know that he hates those hours and feel guilty.  Ugh.

Stressors seemed to escalate and by Saturday my husband returned home unexpectedly early only to uncover my haphazard attempt at hiding the array of pharmaceuticals that I had collected and been gazing at.  I don't know if I would have taken them or not.  I was sitting there considering their prospective harm.  Drowsiness.  Dizziness.  Seizures.  Brain damage.  Death.

Things aren't so bad, now.

Friday, April 22, 2011

pasta with spinach ricotta pesto

I made this for dinner last night, and thought the recipe was worth sharing!  It is not time-consuming to prepare, but does require a food processor.

-9 ounces of spinach, halved (I used one of those pre-washed bags)
-About 1/4 cup of ricotta
-About 1/4 cup chevre (goat cheese), cream cheese, or yogurt cheese
-1 garlic clove, pressed
-1 box pasta (I used whole wheat penne)
-Salt and pepper to taste

1) Heat a large pot of water on the stove for your pasta.

2) Meanwhile, put the ricotta, cheese, garlic, and half the spinach in your food processor.  Pulse until you have a pesto-like paste.  If you have a small food processor, you may have to add the spinach in two stages.

3) Coarsely chop the remaining spinach.  Set aside.

4) When your water is boiling, add the pasta and cook to desired tenderness.

5) Drain pasta, return to pot.  Mix in spinach-ricotta pesto and coarsely chopped spinach.  The spinach will wilt from the heat of the pasta.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.  Serve immediately.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

on Peeps

I never thought I would stoop to this level of culinary offensiveness, but today I purchased...

Yes.  Peeps.  The quintessential all-American nutrient-free candy.

I have never liked Peeps, not even as a child, yet somehow today when I was at the grocery store, I felt oddly compelled to buy them and share them with my darling family.

I don't know if I bought them because (although they are not terribly delicious), they are kind of cute all nestled together in their little cardboard box.  Note: I do think my cuteness threshold has decreased severely since having a child (be forewarned, future mamas).

Still, now I have the peeps, and I'm not sure what to do with them.  Should I pull them apart and stuff them in those little plastic eggs (we are planning on hiding some this weekend)?  Will this leave them looking injured and lonely?  Maybe they are meant to be together; maybe it's like sending three siblings to different adoptive families.  Still, is it worth caring?  They'll all probably have the same cruel fate of getting masticated by some very small, very short, very new, very cute (here we go again) teeth.

Has anyone ever microwaved a Peep?  That sounds like it has some entertainment potential.

Note: this post was not sponsored by "Just Born Inc.," the company that manufactures Peeps.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


My parents called earlier today to tell me that my brother had called them late last night: he got engaged.  He didn't call me.

So what did I do?  I immediately sent him a congratulatory e-mail.

They're so happy and excited for him.  I'm not.  I hate him for telling my parents, but not me. I hate my parents for being happy for him, but not me (when I got married my father refused to attend the wedding).  I hate my mother for telling me to get an abortion when I was pregnant.  I'm selfish and immature and I hate everyone.

It pisses me off so much I want to throw my laptop at the wall.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

sometimes I think

I'm coming a little unglued.

It's not that I'm unhappy; I'm jovial now.

I was just sitting here reading, my eyelids drooped, my body slumped.  I only made it to page six.  I took my pills, walked up the stairs.

The air was too warm.  My pillow felt wrong.  The moment I hit the mattress I thought of you, Bridge.  I've dismissed and dismissed you again and again, but wouldn't tonight be so nice for a visit?

The pressure is constant to always say no, to reign myself in.  It wears me out.  

girl abandoned by shrink

And by girl, I mean me.  And by shrink, well, you probably can figure that part out.  Okay.  So maybe the post title is a little bit of an exaggeration, but on a more serious note, remember how I mentioned my psychologist was off visiting a far-away paradise?  Well, I saw him today, and it turns out he's moving there.  Soon.

Girl abandoned by shrink.  Figures.

I'm fretting.

