Definitely RA

An Announcement

2007-06-22T07:06:00.000-05:00

Today is my one-year blogiversary!

(Woo!)

To commemorate the occasion, I’m making the move to a Blogspot-free existence over at DefinitelyRA.com. Join me at the new digs (which, by the way, might feel very familiar), update those bookmarks and feeds, and see how I’m ringing in a new year of bloggy fun!

Shoe Shine

2007-06-20T21:32:00.000-05:00

I have to go to New York for the day tomorrow to visit a company for work, which means that my normal uniform of jeans and flip-flops isn’t going to cut it. I test-drove a few outfits and settled on a pin-striped dress and red sweater, but I realized sadly that my black heels had seen better days. They were a bargain $20 pair I picked up when I first started working about three years ago and they showed their age and, uh, bargain quality. Glancing at the clock, I assessed the damage. I couldn’t fix the ground-out heel, but the scuffs could be fixed with some polish. I rooted around for the can of black and laid out paper towels on the kitchen counter for a workspace.

As soon as I dabbed into the can of shoe polish, the pungent, waxy smell brought me back to my parents’ kitchen, where my dad would polish his shoes every so often. He had one of those carrier boxes with a handle down the middle to divide it into two sections. On one side, there would be saddle soap, black and brown polish, and a squirt bottle of water. On the other side, he stored clean, soft cloths and a soft-bristled brush for buffing. I viewed that shoe polish box as somewhat of a sacred relic because it was strictly off-limits for touching. I imagine that my parents were afraid that I’d accidentally get into the polish and start fingerprinting the house, which would not have been a stretch. Instead, I’d perch on a stool and watch Dad magically restore his shoes back to an even sheen.

Dad was and is really fastidious about certain things and shoe polishing was one of them. His left hand slid down into the toe of the shoe and his right hand skimmed the outside quickly and carefully. He applied the polish in tiny, round strokes, using the least amount of polish as possible to cover an area. Tilting the shoe this way and that, Dad checked to make sure that he hadn’t missed any spots; when he was satisfied, he laid the shoe down carefully and started on the mate as the first dried. My favorite step was buffing. The brush would fwip-fwip across the shoe, exposing a shiny, like-new surface. I sat, transfixed.

With that fwip-fwip sound echoing in my head, I finished shining my heels. They emerged somewhat battered, but much improved and it only took a little time and a dab of polish. And some magic, I think.

Not Funny at All

2007-06-19T21:56:00.000-05:00

As the first order of business for his first day of summer vacation, JG made an appointment to switch from cable to satellite service in order to get high-definition service all the time instead of hoping for good weather and adjusting a giant antenna on our entertainment unit. Even though I was ecstatic about letting go of a bug-like presence in our living room, I pled to make sure that the dish wasn’t visible from the street, if at all possible.

JG called me at work to report on the progress:

JG: So, I just wanted to update you on what’s going on over here.
RA: Okay, cool.
JG: The guy came and had a look around. He climbed on the roof and stuff, but he feels like we have too many trees to put the dish on the roof.
RA: Oh.
JG: The only way he could do it was to put up an 8-foot pole in the middle of our yard. So, of course, I said, “Absolutely!”
RA: (sharp intake of breath)
JG: Hello?
RA: I suggest that we don’t joke about this.
JG: (quickly) Oh, sorry, joke over. I didn’t agree to it. We’re sticking with cable.
RA: Okay. No antenna on the TV?
JG: No antenna.
RA: Thank you.

Jokes are fine every once in a while, but if I was concerned about a little satellite dish on our roof, a pole sticking out of our yard is no laughing matter! Geez.

Contentment, Almost

2007-06-18T07:05:00.000-05:00

Saturday really made me feel like I got a weekend. Sometimes, the two days are packed full of chores and bustle so I don’t feel a significant difference between Sunday’s rest and Monday’s routine.

When I think back, it’s not that JG and I did anything spectacular; we just did a few things with the right mixture of activity and rest. The morning was free and lazy. We drifted around in our pajamas, watched The Soup and Best Week Ever, and caught breakfast when we felt like it. JG mowed the lawn before we left to meet a friend at the climbing gym that afternoon and I was intent on recovering from my less-than-stellar workout on Tuesday. Let’s just say that the ratio of falling to climbing was so high as to inspire the term “high-gravity night.” Apparently, gravity had lessened its hold because I finished two long-standing projects and we all had a much improved day of climbing.

Later that evening, JG and I sat at a laminate table in a local Italian restaurant, one of those neighborhood joints with vinyl seats, metal pizza-pan holders on each table, and gigantic menus. After sharing an order of fried mushrooms (every restaurant in Kennett Square has them and they’re always good), we settled into our respective entrees: vegetable primavera for me and a cheese steak Stromboli for him. Quiet fell over the table – the sound of people simply not talking because they were busy enjoying their food.

“Today was a really good day,” I said slowly, breaking the silence.

JG nodded. “Yeah. I feel like we got a lot done, but it wasn’t rushed or anything.”

I nodded along. I had a serene feeling that I was in exactly the right place with exactly the right person. I wanted to wrap up the sensation and save it for another day.

JG continued, “I don’t know what could make this day any better. Except maybe a doggie…”

Ah, yes. JG’s campaign to add a furry friend to our home has not gone unnoticed. I have started to run out of excuses as to why we aren’t ready to accommodate a dog and our friends have gone out of their way to show me their dogs’ most favorable sides. The fact that JG’s concession of naming privileges represented a considerable bargaining chip is not lost on me. It’s a clear indicator that JG’s picture of happiness is incomplete without a dog curled up at his feet.

In other words, we’re getting a dog.

(JG is doing a happy shimmy in the background.)

Today is JG’s last day of the school year. Tomorrow, he will start to apply to shelters, propose dogs from PetFinder, and research electric fences. That serene feeling I wish I had saved is no longer with me. I’m three-quarters through Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog, so visions of chewed furniture, soiled carpet, and a backyard full of land mines dance through my head. I’m trying to distract myself by finding really good name candidates. After all the negotiation and discussion we’ve had, maybe we should be frank and name the dog Compromise.

High Points

2007-06-15T08:56:00.000-05:00

How is it that the workweek seemed to drag on for 17 days, but I’m all surprised that today is Friday, so there are only eight hours to get everything done? If it were possible to get an instantaneous feed of the running loop of crazy inside my head, it might sound something like: what the heck did I do all week that there so many to-dos on my list not done and how is it that it’s the 15^th already and I’ve only finished one book and how in the world am I going to finish four this month and I can’t forget to call my dad on Sunday and do I have any clean clothes and was the last time I blogged really Monday?

Gah.

To quell the unrest I feel at being so not on top of it, I will take a few minutes to reflect on a handful of things that I thoroughly enjoyed this week. Call it penance for not writing them up in a proper and timely fashion.

Resting Easily
Contrary to the looming forecast for this week, I only experienced one more thunderstorm, and since I was at work, I didn’t exactly have the option to curl up into a ball and quiver. Instead, I opted to breathe deeply (meanwhile groaning, “Oh, my lord…”) as my shoulders lurched at the sound of every roll of thunder. I would like a pat on the back, please. Also, I was spared from any more dreams about criminal monkeys; I actually had a good one about JG and me, instead. I hardly ever dream about him – it’s kind of a regret of mine – so waking up from a swirly vision of dancing together was very nice. The music in the background was “Somewhere That’s Green” from Little Shop of Horrors, but I don’t know what that’s supposed to indicate. I doubt it’s in my dream dictionary…

Daily Word
After I used “riveting” twice, sarcastically, in one day, my co-workers encouraged me to set up a dry-erase board with a word of the day, with a goal to incorporate the word into a sentence during the workday. Yes! I provide the word, a phonetic pronunciation, part of speech, and a brief definition and what do you know? Discussion ensues! Building up vocabulary is fun, I tell you. Now I get a chance to revel in all of the lovely words that seem too high-falutin’ for normal conversation but are so fun to say. Insouciant! Profligate! Acquiesce! (Oh, my!) Today’s word is vociferous (voe-SIFF-er-us), which is describes something that is crying out noisily. Go forth and use!

Foodie Show Tunes
Adam, the Amateur Gourmet, presented a grateful viewing public with a week full of original songs about his food and I dare anyone to listen to odes to malted-milk ice cream and lasagna without A) cracking up at the lyrics or B) standing in awe of his simultaneous piano-playing and cinematography. My favorite is “Falafel Love,” which garnered multiple viewings on my computer. Much to JG’s chagrin, I find myself humming the catchy tune during the day: “Why, why did he pick falafel…”

Good Hair Day
As a follow-up to a detailed hair how-to, Whoorl encouraged readers to send in glamour shots of their good hair days. My hair is my only physical feature that I consistently enjoy; I love that it’s so shiny and well-behaved. I took a dozen self-portraits one morning in an effort to do my mane justice and I have to admit that I was a little giddy when Whoorl responded to my e-mail saying, “Your hair is gorgeous!” Aw, shucks. It’s too bad that my facial expression in that picture is a combination of dubious and goofy. At least my hair looks pretty.

Pandora
I realize that I’m at least three years behind the curve, here, but in an effort to find a jazz radio station to stream, I discovered the wonder that is Pandora and self-loaded radio stations. I like wordless music for working, but a girl only has a tolerance for so much Aaron Copland and movie soundtracks in a given day. But now, I have an endless supply of free jazz without having to assemble play lists. I am on my way to high-end productivity, um, right after I post this entry. Once again, I’m compelled to consider how my life was so freaking inconvenient before the internet. Let us never go back to the dark ages of cassettes. Amen.

Not a Good Omen

2007-06-11T11:55:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting in a rowboat. A doctor, with whom I am unacquainted, is rowing backward, facing me, and telling me about the swampy, foggy surroundings. He tells me how he has been studying the indigenous primates in the area for years, but there has been an incident. It turns out that a local couple, with whom I am slightly acquainted, is searching for their infant baby girl, who has evidently been stolen by the monkeys. They’re not sure she’s still alive. The hair on the back of my neck bristles and I feel a chill. The yapping calls of unseen monkeys make me scan the trees unsteadily. Thunder rumbles in the distance and dark clouds hover overhead.

