Each year, author Brenda Novak hosts a massive online fundraiser for diabetes research in honor of her young son Thad and everyone who suffers from this fifth deadliest killer. This year’s money will be donated to The Diabetes Research Institute at the University of Miami.

Brenda’s goal is to raise a cool $500,000, topping last year’s record of $303,000. Those are some serious stakes, and serious stakes require serious goodies. Goodies like signed books, concert tickets, jewelry, sports memorabilia, lessons, trips, gift baskets, VIP packages to VIP events, services, dinner with famous people… all of that and more, Brenda’s auction delivers!

This is my first year participating, and I’m excited to offer two items for writers and readers (and people who like to give gifts to writers and readers, which should be everyone, because who doesn’t have a writer or reader on her list?):

1. An in-depth critique by yours truly of the first 50 pages of a YA or MG novel in progress. I might make you laugh, I might make you cry, but I promise I’ll help you make that story shine.

2. An autographed set of Fixing Delilah and Twenty Boy Summer. A great gift for you or your favorite YA readers, libraries, or schools.

You can check out these and other auction items — and learn more about Brenda, Thad, and The Diabetes Research Institute — at brendanovak.auctionanything.com. Even if you’re not able to bid, you can help spread the word about the auction and this important fundraiser by posting about it on your blog, Facebook, Twitter. You can even go super old school and tell people about it on the phone!

See you at the auction, now through May 31!

Is it kosher to make out with pigs?

Josh Berk, author of THE DARK DAYS OF HAMBURGER HALPIN (Feb 2010) and honorary Pig Frencher in Residence, investigates.

Clue #16 today mentioned Helicopter Pilot — the girls’ favorite band in Twenty Boy Summer — and the band’s drummer, Scotty O. Scotty is my “baby” brother in real life. I say “baby” because although he’s 25 now, I remember when my parents first told us Mom was pregnant (my other brother and I thought all the secrets and funny looks meant that we were getting a swimming pool).

After a long wait of 6 months, which is like 20 years in kid-time, the big day arrived, and Mom and Dad brought Scotty home and put him in my arms. I remember that day, too. I held him and decided in an instant that despite earlier predictions, getting a baby brother was way better than getting a swimming pool.

Just like his Twenty Boy Summer cameo implies, Scotty later became a beat-droppin’, foot-stompin’, funk-tastic drummer. But that’s not the only true trait represented in the book — Scott is also a liver transplant recipient. He’s alive today because of one family’s generous decision to donate organs and tissues more than 20 years ago.

Without his liver transplant, Scott would never have drummed for HP. He wouldn’t have a cameo appearance in his sister’s debut novel. He wouldn’t do any of the things he’s done in his teens and twenties because he wouldn’t have seen those years. Without the transplant, Scott would have died before his 5th birthday.

My family was fortunate that Scott got a second chance through the gift of life, but not everyone gets a second chance. Today, more than 100,000 people in the United States alone are waiting for lifesaving organ transplants, and many of them will die on that waiting list. In fact, over the 20-day course of our 20 Things Scavenger Hunt, 380 people will have died waiting for an organ transplant. I don’t know how big your school or office is, but 380 people was the size of my entire high school graduating class.

So for today’s bonus scavenger hunt activity, I’m asking everyone to learn a little something about donation and discuss it with your family. Whether or not you decide to become a donor when it’s your time to leave this world, it’s important to make an informed choice, and to share your wishes — whatever those wishes are — with your family. For Scotty, for me, and most importantly, for all of those people still waiting for a transplant, please check out some of the resources below and leave a comment here letting us know that you had the donation discussion with your loved ones. 7 points.

Organ & Tissue Donation Resources

• Donate Life America
• The Mayo Clinic’s 10 Donation Myths
• United Network for Organ Sharing (UNOS)
• The National Donor Memorial

P.S. It’s been 25 years. I still think Scotty is better than a swimming pool.

IS TAURINE MADE FROM BULLS’ TESTICLES? IS TAURINE A DERIVATIVE OF BULLS’ TESTICLES OR SEMEN?

The taurine in Red Bull® Energy Drink is a purely synthetic substance produced by pharmaceutical companies and is not derived from animals or animal materials. All ingredients for Red Bull® Energy Drink are synthetically produced by pharmaceutical companies. This guarantees the highest quality.

“All ingredients for Red Bull® Energy Drink are synthetically produced by pharmaceutical companies.” Well, I’m sure we can all rest a little easier now!