It seemed somewhat miraculous that I was finally actually able to find a therapist who was not a floppy fish, who did not just nod phlegmatically as I ran my mouth (or sat silent, squirming and fidgeting on their couch).

I know it's not so bad, but really, I'm feeling a little panicked.  I feel like I'm going to have to resort to my last technique which is biased and I'm not sure if it actually works well, which involves consulting the local mental health agency's guide to therapists.  Basically I go down the list, I cross off all the people who do not have Ph.D.s, and then I cross off all the people who don't accept my insurance.  Then I pick up the phone and start going down the list.

I don't know if I've written about this before, or if I've been re-inspired by RS, but I'm a strong advocate for some kind of therapist speed dating program.  And by speed "dating" I don't really mean dating; I don't want to date my therapist.  But, to be able to talk to someone for three minutes and move on to the next, well, it might actually be enough of an interview to figure out if there's potential for a relationship that works.

Unfortunately, though, I doubt anyone will ever do speed-find-a-therapist, or whatever we should call it.  It seems like everyone has a waiting list a mile high and two months long.

What to do?  What to do...  girl abandoned by shrink.

Monday, April 18, 2011

everything's fine

I haven't had a doctor's appointment in weeks (overbooked and underpaid), and haven't seen my psychologist in a few weeks, either (vacation to a far-away paradise).  And it's almost surprising, everything is really, so uneventful that I can't help but wonder what all the fuss is about all this talking and drug taking.

I remember as an undergrad I used to go through a similar process.  I'd get partway through the semester, my credit load at the max or teetering over the limit, working, volunteering, cooking, tutoring, playing rugby (!), auditioning.  I considered myself somewhat invincible and seemed to succeed at whatever I put my mind to.  I'd finish my midterms in one last puff of exertion, and then, come that one week break, I'd have cloistered myself in my dorm room, slowly slitting away at my arms or my legs just to gain some temporary relief, meanwhile planning my demise.

I can remember talking to my brilliant and ridiculously hardworking close friend, how she insisted that I see a psychotherapist (after all, she does, and it helped her).  I'd wonder if something was actually wrong.  Something seemed cripplingly wrong.  It would take all my energy just to look up a few therapists, leave a few messages.  Most of the time I lost my courage by the time I listened to their voicemail messages.  

By the time I heard back from anyone, everything was fine.  Everything was absolutely fine.  It really was.  I had of course, wondered what had possessed me before, to feel the way that I did, but classes had resumed.  It was over now, and I didn't need help.  Maybe I was just one of those people who needed to be busy to be comfortable.

I think I went through this process (of seeking and then dismissing the need for psychotherapy) at least five times. When I think about it now, it's sort of stunning that I never noticed this sort of classic pattern, but here I am, once again craving some independence, feeling just fine. 

Sunday, April 17, 2011

the bread is taking over

And I'm not sure what to do.  I looked down at my cutting board.  It was a mess of half-eaten and abandoned loaves (I counted seven).  

Here's yesterdays latest experiment:

my attempt at epis (French: "stalks" of wheat) and some bloated baguettes

Today I made no bread.  Instead, I started to recycle the remnants.  I took two half-eaten loaves and stuck them in the freezer, and another, cubed and then froze.  I made croutons and maple bread pudding, which was supposed to be saved for after dinner tonight with friends, but after MiniMan's repeated attacks and requests, now has a good-sized chunk missing.  Oh well.  I guess that means it tastes good (at least to a toddler).

Friday, April 15, 2011

on work, and being recognized as cuckoo

It's so strange to think that in a week or two I'll be back at the hospital, working days, part of the 9-5 Monday-Friday, weekends off club.  No patients, just meetings, typing, more typing, computers.

I'm trying to brace myself for it socially.  When I was an EKG tech, I used to pretty much work the same schedule.  Now I'm going to constantly be running into my old coworkers that are, of course, going to be asking how things are going, why I stopped working overnights in the ICU, why I'm not in school right now, etc.

I suppose the quick offhand answer that I can tell people is that a) I just couldn't tolerate the overnight schedule and needed to switch to a daytime job and b) it's summer (close enough), and I'm not taking any classes until the fall.