I open my eyes with a start. It’s three in the morning.

Awakened by the roll of real-life thunder, I brush away the uneasy dream and reach out to JG sleeping next to me. I hate thunder. I know it’s just sound, but the sheer volume sends tremors down my back and makes my hands fly up, involuntarily, to shield my ears. It is impossible for me to relax during a storm; I clutch pillows and twitch nervously as lightning bolts blind me – an unnerving harbinger. This storm is worse than usual because I have images of a stolen baby girl and laughing chimpanzees with dangerous-looking teeth flying through my head. The vivid imagination that served me so well as a child is my downfall during the dark, wee hours when thunder booms, uninvited.

Conflicted between the heavy heat of our bedroom and the impulse to be covered and secure, I toss and turn to find a position that both deafens the noise and feels sheltered. My biceps are getting sore from the extended tension of my fingers plugged into my ears and I can’t help but slide over to JG’s side of the bed for comfort. He’s snoozing away, nonplussed by the storm, until I accidentally nudge him too strongly. “Is it the thunder?” he asks sleepily. Yes! Hence the quivering shell next to you! But I tell him to go back to sleep. It doesn’t make sense for the both of us to be awake at this hour.

The last time I look at the clock, it reads 4:34. I am exhausted. My arms are tired. I drift back to sleep, but thankfully, there are no child-stealing apes this time.

I am at work right now. I am a zombie. And there are scattered thunderstorms on the forecast every single day this week.

#98

Friday, Three Tenses

2007-06-08T19:25:00.000-05:00

I…

Received a replacement laptop at work because the one I had was plagued with errors impossible to replicate on demand. No sound? No wireless connection? No idea! Happily, the new one worked just fine.
Went to lunch at the Greek festival with co-workers and had yummy stuffed grape leaves and chicken and orzo.
Became a sweaty mess. Hot food, no shaded outdoor seating, and a record-breaking combination of heat and humidity made for an uncomfortable situation.
Sat in a hot car in the sun during my commute home.
Jumped into the shower as soon as I walked through the door.

I am…

Sitting on my couch, underneath a whirring ceiling fan, in wet hair and pajamas.
Breathing easily.
Typing on JG’s old college laptop, the one with the R and F keys missing and a finicky Ethernet port.
Eavesdropping on Good Eats: the sausage episode.
Hearing my stomach growl.
Watching the clock.

I will…

Make myself presentable and put on something fun and dressy.
Drive to meet JG and his teacher friends at a new (to me) Japanese-Thai restaurant.
See JG for the first time since 6:30am this morning.
Take pictures because we’ll all look snazzy. Hopefully, some of them will be good.
Come home late and fall into bed for a hard-earned night of sleep without the threat of an alarm buzzing on Saturday morning.

Pick-Up Lines

2007-06-05T22:02:00.000-05:00

According to my application spreadsheet, I have been officially on the job market for four weeks. I think it’s going pretty well, so far. I’m making several contacts, sending out résumés, and of course, combing job sites for postings. Because I’ve chosen to post my information online, I’ve had the pleasure of receiving my fair share of job-related spam in the past month with the following awesomely bad lines. Everything is verbatim, unfortunately.

Openers:

Greetings,dear friend!
I am trying to reach you!
Are you blessed with a new child yet unable to attend work? Are you a college student with odd class schedules impairing regular work time? Well you’re in luck!!!
You are invited to a people-intensive, on-the-edge of technology powered environment.
You befit on our position.

Qualifications:

Honest Workesr Needed!!!
Basically, almost anyone can manage to handle the job, but you honesty and doing your best are of utmost importance for us
You needn’t any education, qualification or any special skills. Everything you need is a great desire to work.
Requirements: USA citizenship. Responsibility, diligence and honesty.
General requirements: the ability to work in teamand good communicative skills. Ability to keep company’s interest s more than your own one. USA citizenship required.
Age: from 18 till 70 years

Benefits:

You DONT HAVE TO PAY FOR ANYTHING TO WORK FOR US
Your monthly salary can amount to $1,800-2,300.
DO NOT TURN THIS OFFER DOWN!! GREAT OPPORTUNITY!!! You can recieve a salary not less then 50 000$ a year!

Big Finishes:

... act now for this great intuitive job offer.
If you are interested in this job and you really want to work with us, send us confirmation that you are ready to work in our company , then we will send you contract, you should sign it and we will begin to co-operate.
If you have found this letter to be a nuisance, please accept our apologies.

- - -

P.S. I’m glad to report that I got the fun, relaxed weekend I wanted. JG and I spent a lot of time just hanging out together and I felt like I had woken up from a vacation this morning. Thank goodness for mental health days.

City Longings

2007-06-03T09:33:00.000-05:00

JG and I went to the climbing gym yesterday. The twenty-minute drive is very curvy, but best of all, scenic. Rolling over hills, I can see through the windshield wide expanses of cut grass, dotted with grazing cattle and fluffy sheep. There is an equestrian school at one point and it’s common to see young girls in jodhpurs putting their animals through their paces. Stony farmhouses and red barns mark land ownership and wooden rocking chairs tilt gently on open-air porches. The smells of hay, honeysuckle, and humus flow in through the open windows and I breathe deeply.

Most of the time, I love living in our small-town-almost-countryside community. People walk their dogs in the neighborhood, we know that our mechanic’s name is Chip, and we have quiet nights with starry skies. I make a daily commute to a small city, so coming home is like a breath of fresh air. My ears are clear of car alarms and I look forward to seeing the sun set.

But another part of me loves metropolis and everything it includes. I love to wander museums, listen to the orchestra, marvel at the ballet, and eat exotic food. I love not having to drive and, instead, relying on public transit maps that might be really confusing or hearing my shoes slap against the concrete sidewalk. I love knowing that I can do almost anything at any hour. I don’t think I could live in a city, but visiting is exhilarating.

Much to my chagrin, JG does not so much enjoy cities. He finds them loud and dirty. There’s too much going on and there aren’t enough trees. People are brusque and always in a rush. He doesn’t relish the theater or the ballet and his palate is not quite as expansive as mine. Rather than go out for dinner when they charge way too much money for not much food, JG would prefer to stay home and fire up the grill so that he can have a steak the way he likes it.

Sigh.

In a way, I understand. Our life and our home are comfortable and I am grateful for them. Lately, though, I’ve been clicking enviously through the pictures that college friends are taking on their two-week jaunt through Europe and it makes me feel oh-so sedentary. Despite undersized portions of foreign food, it’s nice to have a chance to be an adventurous city mouse.

Sunday Scribblings #61: Town & Country

The Getting It Done

2007-06-01T17:37:00.000-05:00

A few nights ago, I struggled to fall asleep. My body was tired, I had already read several chapters of my book, and JG was snoozing away, gently, at my side. But the gears in my mind were turning steadily and my stomach twisted and turned, enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to be sick. I swallowed hard. I just have to get through this week, I thought.

Suddenly, I was struck with the realization that I’m always trying to get through things: a work day, a meeting, a long drive, reluctant family time, chores. Anxiety washed over me like a wave, leaving me sputtering and gasping for air, as the thought crystallized in my mind: I can’t survive like this. I am overwhelmed. I tried to breathe evenly, but the panic from my flip-flopping stomach rose to my throat and I began to sob.

Between big sniffs and wiping my eyes, I remembered that, about a year ago, I had recurring episodes like this one. I’d sit up in bed, take a box of tissues off of my nightstand, and cry as softly as possible so that I didn’t wake JG. When the tears were spent, I would lie down again and hope that my body was tired enough to sleep. At the time, I felt trapped because I couldn’t figure out how to meld JG’s and my interests – sports and fine arts, respectively – into leisure time that we both enjoyed. I felt overextended and high-maintenance, so I couldn’t bring myself to draw JG into my nighttime sadness.

Not this time, I decided.

I nudged JG and whispered, “Kiddo?” It’s our mutual term of endearment. “I need to tell you something.”

The sheets rustled. “What?”

“I’m very sad right now.”

He turned over, toward me. “Why? What’s going on?”

I sobbed, “I was just saying to myself that I needed to just get through this week, but I feel like I say that all the time, with everything. How can a person live like this? I’m so tired.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“I know we can’t solve it tonight, but … I don’t know. It’s just very oppressive right now.”

“Yeah.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. Like before, remember? But I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I had to wake you up.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Okay.”

I don’t remember how it happened, but after all of the nose-blowing and deep sighs, I fell asleep. Every so often, I woke up, startled, but reaching out and confirming that JG was beside me was enough to send me back to my dreams.

Soon after that night, I read an essay by Anna Quindlen that looked back to her time as a young mother taking care of three children, aged six and under. A particular passage hit me square in the forehead.

I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I paused and re-read the last bit.

I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I don’t want to write that line in 20 years. I will not write that line.

So, this weekend is all about the doing. JG and I are both taking the day off from work on Monday, so we have a nice long weekend. Tonight, we’ll have something off the grill for dinner and then we’ll crash on the couch with our latest Netflix delivery. I’ll turn off my alarm and sleep in as long as I want tomorrow morning. I think we have a few things we want to do, like go climbing, go out for dinner and a movie, and read, but nothing is set in stone. Regardless, I’m going to try to shift my mind to the doing and away from the getting it done.

It Was a Good Run

2007-05-31T16:43:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago, I gave my notice at 451 Press. This morning, I published my final post at LongRelationships.com.

I view the handful of months writing for a blog network as a valuable learning experience. I appreciated the challenge of writing on a single topic with a deadline of 10am every morning. I enjoyed the camaraderie that came from the community of writers. I gained my first exposure to social networking sites and I was forced to view my writing from the perspective of what might draw readers. I feel better equipped to write on the fly, tie up a concise argument on a small scope, and use WordPress. I am absolutely grateful to everyone who stopped by the site, left comments, and e-mailed me articles to reference. As an exercise, writing for the network was a successful one for me.

However.