*Secretly thinks she’d rather take her chances with the bull stuff*

• Me: So I’m having trouble sleeping.
• Doc: What time to you normally go to bed?
• Me: Um, around five. In the morning.
• Doc: *clears throat judgmentally; jots note in file*
• Me: And then I’ve been getting these weird anxiety attacks at night. Heart racing, panic, can’t breath, stuff like that.
• Doc: Hmmm… how much coffee do you drink?
• Me: About 6 cups per day.
• Doc: Okay, well, how late do you have your last cup?
• Me: *looks for escape hatch* Um, 2. Ish.
• Doc: Two in the morning?!
• Me: *looks at toes; shrugs*
• Doc: *Removes glasses; stares* Okay Sarah, I think you have a pretty good idea about what you need to do here.
• Me: Cut down on coffee?
• Doc: Yes. And that last cup needs to happen much earlier.
• Me: So, midnight, then?
• Doc: *sighs; annotates ever-increasing file* Okay, let’s get your blood work done. You’re not fasting now, are you?
• Me: I had a banana for breakfast.
• Doc: It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and all you ate today was a banana?
• Me: *feels all exposed and defenseless in crinkly paper gown* Yeah. But I just woke up, like, an hour ago.
• Doc: What? What time did you go to bed?
• Me: Six. Ish.
• Doc: In the morning?
• Me: Yeah. I’m having trouble sleeping…
• Doc: * !!! *

And now we’ve come full circle!

Good news is, doc is excited for my book to come out so she can pick up a copy. Bad news is… yes, yes, I know what I need to do. But loyal readers, I need your expertise! Your mission? Help me create a healthy lifestyle program that will allow me to sleep better, lose weight, lower my cholesterol, and generally feel great. I’m confident you can rise to the challenge, though I do have a few very minor restrictions…

Said program must incorporate and rely heavily upon the following items:

• Vegetarian bean burritos with extra hot sauce
• Nachos, ibid.
• Coffee
• Djarum Blacks
• Teddy Grahams

Said program must avoid incorporation of or reference to the following items, phrases, or concepts:

• Meat (including but not limited to fish oil capsules, Red Bull, and Jell-O)
• Decaffeinated
• Exercise (aka working out, including but not limited to Jazzercise and Sweatin’ to the Oldies)
• Mornings
• The power of positive thinking
• Olives (I’m trying, but I’m just not there yet.)

Oh, and this has to happen by August. Otherwise you’ll have this on your conscience: I’ll be the only one on Martha’s Vineyard wearing a big fat beach mumu and bunny slippers.

“No, that’s okay, I don’t want to go in the water. I’m… um… cold? Yeah, that’s it. Cold. Hence the flannel and hot coffee. And also, I’m having trouble sleeping…”

• Laptop: check
• Pillows to elevate aforementioned grapefruit-knee: check
• Unlimited supply of coffee: check
• (Plus Bailey’s, if we’re being honest): *hiccup* check
• Brick of Hershey chocolate, perforated for easy breaking: check
• (Plus giant spoonful of natural peanut butter, if we’re being honest): check
• 2 new Brandi Carlile CDs, downloaded into iTunes: check

Speaking of medicated… in a rare and unprecidented alignment of the stars, our favorite liquor store is moving and decided to hold a moving sale yesterday, just 2 days before my surgery. The universe must be trying to tell me something! And who am I to ignore the universe?

I stopped in after work last night and went to town (for the sake of the universe, of course)!

At least I’ll be well-supplied when the pharmacopia of high-potency post-extraction pain killers runs low (after about the first day, if all goes as planned). Alex, who endured the same procedure with the same oral surgeon a year or two ago, tried to convince me that “Motrin works really well, Sarah. You should try that instead of all those prescription drugs.”

Alex. Dear, sweet, well-intentioned but sadly misinformed Alex. Motrin? I don’t think so. I’m taking Mischief Management’s advice: take the drugs and take them as often as the bottle says, because if you wait until you’re in pain, the drugs take too long to kick in. Now there’s a girl who knows how to party!

Drugs and parties aside, since I am tripping along the meandering and oft-hidden path to a healthy lifestyle, I’ve come up with a recipe for the occasion. It’s the perfect remedy for those soon-to-be bleeding orifices formerly known as gums.