Still, though, I don't think there's much of a point in being really evasive about the fact that I pretty much crashed and burned (no doubt hastened by lack of sleep), and took about six months just to get a grip on my metal health.  I don't really want to be an open book about it, but I also don't want to feel like I am hiding the truth.

I'm still on the ICU listserv so I get hoards of department e-mails, even though I won't be working there when I come back to work.  One of the nurses recently injured her leg, and everyone is going all out.  All the other nurses have a schedule posted for each day of the month and different people are signing up to deliver her meals.  They are going all out to offer their support.

On one level, I think this is awesome, but it also really demonstrates how differently people react to a physical illness or injury, versus psychiatric illness.  Even though I wasn't particularly secretive with my coworkers about what had been going on in my life, there was still this extreme hush-hush mentality which really lended itself to my general sense of social isolation.  I don't know if my coworkers were worried that word would get out about my newly recognized flawed character, or what.

There seems to be this sort of uber-confidentiality thing going on with psych issues.  Even at our hospital, whenever you go into someone's medical record who has been admitted to the behavioral health unit, you receive an electronic reminder (that you don't receive with non-psych patients) that the patient's medical record is confidential.  What's up with that?  I think it's sort of archaic.

I don't know where I'm going with this.  There's some stigma with the psych stuff.  I don't want to proliferate the stigma, but it's funny, it's like society is already geared to proliferate it for me.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

delighting in dough

From goo, to:

basic country bread

It seems logical that this process would get mundane after a while, but every time the metamorphosis still amazes me.

who is fermenting today?

a budding ginger bug for ginger beer (no bubbles yet)

the beginnings of a SCOBY (symbiotic colony of bacteria and yeast) for kombucha

the wild yeast starter, nearly a month old now, working its magic on some dough

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

ode to Benadryl - a haiku

My monster's sleeping

(thank you diphenhydramine)

I'll always love you

how much?

I got my first statement in the mail for my hospitalization last month. I'm sure that it doesn't cover everything since there's no mention of the emergency department, which sadly, is the only way to get admitted (there are no direct admits).

Yup, that's right, $6401.81, which was for five days, I think. This is probably pretty cheap compared to almost any other reason to be in the hospital, I'd imagine. I am really grateful for my awesome health insurance right now, which so far, has covered everything from that visit.

Maybe there should be some kind of "psych cruise" industry. Instead of paying a thousand dollars a day to get locked up on a ward, get locked up on a boat instead. Get a little sun, a little water, and hopefully a lot of really high fencing.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

New International MD Program in Milan

I was recently asked to share the news about a new international MD program at Vita Salute San Raffaele University in Milan, Italy. Their MD program was launched in 2010 and is being taught in the English language.

Below is some additional information about the program:

Vita Salute San Raffaele University is part of the San Raffaele Foundation which includes hospitals, research centers and the Vita-Salute San Raffaele University. San Raffaele is well-known worldwide for its excellence: it is a highly specialized center for molecular medicine, diabetes and metabolic diseases, as well as biotechnology and bioimaging. The hospital channels many of its resources into cancer treatment, cardiovascular diseases and numerous acute and chronic-degenerative diseases, and a very efficient emergency department that serves a vast area.

The International MD Program builds on the institution's solid presence on the international scene: San Raffaele healthcare centers can be found in many countries of the world, including Brazil, India, Uganda, Poland, Chile, Israel, Mozambique and Algeria. This degree course provides medical-scientific education at the highest level, allowing students to improve their skills and to upgrade their knowledge. It also provides clinical and laboratory research opportunities and additional education in humanities and cultural sciences: philosophy, communication skills, cognitive neurosciences and psychology.

The International MD Program is designed to train a new kind of doctor: someone who possesses the necessary human, cultural and professional ablities to actively participate in healthcare and share ideas in today's globalized world. Unlike other medical programs in Italy where clinical courses are held in Italian, the International MD Program is fully in English, including classes, lectures, practicals and all clinical activities.