I didn’t enjoy writing on a topic about which I only have experiential expertise of a narrow set of circumstances. JG was my only really serious boyfriend and we’ve only been married for two years. Sure, my stories might have their own appeal, but did they give me inherent credibility? I shied away from posts of the “Ask RA” variety out of fear that a reader would pose a situation that might require serious intervention or therapy, neither of which I am able to diagnose nor provide. I felt uncomfortable wearing an unearned badge of knowledge because I wanted to be a reliable resource.

On top of that, I’m working to be a better writer, not a marketer. The double-duty position of both supplying content and getting the world to notice it was a detrimental combination for me. I’d write what I thought was useful or compelling with the grim knowledge that it would never float to the front pages of social networking sites. Then, I’d try to conjure articles that might draw votes on those sites, but I didn’t quite believe what I was writing. Ultimately, I felt like both my writing and my stats suffered, which was such a lose-lose situation. I know that some folks can write and market simultaneously, but I am an introvert in real life as well as online. Asking others to read what I’ve written is anxiety-producing and not because I don’t believe I’m a skilled writer. I want my words to speak for themselves; I don’t want to prop them up with a tag line.

At the end of the day, I felt like I lived with my fingers tapping on a keyboard. After a full day at work, the time spent writing, doing auxiliary research, voting, and responding to comments grew to be more than I wanted to handle. Some might turn down their noses at my inability to commit more time, but I am not a full-time writer who is able to sink deeply into a project. Trying to massage my ideas about relationships into a palatable format for the sake of votes was not the plan. Searching newspapers, columns, and blogs for anything relationship-centric that I could quickly summarize just to get to the point where I could close my laptop was not the plan. Going to bed hours after JG and saying good night to a slumbering body was not the plan.

All of this is not to say that I have hard feelings toward 451 Press. I’m actually really curious about how the network will progress over time. Simply put, writing for a network, even with ad revenue, was not the right fit for me. I’m proud of quite a few articles I wrote for the site, including my final one, so perhaps I’ll revisit them in the future. I’ll continue to plug away in these parts, but most importantly, on my own terms.

Capturing Kennett Square

2007-05-30T22:36:00.000-05:00

As I’ve mentioned before, I love our little town of Kennett Square. Aside from the town’s fascination with fungi, the town’s charm oozes through quaint Victorian houses and the local restaurants full of people and food, and both very good. Ever since I got my bearings after we moved in at the end of October 2005, I’ve wanted to go around the one-street-wide downtown area to snap pictures of local color. But, as they usually do, the excuses crept up. It’s not sunny enough. I won’t find a parking spot. There are no charged batteries. And so it goes.

In a move that was very unlike me, I made plans this afternoon to have dinner with two co-workers. (I will appreciate a respectful pause to note my outrageous spontaneity. I mean, who plans a dinner out just two hours before it occurs?) My co-workers happened to be spending the afternoon at Longwood Gardens, a tourist attraction that is no less than ten minutes from where I live. When I jumped at the chance to recommend a restaurant, the three of us* planned to meet up for dinner at the Half Moon.

Suddenly, I found my chance to wander Kennett Square in gorgeous weather. I zoomed home, changed into jeans, grabbed my camera, and spent a blissful hour strolling around, snapping pictures, and greeting the friendly outdoor diners. I garnered my share of strange glances – I mean, I would have viewed a seeming tourist the same way – but simply being outdoors was so refreshing that I ignored the stares. I felt more energetic than I had during the entire workday.

After a tasty dinner, I made the short drive home in a strange state of fuzzy relaxation. The sun left behind a fiery pink sky in my rear-view mirror and a round, pockmarked moon rose before me in a deep blue sky. Those are two pictures I would’ve loved to have captured.

It was a good day.

I like that I can say that.

- - -

* Unfortunately, JG was left out of the fun because tonight was the first meeting of his summer graduate course, which sadly convenes twice a week, from 6-10pm. Gah.

Recollection

2007-05-29T22:33:00.000-05:00

As much as I enjoy it, having Monday off always throws me for a loop. I wake up, groggy as ever, with those Monday blues swinging through my brain, and then, the dawning realization that it is not Monday makes that grogginess seem, well, not as bad. It’s a slight improvement that I am willing to accept. Needless to say, I’m a bit disoriented after this long weekend.

Our time with JG’s family was a whirlwind of, um, lying around. I kept myself occupied (so to speak) by eating well, toasting marshmallows, and relaxing on a hammock. Oh, how I covet the hammock. Alongside his siblings, JG and I had our first experience with the Wii and I was completely unsurprised to find that it exposed my utter lack of coordination and depth perception. I was satisfied with cheering people on and taking fuzzy action shots. All in all, I couldn’t complain. We’re still working through the awkwardness inherent in having parents who are not used to having children who happen to be adults – or is that just weirdness that we have?

On Monday, we went to a friend’s house for a cookout, where there were hardcore games of badminton and quoits, mounds of yummy food, and a sweet border collie that I petted voluntarily. Reward, please! Despite a heavily humid morning, the soggy air cleared to reveal a gorgeous afternoon and an almost-full moon. JG hovered around the grill to show our host how to make “killer grill marks” and I brought a dessert called Berrymisú – a sweet combination of white cake, mixed berries, and whipped cream. It was appropriately red, white, and blue for a patriotic holiday but it was eaten so quickly that I have no photographic proof. I’ll have to keep that recipe around.

Dare I go there? All right, I will. I did, indeed, have a memorial weekend.

(Oh, that was pretty bad. I’m groaning with you.)

An Early Start

2007-05-25T10:55:00.000-05:00

I didn’t mean to, but I’ve taken today off from work. (Woo!) See, I had every intention of working from home in the morning before JG and I leave for the weekend, but my laptop decided that it didn’t like our wireless network. It also didn’t like being connected via Ethernet cord. After some trial and error, I realized that my computer didn’t like to connect to anything that was not the docking station at my desk at the office. Which totally defeats the purpose of having a laptop. Argh.

Resigned, I submitted my helpdesk ticket to the tech team and turned in a revised time off form. In the end, I think it’s for the best for my sanity. This computer glitch gave me a four-day weekend and a whole morning to do laundry and prep what I needed for the weekend, and that’s always nice. I tend to be a miser when it comes to vacation hours, so this is probably a good exercise in not having control, even if makes me twitch.

Anyway, JG and I are headed up to Jersey this afternoon to spend the next few days with his family for the Memorial Day weekend. There will be grilling, hiking, and lying by the pool, and we’re coming home in time for a cookout with friends on Monday, so I believe we will have done our civic, American duty by reaching – nay – exceeding our fun quota. Booyah.

Happy Memorial Day! Best wishes for cool beverages and hot grills!

Finding the Right Words

2007-05-23T22:15:00.000-05:00

I love to receive cards in the mail and I am incredibly picky about choosing them for others. For standard holidays or birthdays, I start hunting very early, in several stores, to make sure I find the best one for the person in mind. If I find one that’s perfect, but out of season, I stash it in a hiding place for a future appearance. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with finding the best card that fits my aesthetic demands and contains an appropriate greeting, with bonus points for color coordination with wrapping paper.

Sometimes, sniffing out the right card is really difficult. Purported humorous cards usually aren’t and I refuse to buy anything that blasts a song at me like a handheld MySpace page. My least favorite cards usually involve many layers to open up, piles of glitter, or a 20-line poem dripping with sap. I automatically reject cards on the basis of Too Many Words.

This week, I faced my biggest card-searching challenge: the sympathy card. The father of our college friend passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly, while at his son’s college graduation weekend. Our friend is getting married in two months and the whole situation is just indescribably sad. They don’t make cards with that much sympathy.

Instead, I have to choose from sanctimonious, preachy cardboard rectangles with watercolor images of lilies and butterflies, reassuring us that memories live on forever. Is my friend supposed to feel better by seeing curly script in the form of, “You’re not alone,” even if she feels like she’s alone? I need the card that says, “I’m so sorry and I know there’s nothing I can say that will be right, but I’m going to hope that saying something will help, even just a little bit.” Unfortunately, that one wouldn’t sell so well next to the card depicting a calming ocean scene.

Finally, I found a simple blue card that read, “Caring thoughts of sympathy are with you now.” Oh, relief. In times when words fall so short of the occasion, it’s not about the number of feel-good phrases or pretty packaging. I just wanted a place where I can write a line to let our friend know that we’re thinking about her. I’m glad that it’ll be on its way tomorrow morning.

The Plot Thickens

2007-05-21T17:26:00.000-05:00

As if a weekend of fun with friends and ant massacre weren’t enough, I have set aside what I think is the most intriguing part. You see, there has been a proposal to amend the Dog Agreement.

It all started when I began petitioning to add Walter to our list of potential dog names. JG is against this name-listing because he is a firm believer that one can’t name a dog without seeing it first. I can understand that logic, but it doesn’t hurt to have a few names up my sleeve just in case. Am I right? Of course, I am.

I love Walter as a dog name because I think it can be good for any type. It conjures up all sorts of mental images for me: sensitive, literary Walter from Rilla of Ingleside; Walt Whitman; and – er – Walter Cronkite. Much to my chagrin, JG thinks that Walter is “only for a dumb, dopey dog, like a Basset hound.” What! So I started lobbying, only to find that the crowd was pretty evenly split along pro- and anti-Walter lines. Hmph.

On Sunday morning, JG and I were talking about our eventual dog ownership and the merits of certain names when he turned to me suddenly and said, “Would you agree to get a dog this year if I let you name the dog anything you want?”

I was stunned into silence.

“I could name it anything I want?”

“Well, I trust that you won’t name it anything stupid, like Mrs. Puffball.”

“Hey, that can be shortened to Puffy. Or Diddy, whichever we like better.”

During our discussion of the terms of this new proposal, we agreed verbally that all of the clauses from the original agreement would still be in place except the first, which required JG to finish his master’s degree before getting the dog. The new timeline would land the dog at our house in the July-ish realm. In practical matters, I conceded that I could handle feeding and a daily walk. JG agreed to buy a designated dog blanket for the couch (so as to minimize the shedding situation) and to refrain from holding this naming privilege over my head in the future. Baths and doctor visits would be shared responsibilities.