Sarah’s Super-Healing, You-Won’t-Feel-A-Thing-Sweetheart Smoothie

Ingredients:

• 1 cup crushed ice
• 3 cups Bailey’s Irish Cream
• 5-6 Percocet tabs, crushed to fine powder
• 1 blueberry

Directions:

1. Write your name on a piece of paper, in case you don’t remember it later.
2. Lick Percocet dust from fingers, chasing with 3-4 swigs of Bailey’s to assure quality and freshness.
3. Pour all ingredients into blender and cover tightly.
4. If gums begin to throb, swirl finger in Bailey’s and apply generous amount directly to affected area. There, isn’t that much better?
5. Okay, next, press the “blend” button on the blender. If the mix of anesthesia and alcohol is making you woozy or otherwise impairing your ability to differentiate “blend” from other button actions, press any number of buttons repeatedly in any order until contents become liquified.
6. I know, this is getting strenuous for someone who’s just had surgery. Relax! Take 3-4 additional bails of Swigley’s to reconfirm original QA results. Better? Okay.
7. Get up from the floor and blend off the turner, your smoothie is ready!
8. For best results, garnish with half a Vicodin and drink ice cold, straight from blender. Who says healthy eating has to be a chore?

Hmm, a girl could get used to this. While I focus on perfecting my Perco-smoothie, Alex can go to our Friendly Neighborhood Evil Corporate Video Store and pick me up a few chick flicks, and maybe a box of tampons to complete the ensemble (my cruelty knows no bounds). As long as I don’t run out of ways to self-medicate through the wonders of chemistry and Hollywood, everything is going to be just fine.

*Hiccup*

Not exactly what you want to hear during your Tetanus shot, the one you’ve neglected since your last one in 1993 (when your 10-year-old brother, who’d had a liver transplant at age 4 and spent many months in the hospital, held your hand and told you it would be just fine) because your fear of doctors and hospitals pales only in comparison to your fear of hypodermic needles, all-consuming in its instant paralysis of your body and mind.

They got a name for that, Jules. It’s called… Whitecoat Syndrome.

The first time I heard the term was when I signed up for the seemingly-innocuous Wellness Program at the local YMCA. Don’t be fooled. After showing us the machines and weights, the “trainer” – who’d just witnessed my near-death experience of doing 27 situps and stifled a laugh when I couldn’t touch my toes without bending my knees – tried to take my blood pressure for my so-called progress chart. “Ah, you must have whitecoat syndrome,” she’d said, all authority, like she’d gone to medical school or something. Well I showed her! I paid for 4 months of the program and never went once! Ha, who’s laughing now, Trainer?!

Before we continue, ladies, can we talk for a moment about “Well Woman” exams? They sound so lovely, don’t they? Well woman. Why, it must be like a massage! Let’s all go, together! Girl time! I bet they have some wine and cheese at the end, too! Oh Martha, do let’s go!

Stop.

Let me tell you something. Well woman? Pure marketing. It’s just a nice way of telling you to lie back, put your feet in the stirrups, and shut up. Pay no attention to the cold-handed doctor behind the curtain rooting around down there with a spotlight, poking and pushing, observing, noting, glancing at your do-it-yourself bikini wax with those judging eyes, damn those judging eyes!

*Ahem.*

Despite the fact that I’ve been duped by marketese once again, I’ve been good about my regularly scheduled “Well Woman” exams. I’ve simply neglected/ignored/ran away screaming from anything else in the medical realm. Like cholesterol screenings. And Tetanus shots. Pretty much anything involving needles. Or pain. Or height and weight charts. But now that I’m officially over 30, I figured it was time to be a little more mature about these things. With a minimum of cajoling from Alex (very minimum – you were great, honey!), I made the appointment (and then rewarded myself by planning a new bathroom theme). I had a month to prepare (no, not my bikini wax. My mental game). Out of sight, out of mind.

But this past Sunday arrived, just 2 days before the appointment, the Big Week. I was a wreck. Fretting. Worrying. Doubting. Quite probably some vomiting, I don’t know. Mind you, nothing was particularly wrong with me. Just time for the basic physical and Well Woman excavation – I mean – exam. But when I thought about all those white coats. All that formaldehyde. All those sick people.

*Shudder.*

No more time to fret. Suddenly it’s Tuesday. Game day. I get there early, turn in my paperwork (which I was able to download in advance from their very helpful Web site, much to my delight and surprise, as the last time I was at the Dr. for a physical, there was no Web. Or cell phones, for that matter. Just those big car phones that you had to carry around with a suitcase-sized battery.), and wait patiently for my name to be called. 15 minutes later, I’m behind the secret door that separates the patients from the waiters, making small talk with a friendly medical assistant.