Students enrolled in the San Raffaele International MD Program have access to all the facilities of the Vita-Salute San Raffaele Institute and the San Raffaele Scientific Institute, including skill labs for practical training, a library with more than 20,000 books and several thousand scientific e-publications and resources, as well as to the clinical and research laboratories of the San Raffaele Scientific Institute, the largest private resarch institute in Italy, that further expanded with the inauguration of DIBIT, a scientific facility for basic, translational and clinical research. DIBIT is part of the largest biomedical science park in Italy, which includes the San Raffaele Hospital, Science Park Raf, created to support the foundation's development, and the Vita-Salute San Raffaele University.

Applicants who wish to enroll in the International MD Program are required to take an admission test. 64 places (32 for EU citizens, 32 for Non-EU citizens) are available for Academic Year 2011-2012.

The admission test will take place on April 28th, 2011 in the following locations:
Milan, (Italy)
New York, (USA)
Kuala Lumpur, (Malaysia)

Candidates who wish to take the admission test can visit this website for detailed information.

The application deadline is April 20th, 2011.
Here are the guidelines on the admission process for academic year 2011-2012.

For more information on the International MD program, please visit the following website:

Monday, April 11, 2011

life is (actually) good

For the first time in months, I feel like myself. I'm so looking forward to everything turning green, to the CSA starting again (photo: flowers from last summer from our CSA), to my neighbor's ridiculously cheap you-pick rhubarb operation reopening.

Things are looking like they're going to (s l o w l y) work out. The new job is getting arranged and seems comparatively flexible. My new boss is young, approachable, and seems really relaxed. We've got daycare set up for MiniMan. It's pretty close to our house, affordable, and will only be three days a week because my husband can stay home with him when he's not working.

I'm not exactly sure what's going to happen with the fall, but I am sure that I'll end up taking one class, that it will be at a campus closer to home, and this will take precedence over work. And, I know I'll get to sleep at night! Things are going to be okay.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

everything I own is getting destroyed

Someone (no names) has scribbled all over the door with sharpie, and at a later date, on the quilt on our bed with a green highlighter (which I am pleased to tell you, was later determined to be water soluble).

My laptop has been dropped on the floor so many times that a piece of the polycarbonate coating has cracked and fallen off. Someone (no names) so thoughtfully threw it on the floor one day after shoving two CDs into my disc drive.

Just moments ago, I was about to plug my camera into my computer only to learn that somehow the video/PC port on the camera has been pushed beyond the plastic of the camera and into some dark abyss. AAGHHHHH.

I think I might cry.

And so I tell myself what I seem to be telling myself increasingly more often:

It's just stuff. It's just money. It's just money. It's just money.
When life
gets worrisome

I bake

the more anxious I become
the more the cakes
and the muffins
and the bread
and the cookies
and the bagels
seem to grow


they march
across the countertops
set up haphazard camps

so, when one day
my two-year-old
picked up a food magazine

and shouted:


in delight
as his plump finger
pointed to a tall wedding cake

I couldn't help but wonder--
is this carb compulsion hereditary?

Since then he has proudly declared
his third birthday cake desires:





(with dinosaurs on top)

Saturday, April 9, 2011

spa day

Yesterday I cooked the turkey
my husband captured
under fluorescent lights
between the frozen chicken cutlets
and cornish hens.

It rested in
my refrigerator for days
until one morning
I wrestled it out of its
plastic suit and
into the sink.

I sprayed it
and washed it
and patted it dry,
and gave it a little
sea salt and pepper
aromatherapy scrub.

The sauna was up to
four-hundred and fifty degrees.

And so I laid down the turkey on that
metal lawn chair
I usually reserve only for use
around Thanksgiving.

I opened the door
the heat blasting against my face
to pop it inside,
and dump a cup of water
in the basin

the door.

the timer.

I hope
you like it

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

three and a half inches

I have a graveyard of high heels in a suitcase upstairs. Almost none are expensive; most are disposable, almost. The red ones? On sale, $3.88 at Target, they boast. Bronze with scalloped edges and peep toes? I bought them in Cincinnati, and almost lost them after a night of corn hole, too much Guinness and too much...Wayne. You know there was some kind of judgement lapse when you end up in some guy named Wayne's apartment and can't find your shoes the next morning.