Normally, I wave off (the constant) pleas to get a dog sooner, but JG has thrown out a surprisingly large bargaining chip in giving up the ultimate naming power. I am not sure what my next move will be.

Weekend Wrap-Up

2007-05-20T22:10:00.000-05:00

Friends of ours held their first bonfire of the spring season and JG and I attended rather reluctantly because we were kind of tuckered out (I think that’s what they call being old) and we thought there would be a whole gang of people. As it turned out, it was just us and the hosts, so we had a relaxing night of toasting marshmallows, eating s’mores, and playing with the border collie that decided to hang out with us. The night smelled like summer camp and freshly-cut grass. It was great.

- - -

I went to a purported “spectacular” yard sale on Saturday morning and the event was rather falsely advertised, in my opinion. Among the scattered random junk, I found a solid wood end table that did not boast a price tag, so I hunted down the owner, who I found to be a rather gruff older lady.

RA: How much are you asking for this end table?
Owner: Oh, no price tag? $5?
RA: I’ll take it!
Owner: Oh, I should have asked for more than that. $10!
RA: I’ll give you $5.
Owner: There’s another one for sale in the house, you know.
RA: Really! I’ll take the two for $10, then.
Owner: The two will be $15 together.
RA: But two for $10 is the same as your original price.
Owner: Fine, $5 for the first and $10 for the second!

At that point, I had a feeling we were entering the twilight zone and I gave up on it. Who the heck raises a price at a yard sale?

- - -

Our house seems to be under the 2^nd Annual Ant Siege and, judging from other folks, we’re not the only ones who have had to deal with it, as if that’s any consolation. Ugh. Having grown up in the middle of the woods, I used to think that I could handle any level of ant infestation, but now that the little soldiers have marched their way into our dishwasher, the creep factor has risen considerably. JG has officially declared war on the ants, but I wish they’d get the message and die already.

- - -

JG and I got to hang out with two of our best friends (here, on either side of me) at our house for Saturday and Sunday and the four of us had so much fun. It’s not that we went out and did a lot of stuff or had a crazy time, but because we only get to see them a few times a year, we take advantage of the time to just catch up on life and rehash all of the old inside jokes. Good times.

Knowing My Limits

2007-05-17T21:28:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I received a fat envelope in the mail with photos from our vacation, all ready to be preserved for posterity.

I imagine that I could be a pretty good scrapbooker. I like doing graphic design-type things, I have a penchant for pretty paper, and I can be crafty if I put my mind to it. I think I would like accumulating all of those fanciful sticker-things, hole-puncher gadgets, and acid-free pens in all colors of the rainbow. I certainly enjoy the end product.

There’s just one problem: I really hate being behind.

Maybe I’m oversimplifying, but it seems to me that scrapbooking is an exercise of endless catching up. There’s nothing you can do ahead of time because you have to see how the pictures turn out. I just couldn’t deal with that.

So, this weekend, I’m putting my photos into a regular photo album. Maybe it’s not as glamorous or whimsical as a scrapbook, but I can stay on top of the flow of pictures much more easily. Plus, I like the fact that people sit through my commentary since I don’t write convenient captions in the margins. I do, however, fire up my handy-dandy label-maker to make labels for whole events. I can’t go completely without gadgets, can I?

Our Standing Date

2007-05-15T21:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight was sad and momentous. Tonight, JG and I watched the series finale of Gilmore Girls.

I know that the show has its enemies. Some can’t stand the rapid banter, the goody-two-shoes daughter, or the unlimited spending power of a single mother. I know this last season has lagged in action and sensible flow, but I stuck with it because I loved the characters and I cared about what happened to them. At the risk of sounding pathetic, Gilmore Girls was more than a television show to me; it was a commitment. It meant -

Rushing home from lab to watch with my roommate during freshman year
Debating whether Dean or Jess was better or worse for Rory
Glorying at the fast-paced conversation
Wondering how Lorelai and Rory ate so terribly and stayed so darn thin
Nodding at how Mrs. Kim was the summation of every overbearing Asian mother I had the pleasure of meeting
Commiserating with Lane because she was nervous about dating a white boy, nice as he might be
Setting a tape (yes, an actual VHS tape) if I had to miss an episode for whatever reason
Cheering for Luke and Lorelai, moaning at every time they just didn’t work out
Wishing I could live in Stars Hollow and eat at Luke’s diner

But most of all, Gilmore Girls means watching it with JG. He’d like our friends to believe that he simply tolerates watching this show with me, but the truth is that he really enjoys it. Originally, Gilmore Girls was my show, but over time, the show’s charm won him over. JG holds his own in arguments about whether Logan was a good guy for Rory, even if I staunchly hold that Marty (a.k.a. the Naked Guy) was really the best choice. JG is a prime Gilmore Girls buddy and I love our standing date at 8pm on Tuesday nights.

My favorite part of watching with JG would take place in the first few minutes. I’d snuggle up next to JG and he and I would sing the theme song together. I can’t help but smile when the tune comes to mind. Gilmore Girls, I’ll miss you, but I’ll miss singing that theme song even more.

If you’re out on the road,
Feeling lonely and so cold,
All you have to do is call my name,
And I’ll be there on the next train.
Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to.
If you need me to be with you,
I will follow where you lead.

Super Saturday

2007-05-13T20:26:00.000-05:00

This weekend rocked.

It’s a strange thing for me to say. Usually, the two days fly by without so much of a “how do you do” and then the workweek smacks me in the face. JG and I were really busy on Saturday, but it was full of things we wanted to do instead of things we had to do. Instead of doing chores, mowing the lawn, or catching up on bills, we actually did fun things! For once, I’m ready for Monday.

Climbing
A few weeks at the climbing gym has made JG and me lean, mean climbing machines. We’re not sore to the point of paralysis anymore! However, our friends, who came with us and had never gone before, were a different story…

Dinner out
After climbing, a group of us went out for dinner at a local restaurant that has a giant menu and correspondingly large portions. We rolled out of there after collectively consuming onion rings, French fries, a table-sized stromboli, and sundry other entrees. It was fabulous.

Book club
I ran to my book club meeting as soon as we got home for dinner. We were discussing Life of Pi, so everyone brought pie! Not one to miss a nerdy opportunity, I made an encore presentation of pi-shaped cookies and an accompanying pi-shaped cheese dip! The pictures came out all scary and pasty-looking (how attractive can a cheese dip be?), so you’ll have to take my word for it.

Late-night showing of Spider-Man 3
After I raced home from book club, JG and I met friends at a 10:15 showing of the new Spider-Man movie. There were two guys in the row in front of us who talked constantly. How can you possibly have endless commentary on everything that is going on? Apparently, they were riveted during the previews, but the movie was either completely confusing or boring. I tapped on one of the guy’s seats and said firmly, “Excuse me, could you please be quiet?” and then interrupted his response of, “Excuse me, but mind your own business,” with a sharp, “Thank you.” Ugh. People. And I wasn’t even impressed with the movie. Boo.

When JG and I got home, we both observed that we haven’t seen the 1am hour in a very long time and just about fell into bed. Forgive me if that makes us seem lame, but … well, what can I say? Party on, I guess.

Rattled

2007-05-10T15:21:00.000-05:00

My office is on the second floor of a three-story complex with a variety businesses, so it’s common to hear the goings-on of surrounding units. Today, though, is different.

I hear a sound that I think would sound like a big man rolling giant metal gears over a coarse gravel driveway. Or maybe it’s an army tank clanking with a lot of loose parts as it drives across a field of scrap metal. When that noise stops, it’s replaced by the sound of an enormous rocking chair, squeaking all the while. Occasionally, there’s the sound of a super-sized socket wrench. There is creaking and thudding, which wouldn’t be so bad on its own if it were not for the accompanying shaking and movement. My desk is unsteady and my eyes are struggling to focus on a trembling monitor.

Maybe the suite below us is doing construction. I think I saw a new storefront down there, so that would make sense. In that case, the distracting noise and shaking is temporary, right?

A co-worker just took a walk to investigate and he reports that the noise is coming from a new martial arts studio. Apparently, there are three giant punching bags and correspondingly giant guys who are getting good use of them as I type here.

And that means the noise, vibration, et al, are not temporary.

Shudder.

Honorary Tech Team Member

2007-05-09T17:17:00.000-05:00

(Alternate Title: Why I Have Flowers on My Desk)

Among the host of frustrations that made last week a struggle, the greatest involved walking in to the office on Wednesday to find that we had no connectivity. That meant no access to e-mail, the server, intranet, or Internet. I don’t exaggerate when I say that my co-workers were essentially paralyzed.

My office is a satellite of a San Francisco-based company, so all of our technology resources are on the west coast. Also, I am the default tech person in my office. It’s not in any way part of my job, but when you work for a small company, you tend to do whatever needs to be done. For me, that usually means troubleshooting network or printer issues and setting up workstations for new hires. Whenever there’s an office tech issue, I’m usually on the phone with the tech guys because they know that I can understand their language and I try to be a quick study. It’s a friendly relationship and I enjoy being an honorary tech person.

So, at 9am Eastern, I found out which tech guy was on duty and reluctantly called his cell phone. From the rustling and murmuring, I could tell that he had been asleep prior to the phone ringing. “I’m so sorry,” I said, “but we don’t have access to anything over here. There is no connectivity.”

He told me to hang on, that he’d check out a few things and call me back.

With a cell phone pressed up against my ear, I stood in an ill-lit closet packed with servers and cords, trying to follow the instructions on unplugging, resetting, logging in, and writing rules. After five hours of troubleshooting, we finally had connectivity, and I was completely exhausted. I downloaded my e-mail and left for home. JG had called to check in on me and after I described the experience as “the worst day ever,” he had a bag of gummy bears waiting for me.

The next day, I came in to work and realized that, yet again, we did not have network access. People streamed out of their offices and asked me what was going on, why there was still a problem. I answered sharply, “I don’t know. I can’t even talk about this right now.”

I got back on the phone.

As it turns out, the previous day’s problem had reoccurred in the San Francisco office, but our configuration was such that the issue affected my office, too. It was small consolation that we didn’t have exactly the same problem – that is, that I didn’t break anything – but, oh, I was tired. Ultimately, we had access back by lunchtime and lost working hours for the week totaled at eight.