• Medical assistant: Hi, Sarah. You’re going to love the doctor. Now, kindly remove your boots and step on the scale.
• Me: *Gulp*. Okay.
• Medical assistant: *Tapping digital reader on scale* Huh, that can’t be right. Do you have anything really heavy in your pockets? Like a small child or Labrador retriever? (Okay, she doesn’t really say that).
• Medical assistant: Okay, I’m going to take your temperature through your ear. *Sticks thing into ear. Waits. Removes. Sighs.* Are you feeling alright, Sarah? This is rather high.
• Me: Yes, my blood pressure will be high, too. I just hate-I mean, I am afraid of doctors.
• Medical assistant; Ah, We get a lot of whitecoats in here.

Yes, whitecoats, that’s what she calls me. A whitecoat. Like I’m some Revolutionary War spy or something.

Next she leads me into the exam room and instructs me to undress and don the cloth gown, which is actually made of a thick paper that only plays cloth on TV. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to put the ties in the front or the back, or if I’m supposed to sit on the exam table or the old chair. Fret fret fret. Blood pressure increasing. Heart pounding.

Minutes pass. Maybe days. I lose all sense of time and space. Finally, the doctor arrives and, undoubtedly sensing my inherent whitecoatness, spends 5 minutes or so asking me about my job and my life. It works. I relax. Smile, even. Tell her my life story (at least, as it pertains to current medical status). She nods. Smiles. Furrows brow at appropriate times. Advises. Gets to work. I’ll spare you the details of her spelunking adventure (you’re welcome), but during said adventure, we also discuss the importance of sun screen and of course, diet and exercise – the dastardly duo I cant seem to escape. She surfaces. Removes gloves. Answers a few more questions. Writes an Rx. We exchange farewells. Now that she’s spent so much time with me, and seen me naked, we’re practically family.

Fast forward to the Tetanus shot, and a new person – we’ll just call her Shot Girl. Shot Girl is also very nice, calming me down while I hyperventilate (she cleans my upper arm with a cotton ball. Oh, how it burns us, it burns us!) before administering the shot. Expecting the worst, I turn my head and will my heart to slow down as she sticks me. One. Two. Three. And we’re done.

I know people always say this, but I really don’t feel the needle. I do feel something warm trickling down my arm and dripping onto the table (a special leave-behind for the next patient, I guess) as Shot Girl gasps, declares me a bleeder, gasps again, tells me I’m bleeding like crazy, and springs into action. She goes to town on those cotton balls to clean me up. It all happens so fast, I barely have time to register the fact that she isn’t wearing gloves as she mops up my bodily fluids (I guess I don’t fit the profile for someone with a scary transmittable blood disorder?). As soon as I see that dark line of maroon moving down my arm like warm molasses, it’s all I could do to keep my heart in my chest. Must. Stay. Calm. Must. Not. Pass. Out.

I realize, then, that maybe it’s not so much the needles that scare me. Maybe it’s the blood (that would explain my aversion to vampire and zombie movies). Or the unplanned potential for blood. See how quickly life can change? What was supposed to be a routine Tetanus shot (which now also includes protection from Whooping Cough, FYI) turns into a dangerous race against the clock – quick, Shot Girl! Hold her steady! You’ve got to apply that Band-Aid!

Phew. After that kind of near-death experience, I hope against all hopes that Shot Girl can pass the soaked cotton balls on to Phlebotomy Girl so she can simply ring them out into vials, saving me the pleasure of yet another hole in my arm for the blood draw. Alas, my pleas are unheard. There is no way around it. I must let them tourniquet me up for another go. Tight. Tight. Tighter. Rubber on skin. I turn my head, slam my eyes shut, pump the obligatory fist, and go to my happy happy place for a Very. Long. Time. Despite Shot Girl’s testimonials to the contrary, the blood draw is significantly more painful than the Tetanus shot.

*Oh, ouch!*

Blood. So creepy, yet so vital.

Anyway, bleeding abated, holes patched up, glossy 8×10 describing my birth control options in hand, arm throbbing like I’d just lifted my car with it, I am on my way. All in all, not so terrible. Since I am such a Big Girl at the doctor’s (kindly keep your scale comments to yourself), I treat myself to lunch at Whole Foods after my appointment. As I drink my corn poblano soup, I think, hey, I kind of dig this tit-for-tat thing. Go to the doctor. Be a Big Girl. Get a treat.

That said, I’ve gone ahead and scheduled open heart surgery for next week. I figure if a blood draw earned a trip to Whole Foods, heart surgery is worth at least week in Hawaii. Tit. Tat.