I first willed myself to walk in unsteady heels in college; it seemed like a rite of passage into womanhood, some tangible proof of sexual maturation. I strode bravely across slippery linoleum floors and uneven cement sidewalks, onto aging brick walkways, only to get a heel stuck between a few bricks and suddenly be traipsing around campus, half-barefoot. No one told me that I would need a sense of humor, too.

And so the heels, they sat in my cozy closet, giggling among each other, begging for sisters, for socialization. They multiplied. I needed a bigger closet.

I got a bigger closet. They went out and partied, brought new friends home. They travelled to Austria's snowy winter streets; they politely braved five hours in standing room during Parsifal on the floor beside my ankles. In Italy they modestly climbed narrow cobblestone sidewalks, paling among the other shoes, among a million brunettes dyed blonde and the eighty-year old Italian grandma riding her vespa in five-inch stilettos and a tight camouflage-print dress.

The heels flourished in Florence, but they had a rough time with the whole pre-med transition. It just wasn't as fun as opera, and suddenly, they were out of place. They weren't welcome in my neuroscience lab, and made me feel like a stereotypical diva in my calculus class. So, sadly, the heels were slowly tossed aside for a beaten pair of Salomon trail runners or my old Dansko clogs.

After I graduated, the heel neglect only worsened. I started working at a chichi nursing home and seemed to have residents accidentally urinating or spilling coffee on my feet on an almost daily basis. By the time I wandered into the parking lot at the end of each day, under the glow of street lamps swarmed by moths, my shoes became sloppy sweat receptacles after fourteen hours of running up and down the hardwood stairs, Oxycodone in hand, of that four-story mansion.

The heels figured their situation couldn't get any more awful, but, well, they were wrong. I moved out into the cabin in the woods. They had to venture across the gravel, not asphalt, driveway. They braved the puddle-luscious spring, only to occasionally become engulfed by the slurping mud. They calmly awaited their death on the kitchen floor next to our two-year old shepherd, who ultimately gnawed apart half a dozen pairs during her developmental "shoe fetish" period.

After I became pregnant, my feet became so flattened under the bulk of "Cletus the fetus" that the heels seemed to have reached an entirely new level of impracticality. I listlessly gathered the remaining survivors, threw them into a suitcase, and shoved it in the corner, where they sat undisturbed and forgotten for quite some time.

I look at it now, as I clean out the pile of junk in that corner, and wonder:

Who the hell am I?

(and what do I do with all these shoes?)

Monday, April 4, 2011

I don't want to go back to work. I don't want to speak to anyone or be social. I want to sleep all day instead.

A few days ago I went for the my first jog in months, up the hill and to this alpine lake near my house. The next day I was driving around town with MiniMan and we got rear-ended. We're both okay, but I am seriously sore (the whimper yourself to sleep kind of sore). I don't know if it was the running or the car accident, probably both.

I've been thinking about trying Bikram yoga. This is a really unusual declaration for me to make, because I tend to be really uncoordinated. In college, I dreaded my dance classes more than calculus, and choreography scenes more than juries (everyone performs for a panel of faculty and they decide whether or not you can continue in the program). A friend of ours teaches Bikram yoga (and owns a yoga studio). He has been pressuring me to go for years. At my husband's insistence, he finally stopped asking/offering. Of course, now I want to go.

I don't know anything about yoga, but apparently what distinguishes Bikram yoga is a limited number of poses (26, which are repeated at every session -- phew!) and a (patented!) hot temperature (around 105 degrees Fahrenheit). Because it's so hot, people tend to sweat a lot (and detoxify their systems), and it's easier to stretch because the body becomes really warm. Since I am starting to feel like a stiff eighty-year old man when I wake up in the morning, I figure I probably can't make things worse by going to our friend's yoga class, right?

Saturday, April 2, 2011


This is what happens when I pay more attention to my laptop than my MiniMan:

Title: "Need make pancakes"