Yesterday, the UPS man brought me a surprise package that bloomed into tissue-papery irises in purple and yellow. Every time I look up at them, I notice a new petal uncurling and a fresh bloom exposed. The card reads:

You are our Superhero! We are so grateful – the Tech Team

Because I usually talk with this team about systems requirements, documentation, and software updates, getting a bouquet of flowers from them is simultaneously incongruous and completely flattering. I am so pleased and almost speechless.

I realize now that being so exhausted gave me a mindset based on survival. I’d grit my teeth and think, Must get through the day. But this week, I can look at this gift and be reminded that the effort doesn’t always go unnoticed.

Besides, I think it takes a lot for a tech team to send flowers to a girl. I’m enjoying these while they last.

My Kennett Square

2007-05-06T09:47:00.000-05:00

I know I’ve been silent lately; my brain gears have been spinning too rapidly to form something coherent. I tried four times yesterday, but to no avail. Thankfully, I read a post that prompted me to think about my hometown, which I interpreted as the town in which I live now. The thought exercise shook me out of my funk, so thanks, Janet!

- - -

My Kennett Square , PA

Age: 20-something
Occupation: Proofreader
I lived there for: 1.5 years, so far
I lived there because: It’s halfway between JG’s and my jobs, so that’s where we bought our first house
My neighborhood: Stenning Hills
My favorite restaurant: Half Moon
If you go to this restaurant, be sure to order: Definitely the crab nachos. They also have a huge selection of Belgian beers
My favorite museum: Brandywine River Museum, even though it’s not technically in Kennett Square
My favorite tourist destination: Longwood Gardens, which has way too much prettiness per square foot, especially around Christmas
Best insider spot: The Farmers’ Market in the spring and summer
My favorite area: State Street, the one-street “downtown” area
Best place to go shopping: The Mushroom Cap and The Paper Market
When you visit, don’t forget to pack: Good walking shoes for the First Friday Art Strolls
But leave room in your suitcase for: Yummy mushroom goods like soup mix or infused olive oil
The one local cuisine you should try when you’re in town is: Anything mushroom-centric at a local restaurant like Newton’s or Challie’s
The best way to get around: Driving is really the only option, sadly
If I had to describe this city in one word, it would be: Quaint
I tell my friends to stay at: Our house!
The one thing most outsiders don’t know about this city is: If you see mushrooms at your supermarket, there’s a 50% chance that they were grown here or in neighboring small towns.
They say “Virginia is for lovers.” So fill in the blank: Kennett Square is for present and future mushroom fans. (And we celebrate at the superfun festival every year!)

#50

Sometimes

2007-05-01T21:07:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, your husband will ask how your day was and you can say honestly, “Fine, actually.” Sometimes, your brain is so exerted that you have no words for how much you dreaded driving in, how much you wished the day would end. Sometimes, you’re beyond griping or venting because even you’re tired of the story and it doesn’t quite seem fair to subject someone else to it, again. You might plop on the couch and ask for hug, but when the tension of the day washes over you, you can’t help it that your eyes fill with tears and dot your husband’s shirt. Sometimes, you have too many words for how hard the day was and you sting your husband with the barbs you kept inside for eight hours. You try to explain that you’re not mad at him, but it doesn’t feel that way at all.

Sometimes, you savor the time spent with co-workers because they are funny, smart people who are doing their best. Sometimes, a missed appointment here and a snide comment there will make you vacillate between being irritated and irritating. Raw emotions lie just under the surface, just waiting to burst out at the slightest prod. Sometimes, you say things you don’t mean and make faces you don’t intend. You’re mean. You hurt people.

Sometimes, you know what you’re doing for a living is making a difference and that no one could do the job as well as you do. Sometimes, you wonder if you actually like what you’re doing. You visualize something you’d like to do better and ask yourself if it’s really worth it to put yourself back out in the meat market. Sometimes, you think back to that time after college when the job search was more about survival and benefits than a fulfilling career path. You don’t relish retooling your résumé for every job possibility, tracking your application history, being rejected, and sneaking around to interviews.

Sometimes, it’s just easier to stay in a familiar situation, even if it doesn’t make sense anymore. Sometimes, the comfort of the known is so much more desirable than the craggy overhang of the unknown. Sometimes, you prefer your ergonomic desk chair to jumping off into thin air.

Sometimes, you reach the end of your rope.

And then you dust off the résumé.

Purge

2007-04-29T21:32:00.000-05:00

I did it again. I left lip balm in my jeans pocket, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but I washed my jeans and then melted the lip balm to oblivion in the dryer. The annoyance of replacing the lip balm aside, I knew that as soon as I found the empty tube, I would have dark spots of melted balminess on my clothing. And because I make this mistake so often, I also knew with dread certainty that those spots would never come out.

Argh.

A strange Spartan attitude took over my usual packrat mode and I tossed half a dozen shirts into the trash can after finding telltale lip balm spots. I wasn’t going to wear them because of the dark spots, so there was no use in keeping them. Then my thoughts wandered to my dresser, which was busting at the seams with clothing I know I pass by every morning. I only have so many outfits that I swap out for work, so there was no reason for me to be unable to shut the drawers on a regular basis. The latest episode of melted lip balm was the straw that broke the camel’s back: I was weeding out my wardrobe.

I splayed the contents of my bottom dresser drawers on the bed and dropped items into the Goodwill bag without a second thought. That tank top is too low, I don’t wear things with bows anymore, I shrunk that in the wash, etc. I added every button-down shirt I own because, by some strange phenomenon, my arms look like sausages in the sleeves, but I am pretty certain that my arms are not my biggest fat problem. Whatever – I didn’t wear them at all last season. I was emboldened by the growing stack of items in the bag. Look at me! I’m not being all sentimental about my clothing! I’m not like those loonies on What Not to Wear!

And then I saw that my real problem was not tank tops or bows or shrinkage. My real problem was Free T-shirts. Cue ominous music.

If such a thing existed, I would qualify for Free Stuff Anonymous. A radio commercial back in the day featured a commentator saying, “Free is my favorite price. It’s my favorite flavor. It’s my favorite color. It’s always my size.” Oh, how I related. My penchant for not paying for things resulted in an overwhelming collection of t-shirts in varying degrees of bagginess and requisite obnoxious logos. I separated the lot into four major categories:

College: bright blue or gold, usually with a picture of a chicken
Summer Camp: various campfire or mountainous silk-screened designs
Rock Climbing: logo-covered prizes from competitions = human billboard
Sentimental: gifts, inside jokes, or otherwise unexplainable to outside parties

I was aghast at the sight of the leaning tower of t-shirts. How many shirts does one person need, anyway?

Though it pained me, I slowly sorted through the stack with my newly-minted Spartan mindset. I only wear college shirts to football games, so three will suffice. I only wear camp shirts in the summer, so I only need two. Only one climbing shirt is small enough to wear in public, but I couldn’t give up any of the sentimental ones. Stacy and Clinton would be shaking their disapproving heads at me.

There is a bright side to all of this separation anxiety. After gazing at my beloved shirts forlornly, I hopped up to e-mail my mother-in-law, which I know is sort of a weird reflex. See, she made quilts for all three of her children out of childhood shirts and they had them for freshman year at college. JG’s quilt is in our living room and I use it all the time, so I asked if she would mind rescuing my shirts. She wrote back right away to say that she was “thrilled to do it,” as long as I didn’t impose a time constraint. JG snorted and said, “Yeah, I hope you don’t mind waiting for five years.”

It’s fine with me! I know I’ll get them back in quilt-form eventually, and in the meantime, I have more drawer space for new clothes…

Climb Time

2007-04-26T20:27:00.000-05:00

After a summer of belaying for high-ropes courses, JG and I went climbing all the time in college. There was a tiny (but free!) gym made out of a converted racquetball court at the fitness center and we went at least twice a week. Slowly, we got better and became friends with the regulars and the staff. JG earned a nickname, “Gigantor,” and we were easily recognizable because of our extreme difference in height. It was a workout that didn’t feel like one and I loved it.

And then we graduated. Rock gyms cost money and getting to them cost time. After the demands on the daily routine, the climbing gear stayed in a dark closet, unused. Every so often, JG and I would look at each other and say, “We should really get out there.” But we never did.

Last week, a friend of ours called up. “They just opened a new gym in Coatesville! Come check it out with me!” JG took him up on it when I was in L.A. and brought home rave reviews, so we went together on Tuesday night.

It was the first time I’d gone climbing in more than two years and I could feel it. My hands were unaccustomed to the dryness of chalky hands and my forearms were confused about the sudden strain. I was pleased to find that my body still remembered the odd configurations that climbing demands, even if my strength was not up to par. I climbed several easy routes and reminded myself how to belay, but JG and our friend did most of the climbing. The fact that I tired so easily was just motivation to get back to my former self.

Unlike other gyms I’ve tried in the area, this one had other workout equipment. When my hands were too raw to hold on any longer, I surprised myself by walking on a treadmill for 20 minutes, and following it up with 7 minutes of running. Running! Which I normally view as cruel torture! I could barely walk down the steps without falling, but I felt like I had really done something good for myself. I heart endorphins! We both joined the gym that night.

One of our friends, a gym teacher and all-around healthy guy, always says that after a hard workout, the second day is the worst. Today is the second day and I believe him. My forearms hurt so much this morning that I had a hard time gripping my steering wheel. I could hardly jog up my one flight of stairs. It’s as though I can hear my body creak.

Tomorrow night, JG and I are hitting up the gym again. Wish me luck.

Chaos and Star Treatment

2007-04-24T16:59:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was just one of those days when everything started later than it should have and took longer than was reasonable. I was constantly behind, never catching my footing. JG was excited to fire up the grill for the first time of the season and I had the best of intentions to have tossed and pasta salads ready by the time JG got home from his night class. However, my plans were dashed to pieces when he called to say he was leaving school and I was still in the check-out line at the supermarket. Once home, my grocery bags broke in the kitchen, I couldn’t find a matching pair of flip-flops in my dark closet, and I dropped an egg while I tried to make brownies. JG found me making a ruckus as I washed dishes; I was not friendly at all. I know I get way too frustrated when small things go wrong, but when it seems like nothing goes right, it’s more than I can handle gracefully. I went on to burn the French fries and turn a pot of pasta into overcooked mush; much to my chagrin, I had to toss out all of that food. In what turned out to be slight consolation, JG accidentally over-parsleyed the pasta salad so that it tasted of burning. And then he made me a cosmo.

Good man.

Anyway.

From the department of More Interesting Things, I offer what I would have written upon my return home on Saturday had I not been A) so freaking exhausted, B) busy making chili and/or C) running the combo chili cook-off/square dance that evening. My chili tied for 2^nd place and then I proceeded to sleep for over twelve hours on Sunday.

- - -

On Tuesday, the staff of my small organization was set to meet for an all-hands dinner, but my immediate team met for happy hour a bit earlier. (I ordered a lemon drop before I realized that the special that day was 2-for-1 and I had two yummy martinis sitting in front of me without warning. Needless to say, I tried to avoid talking and standing up.) I looked up and saw a girl walking to the restaurant next door on the arm of a short-ish guy. “Hey,” I whispered to my neighbor, “That girl really looks like Hillary Swank.” She looked at me and said flatly, “That is Hillary Swank, RA.”

What!

The rest of my table craned and whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything?!” I didn’t even realize it was her until it was too late! Conveniently, we were sitting on the patio, so we staked out Hillary and her date (her agent, we wondered?) until they came out again. Cue more whispering and gasping.

Then, on Saturday morning, I was standing at baggage claim in Philly with a few of my officemates when I spied a small woman across the way with red hair. I looked once. Twice. I nudged my nearest co-worker and said dubiously, “Is that Kathy Griffin?”

“Oh, my gosh, yes. Let’s get a picture with her!”

“Uh, would you want your picture taken with random crazy people after a red-eye?”

“She’s probably used to it! She’d probably like it because she’s so D-list.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine. We’ll just stand here and stare, then.”

And we did. Not as glamorous as Hillary Swank, maybe, but it brought my celebrity sighting count up to a big TWO! I call that a successful L.A. trip!

- - -

I booked a shuttle to and from the airport for this trip and I relish the luxurious rides in town cars. The ground transportation person called my name and I walked out to meet the driver … who was standing next to a white stretch limo. What in the world!

And so, on my way home from my trip to Hollywood, I rode all alone in a limousine. I sat across from empty decanters, tiny television screens, and wine glasses in their own holders. I put my feet up on the seat stretched before me and watched where I had been through the back windshield. I saw people’s eyes linger on the car, just as mine usually do, and I realized that I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. It was very surreal. And very L.A.

Summing Up

2007-04-20T18:25:00.000-05:00

The conference is over.
My feet hurt.
My suitcase is packed.
My flight back home leaves in six hours.
I didn’t ever get to In-n-Out.
I’ll get home at 7am.
JG will be a sight for sore eyes.
I’ll crash for two hours of sleep before getting up to run an event for my church.

And then sleep, sweet sleep.

From the Other Coast

2007-04-17T16:35:00.000-05:00

Somewhere between bouncing back from vacation, reorienting myself to working, and preparing to leave town again, I completely forgot to mention that I was flying across the country. I’m in Los Angeles for a conference for work, so I’ll be surprised if I’ll get a chance to set foot on Rodeo Drive and window shop. This week will consist of suits, schmoozing, and shaking hands; in short, a whole lot of fun. Rolling my eyes.

I got a call from one of my co-workers last night, informing me that our flight was leaving at 8:30am the next day. This call wouldn’t have startled me so much, except that the flight was originally scheduled to depart at 10am. And I hadn’t packed yet. And I was covered in bread flour. I had to reschedule my shuttle pick-up for 5:45am – Heaven, help me – and I raced around to pack since I actually had to get to bed at a decent hour. Although I had interpreted the flight change as a bad omen for the week, I made it to my flight with plenty of time to eat breakfast and I managed to sleep during 4 out of the 5.5 hours on the plane. After a yummy lunch, I’m settling into my hotel room and steaming out wrinkles from my clothes. Oh, the glamorous life of a business traveler.

The major up side to being out here is that I have three whole evenings available for dinners out with my co-workers, so I’m trolling for restaurant recommendations. I did zero research before coming out here because I knew I’d be holed up in a conference center for 12 hours straight, but I forgot about dinners. What food is indigenous to Los Angeles? A girl’s got to eat, you know.

Try Saying, "Hi"

2007-04-15T18:24:00.000-05:00

The church JG and I attend is new and small and meets in another church’s building for Sunday service. Today, a member of the other church, a man with whom I am not acquainted, approached me and I expected a normal, good-natured conversation. Instead, I got the following (my gut reactions italicized):

He: So… is your family Vietnamese?
I: (What in the world? Oh, he’s just asking what my background is.) Uh, no, my family is Chinese.
He: Oh, sorry, my mistake.
I: (Ooh, he feels bad. Just make light of it and be nice.) Don’t worry, I can’t tell the difference sometimes.
He: If you had been Vietnamese, I would have been able to talk to you.
I: (Um, because we’re not talking right now?) Oh.
He: Well, have a nice day.

With that, the man ambled off. I guess we’re done now, I thought.

Admittedly, this episode does not come close to the ignorance displayed by the Rice Knowledge Woman, but I’m obliged to raise my eyebrow in a general expression of, “What the heck just happened here?” Besides the obvious fact that asking someone about ethnic background this bluntly is awkward and generally inappropriate, I have three major objections to the conversation.

First, I hate how I feel obligated to maintain my composure when I’m caught in these circumstances. Why is it my role to be sensitive to people’s ignorance and lack of common courtesy when it comes to race? Why can’t I just lash out with some zinger? (“I think all you middle-aged, pot-bellied, white guys look the same, too.”) Oh, right. I’m supposed to be a docile, Asian girl who giggles behind her hand and wears chopsticks in her hair.

Although this conversation did not include this pet peeve explicitly, I always become irritated when people are surprised that I don’t speak Chinese. I was born in America! Where we speak English! I was an English major, for goodness’ sake! I hardly expect to meet a third-generation European-American who speaks Italian or French or whatever, but I don’t exclaim, “Oh, really? That’s a shame! Why didn’t you try to pick it up?”

Last, but certainly not least - why didn’t this man even introduce himself? I think I may have been a little less startled if the conversation had started out with something like: “Hi, I’m Joe. I learned some Vietnamese back in the day and I was wondering what your background is.” I imagine that the interaction would have been strange nonetheless, but I think it may have felt better with a different lead-in.

I don’t mind being asked about my ethnicity, but the question is so often posed in such a coarse manner that I am completely turned off. To this man, I was no more than an Asian face. I wasn’t a person he thought to address directly and that bothers me most of all.

Here’s a little tip for those who might be interested in others’ ethnicities: To break the ice, try saying, “Hi.” It’s kind of like speaking to any other person.

The Dog Situation

2007-04-11T20:02:00.000-05:00

In telling folks about my recent anxiety-ridden dog dream, I’ve garnered reactions of two general themes:

“Ooh, get a dog - you’ll love it!”
“Uh, maybe you shouldn’t get a dog.”

I also received the rare, “JG should really stop hassling you,” which I appreciate. Both of you have my hearty thanks.

While we agree on big issues – religion, politics, finance – we squabble about minor items that we view as integral to our lives. For example, JG squeezes the middle of the toothpaste tube, mangling it, but I go for the bottom and smooth it out. When we first got married, we had separate toothpastes because we just couldn’t stand the other’s preference. I’m proud to say that we now share a tube and I only smooth it out once a week or so. That’s what they call progress.

Dog ownership is one of these small, yet all-important issues and we come from completely different schools of thought:

JG:
- Loves dogs
- Stops to pet passing dogs and chats up the owners
- Believes strongly in adopting rescue dogs, not buying from a breeder
- Has always had a dog
RA:
- Is afraid of dogs
- Hides behind JG when dogs approach and avoids touching them
- Wants to run away when a dog is off its leash
- Has never had a pet of any kind

Pragmatically speaking, I feel like a dog is a big step up the pet hierarchy, since I have zero ownership experience. I can’t help but view a dog as a new set of chores rather than a nice companion. Here ends the logic.

When I was little, I “had a bad dog experience,” as I usually say. I was over at a friend’s house and their (gigantic) German shepherd put its paws on my (tiny, four-year-old) shoulders. I was face-to-face with a wolf-like animal and I vividly remember being paralyzed with fear as the (savage, toothy) dog stared me in the face. When I see a big dog now, I become that frightened pre-schooler again. I understand intellectually that the dog was “being friendly,” to employ a phrase so often used by trusting owners, but that feeling of panic and allover lack of safety was firmly impressed on my four-year-old consciousness. My hands have started shaking even as I type this memory. It is into this mindset that JG wants to introduce a dog.

Granted, he doesn’t want a German shepherd, thank goodness. JG prefers smaller dogs (20 pounds or so) just in case he might have to subdue it for whatever reason. He understands my fear, but only to a certain degree because he can empathize with dogs, never having had a negative experience with them. Even though the ideal situation for me would be to simply not get a dog, I know that JG would be pining for one in the back of his mind. So, like all of the marriage books recommend, we compromise, however begrudgingly.

I’ve asked for and JG has agreed to a few conditions for getting a dog:

JG has finished his master’s degree.
We have enough money to replace the carpet in the entire house.
The dog is cute, quiet, and small; non-shedding would be a plus.
I am open to loving the dog and I don’t hide it just to prove a point.
JG does not gloat when I inevitably love the dog.

Under these criteria, we’ll probably get a dog sometime during 2009. By then, I expect to be fully resigned to the idea and maybe even excited. From what I’ve seen on Animal Planet, I think the West Highland Terrier is the cutest (per Item #3). Luckily enough, there’s a Westie rescue group right near us, so we’ll see if we qualify for ownership when the time comes.

Anyway, we’re kind of in a holding pattern while my brain catches up to the plan and JG does his best to refrain from saying things like, “Wouldn’t it be cute if the dog was snuggling up to you right now?” I usually shudder and shake my head. In the meantime, he is working through his master’s program and we’re having fun dreaming up dog names. JG is gunning for a famous mathematician and I’m combing through my literary favorites. Just how nerdy can this dog be? Only time will tell.

Sweet Sale Success

2007-04-08T17:39:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I had a euphoric shopping experience thanks to a stack of birthday gift cards. Jeans, jewelry, and shoes all found their way back home, but I thought wistfully about how I was unable to snag the elusive pinstriped suit. Why can’t wardrobe classics always be in stock, in my size, and reasonably priced? It would only be practical.

The need for the suit arose because I have to go to a conference for work next week; I usually wear jeans and heels to work, so my selection of real business attire is very limited. As a sort of knee-jerk reaction, I ordered a suit online in the hopes that it would arrive in time and everything would fit perfectly.

Well, it arrived in time. I opened the box, brimming with anticipation, but my face fell when I saw what was inside. The suit was black with thin pinstripes, but the stripes were at least half an inch apart and a sort of brown-gold color, which did not add up to the classic white, thinly spaced pattern I had envisioned. One of my female co-workers remarked, “You should try it on, but the wider stripes make it kind of matronly.” Whoa. Matronly? Then I realized that I would not have even considered the suit if I had seen it in a store. I had to return it and I was not happy about it.

Yesterday, a friend and I took a spontaneous trip to the mall that was spurred by a tip that a shirt I love was on sale for a mere $10. Must go and grab every color in my size! On the way there, I mentioned that I was also on the lookout for a suit. This friend is usually game for my suggestions and we set off energetically.

Once inside the mall, my friend nudged me toward The Limited, asking, “Did you try there yet?” I declined, citing pushy salespeople and oversized pant lengths. But she pointed out the red sale signs and thought it might be worth a try. A quick sweep through the store yielded a black suit with thin blue stripes of varying widths and a cute blue top. Cumulative markdowns let me buy the jacket, pair of pants, top, and dangly earrings for the original cost of the jacket alone. Yes! I had the satisfaction of finding a suit I can use plus the added, thrilling bonus of a fantastic sale. I need to get the pants shortened by about four inches, but that’s an easy alteration that I am absolutely willing to sponsor.

At home, I bragged to JG that, in comparison to all of the items’ original costs, I saved 46%, which was more than $150. Of course, he has yet to understand how spending money saves me anything, but I’m not holding my breath on that one.

#88

Back at the Ranch

2007-04-05T16:44:00.000-05:00

During yesterday’s ride home from Virginia, JG and I both made the mistake of wearing shorts and long-sleeved t-shirts. We were prepared for the possibility of sitting in traffic, broiling in the sun, like we did on the way down. We were not prepared, however, for the cloudy, rain-spattering skies above us and a brisk breeze to boot. After a quick and yummy lunch at Chipotle (woo!), I broke into my suitcase so I could exchange my shorts and flip-flops for jeans and flats. A chilly house and quasi-freezing temperatures outside greeted us upon arrival. Welcome home, indeed. I pride myself on being of hearty New England stock, that mid-Atlantic winters are a mere shadow of what I’m accustomed to, but making the transition from basking in the sunlight to curling up with blankets would be rough for even the most hardened of us.

Coming home from any time away from home is always difficult for me. I am slow to unpack, do laundry, and reconstruct the debris that comes with traveling. Because we did our best to clean out the fridge prior to departure, JG and I had to make a grocery run so that we’d have meals for the next few days. It’s interesting and a little sobering how quickly I grew accustomed to a continental breakfast and two meals out everyday. What, we have to cook now? And do dishes? Boo, hiss.

When life hands out cold grayness and a relatively ordinary existence, I have a few strategies to make myself feel better. I exercised one of them and picked up a handful of springtime at the supermarket floral department today. On another level, JG is helping me to accept the winter cold by making homemade macaroni and cheese! The aroma wafting over from the kitchen is fabulous and we will have exactly the right dinner to accompany new episodes of The Office and CSI tonight.

This vacation “routine” of sleeping in, catching meals as I can, watching Barefoot Contessa, and reading as much as I can makes me selfishly yearn for some sort of quarter-life retirement. Oh, to have a life of leisure.

Weirdsburg

2007-04-04T17:27:00.000-05:00

Williamsburg, Virginia, Day 4: (retrospectively)
JG and I finished up our trip to Williamsburg with a relaxing day of vacation-y activities: sleeping in, shopping, and playing mini-golf. We expected a rather ordinary day, but we got a healthy dose of Williamsburg oddity, instead.

In our hotel’s “Welcome to Williamsburg” packet, I saw a bright ad for a place called Williamsburg Pottery. I thought it might be fun to wander around and buy a new dish to take home as a souvenir, and maybe we could even see them making the pottery. I don’t think I can accurately capture the peculiarity we encountered there. We drove up to a collection of steel warehouses that housed a random assortment of chintzy stores like Totes/Sunglass World, Stained Glass and Collectibles, and something called African Gallery. Since I was on the prowl for actual pottery – imagine that! – JG and I wandered to a larger building that appeared to be the main event. Picture the many aisles of Ikea crossed with bizarre goods from Big Lots in massive quantities, separated into departments like “Oriental” and “Kitchen Gadgets.” This main building (which went on for miles) was slammed up against the largest garden supply store this side of the Mississippi with a collection of statuary to match. Next door, another steel building was labeled, “Hardware, Wine, and Cheese.” With every new step that did not reveal a large pottery-manufacturing site, I wondered if I would be A Total Tourist by asking, “Could you point me in the direction of the pottery?” But seriously! The place is called Williamsburg Pottery, for goodness’ sake. JG now wonders if the site used to be the home of pottery production but has now been accosted by these strange stores in the warehouses. Whatever the case, words can not express the weirdness.

After a cute lunch and some outlet shopping, JG and I set out for a round of mini-golf. We followed our usual routine:

I accept the fact that I will lose and choose a golf ball that matches what I’m wearing that day.
JG makes sure I have a putter that’s small enough for me; in this case, it was a child’s large size.
I remember that I have no sense of aim or speed.
JG, ever the teacher, tries to give me a few tips to “make it a lot easier.”
I cheerfully refuse the tips because the frustration of trying to improve my nonexistent game will take away from my enjoyment of how many times I can chase the ball past the hole.
JG putts cleanly, with maybe one occasion of 3 shots or more.
I celebrate anything at par, but spend my time mostly craning my body to will the ball to curve left or right, because, you know, that totally helps.
JG wins by a landslide and all is right with the world.

This time, the mini-golf routine was upset by a few rounds of turtle-watching because our mini-golf course doubled as a turtle rescue center. Seriously. They had signs all over the place about their mission, how the turtles gave joy to their patrons, and NOT to feed them, because so many guests smuggle in turtle food, I guess. Additionally, the waterfalls and little ponds in the course were all dyed a bizarrely unnatural shade of turquoise. Isn’t that kind of bad for living things?

At the end of the day, JG and I agreed that even though we couldn’t have predicted what we experienced, it was fun to get a glimpse into the strangeness in Williamsburg. It’s not just colonial history, folks.

Revolution, Thrills, and a Food Coma

2007-04-02T21:53:00.000-05:00

Williamsburg, Virginia, Day 3:
We had amazing weather yesterday for walking through Colonial Williamsburg: 60 degrees, partly cloudy, with a slight breeze. I slung my camera over my shoulder and prepared for a good old educational experience. The trouble is, when you buy a ticket, it’s hard to know what you’re getting. Williamsburg is still a city; the whole thing is not officially “colonial.” So, if we hadn’t bought a ticket, we could have walked around, visited the shops, and had lunch with no problem, but there would have been no tour of the governor’s palace or visits to various tradesmen. In that light, I’m glad we bought tickets for all of the exhibits, but I’m not sure it was worth what we paid. I do think that all of the “character interpreters” we met were incredibly knowledgeable and friendly, so the entire experience was very pleasant and informative. I snapped far too many pictures of flowers and farm animals, but JG and I had a good time being outdoors and stopping in to the little stores. All told, we probably walked about five miles, which is five more than a usual day in my life. I felt like I got some exercise and learned a thing or two, and at the end of the day, JG even commented, “I wasn’t sure if I’d like that, but it turned out to be really fun. Good idea, kid.” Aw.

We spent most of today at Busch Gardens, which was a lot of fun. Unfortunately, the day started with insanely inefficient processes for parking and ticketing and I got a bad impression from it all. During the worst of it, JG and I were trying to redeem our pre-paid, turnstile-ready tickets that we had printed at home. The ticket readers were machines that were supposed to scan a bar code, take your fingerprint, and let you through. Evidently, they needed a person to assist with the bar codes and fingerprints, which totally defeated the purpose of the automation. When my bar code didn’t scan, the woman at my station punched in a 16-number code, very slowly, after she said, “See, the printer makes the bars too close together. Looks like you need a new printer.” I really wanted to fire back with, “No, my printer is fine. If the ticket prints out incorrectly, it’s the fault of the system and any convenience I thought I had was totally shot by your inefficiency and incompetence.” Instead, because I knew it wasn’t only her fault, I chose to stare daggers at her. I was good and worked up after that, but JG got me walking at a trot – each of his steps is about 2.5 of mine – and my mood burned off quickly when we rode a giant coaster twice in a row with virtually no wait. Woo! Going to an amusement park is one of my favorite things to do with JG because we’re both so focused on a strategic route that will result in minimum wait time. It sounds super-structured, but we have so much fun once we actually get to the rides. Going roller coasters for five hours is such a departure from my workday and I really felt like I was on vacation when we were there. It was very nice.

Oog. I’m typing under the influence of an incredibly filling meal from Pierce’s Pitt, a Williamsburg fixture where you order and pay at the register and then pick up your food when your number is called over a tinny intercom. We had plenty of time to pick our poison since we were in line behind a group of teens from a Baptist church in Ohio who arrived, just before we did, in one of those truncated school buses. JG and I both decided on the Barbecue Dinner, which consists of a half-pound of pulled-pork barbecue and a choice of three (!) sides. We both chose fries and mac-n-cheese, but JG went all-carb with the addition of hushpuppies and I chose collard greens, you know, for a balanced diet. Well, our friends weren’t kidding when they billed Pierce’s as “old-school, cheap, and a ton of food.” Oh, my goodness. The barbecue was comforting, stick-to-your-ribs, and full-flavored with just a tiny kick at the end. The meat seemed to expand in our stomachs alongside the side dishes that complemented the sweet-sour tang of the sauce. It was one of those meals that made me sorry that it would be over at some point, but no matter how much I liked it, there was no way I could have finished it all. JG cleaned his plate, but he practically rolled himself to the car and then collapsed as soon as he got back. I did my best, but I was only able to eat all of the barbecue and the mac-n-cheese. It’s about prioritizing, right? That said, I wish I had already brushed my teeth before I started to type because, man, standing up is going to be rough.

Traffic and a Full Belly

2007-03-31T21:24:00.000-05:00

Williamsburg, Virginia, Day 1:
Right now, JG and I are sprawled out on the wide expanse of a king-sized bed; he’s watching the UCLA/Florida game and I’m clicking away happily on a laptop. We’re enjoying a night of leisure after a less-than-smooth day of travel.

JG calculated that the trip would take us about five hours. We’d leave at 10am, stop for lunch after getting past DC, and arrive at our hotel around 3pm. That would leave time for an early dinner and he could catch both of the semi-final games tonight. No problem. We packed the car, loaded up the CD player, and we were off. Yay for vacation!

Well. Several spats of traffic, including one 15-mile stretch that took over an hour to cover, left us roasting hot, starving, and cranky. We grabbed fast food for lunch, but the fatty, fried fakeness made us even crankier because we felt like tubs of lard. And then we hit more traffic. Ugh. Five hours stretched out to seven.

Thankfully, our hotel room is comfortable – if a little brightly botanical for my tastes – and the internet access is free! Yes! To top off the night, for dinner, we found a fabulously local Italian place within walking distance. It was crammed full of people and JG overheard a guy at a neighboring table saying that he was waiting for a certain waitress because she’d been serving him for 30 years. The food was so tasty (and cheap!) and we were grateful for the brief walk back to the hotel. The ride down here was tiring and frustrating at times, but now that we’re settled in, I’m excited for everything we have planned. The weather should be gorgeous and I’m armed and ready with my camera.

Bring it on, Williamsburg.

Brain Equals Mush

2007-03-29T20:16:00.000-05:00

Some weeks go by when you don’t have enough to do in the hours you have. You find yourself staring at the wall, wondering what movies are playing, and remembering that you should have called that guy about the thing. Other weeks are just right: you accomplish exactly what you intended to do in just about the time you had anticipated. Then there are weeks like the one I’ve had and there is no way you can finish everything you need to do in the time you have. Sure, the week passes quickly, but it’s kind of a curse because the time is running out!

There is a light at the end of this tunnel and I like to call it vacation. Yay! Next week is JG’s school’s spring break, so on Saturday, we’re packing up the Subaru to head off to Williamsburg, Virginia. The loose plan so far is to visit the historical section, eat at a recommended barbecue joint, and take a spin at Busch Gardens, with some lazing by a pool and reading scattered in there for good measure. We’re also going to visit with a high school friend of JG’s; she got engaged recently and we haven’t seen her since then, so it’ll be nice to hang out.

But honestly, my brain is fried. Thank goodness my to-do list at work is down to 2.5 items, or else Friday would be a very bad day. I can hardly string these sentences together, much less make the all-important packing lists because – gah! I haven’t packed yet! I don’t even know if I have to do laundry! My brain is so numb that I can’t even absorb the true gravity of those words. They’re just running into my skull and bouncing off. Thud.

In an effort to stop the insanity, I offer the following anecdote, without even a hint of a transition.

- - -

Last night, I was telling JG about a dream I had had the night before. I’m sure I’ll go into more detail with this topic in the future, but the back story is that I am very uncomfortable around big dogs and JG has been lobbying hard for the cause of He Wants a Dog. Anyway.

RA: So, I was wrestling with this huge dog and I was really really scared.
JG: Oh, man. Did you wake up?
RA: No, I noticed that the fur didn’t seem right. It was actually a person in a dog suit.
JG: Ah. Were you winning? Was the person you-sized or me-sized?
RA: Definitely you-sized.
JG: So you were definitely not winning.
RA: Right. But I don’t remember who won. I probably didn’t, but at the end, the person took off the dog suit … and it was you!
JG: Oh. I see why it was me-sized.
RA: Yeah. So, could we not talk about getting a dog so often? It is clearly causing me some anxiety here.
JG: Okay, okay.

Unplugged

2007-03-26T13:06:00.000-05:00

During the day, like so many other working stiffs, I sit in front of a computer and type away at a keyboard. My morning routine of consists of work e-mail, personal e-mail, and Google Reader. After time away from my desk, I jiggle my mouse to deactivate my screen saver and check to see if any e-mails have come in during my absence. My music library has been uploaded to my hard drive and my PDA syncs with my mail server to keep track of calendar items and send me alerts. I’m not as technologically-adept as some, but I am pretty wired. Even if I don’t like coffee.

When I get home from work, I dive right into personal e-mail and blogs that may have updated throughout the day. I work on future posts, correspond with friends, upload photos, or shop online. I realized that, in total, I can spend up to twelve hours in a day staring at a glowing computer screen, positioning my fingers on the raised bits on the F and J keys, and hearing the tap-dance rhythm of the keyboard.

Twelve hours is a bit much, I decided.

On Saturday, I took a break from using my computer. I slept in. I baked carrot cake cupcakes for my book study meeting and a loaf of weekend bread for JG. I read two hundred pages of my current book and cooked dinner. That was it. No e-mails sent, no Submit Purchase buttons clicked, and no glazed eyes in the aura of the laptop. I felt like I accomplished things – real, tangible things, not just pointing and dragging and touch-padding. There’s something to be said for actual accomplishment, I think.

Now, I’m back to the workweek and the busy thrum of the Information Super Highway, but I won’t hesitate to take a scenic detour every so often.

Made for It

2007-03-25T20:43:00.000-05:00

When I was a little girl, I hated to dry the dishes from the dishwasher. My parents refused to use the heated drying cycle of the dishwasher, so it was my job to wipe off each dish before putting it back. To make the task go faster, I’d put on “dish music” and sashay on the ceramic tile with my dish towel waving. Each season had its dish music: fall was Aaron Copland, winter was The Nutcracker, spring was Canadian Brass, and summer was the Boston Pops. In response to my parents’ puzzled glances, I’d say matter-of-factly, “Kitchens were made for dancing,” and spin more pirouettes in my socks.

---

When I moved into my first apartment, JG came over occasionally to have dinner and hang out away from his dorm. Sharing the scant countertop space, we tossed salads and cooked pasta as we slid over the worn linoleum. Because I was just out of school, I couldn’t afford cable or internet access, so my only form of entertainment was the radio. (When a friend visited me, she exclaimed, “What is this, 1925?”) Dinnertime was about the same time that Delilah came on, so “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Butterfly Kisses,” and “My Heart Will Go On” were usual audio fare during the meal preparations. If I heard the opening measures of a standard like, “The Way You Look Tonight,” I’d take up JG’s left hand in my right and sway to the beat of the music. At first, he was taken aback by the whole thing, but I’d just power through, saying firmly, “Kitchens are made for dancing!” The way I saw it, the other square footage of my apartment was a sea of tan carpet, but the kitchen gave us just enough room for a private dance floor. I’m sure Delilah would have approved.

---

When JG and I settled on our first house, where we live now, we decided to have dinner at the house that night. I packed a crate with the microwave, a plastic container of chili, a bag of baby carrots, two bowls, and two spoons, and we were off. We ceremoniously used our new key to get into the house, which turned out to be inhospitably cold because the heat had been off for the whole day. I plugged in the microwave and set up bowls of chili to warm up when JG swept me up and started spinning me around on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. Thrown off, I asked what he was doing. JG dipped me and said, “Kitchens were made for dancing, of course.” And we savored our first dance as homeowners until the microwave beep signaled that dinner was ready.

Sunday Scribblings #52: In the Kitchen

Connecticutian

2007-03-21T20:20:00.000-05:00

Friend: You have your New Englanders, your Bostonians, your New Yorkers… What do you call someone from Connecticut?
Me: A Connecticutian!
Friend: Uh, that sounds like “execution.”
Me: Well, I’m not a big fan of Connecticutter.

Ah, the Constitution State! The Nutmeg State! The home of the river actually pronounced “Thames” and not “Temms”! A recent e-mail conversation with Jen awakened my deep-rooted love for the little state people drive through to get to Boston or the Cape. I love New England in its entirety, but the second-smallest state (take that, Rhode Island!) will always be special to me.

When I first came down to this mid-Atlantic area to go to college, I amused people by telling them that I was from “the eastern part of Connecticut.” They ogled me for a second before asking incredulously, “Connecticut has parts?” Um, yeah. Like how Delaware has northern and southern parts, Connecticut has eastern and western halves. At least we have eight counties to your three! What now?

I’m not normally so defensive about this. Well, now that I think about it, I am. I just think that Connecticut is a neglected gem of New England and it doesn’t deserve all of the little-state ridicule heaped upon it. I’ve always found myself in a position of explanation of my home state because people always assumed that my family was rich. No, not all of us live in Greenwich. But we have Mystic Pizza, you know. And Yale University. And the UConn Huskies, even if they didn’t make the tournament this year. And Rachael Ray visited us one time to spend $40.

I feel like my corner of Pennsylvania is noticeably different from Connecticut, but it’s hard for me to put my finger on it. At first, I thought it was the Revolutionary history I grew up with: the Charter Oak and Fort Griswold and all that. When someone reminded me about a little thing called the Liberty Bell and some guy named Ben Franklin, I realized that the Philadelphia near me wasn’t just in my history books. Then, I thought it was due to a more generally flat landscape, but I ended up working in the Poconos for a couple of summers, so that theory went out the door. I’m still not sure what it is, but I can feel a change when I get to Connecticut.

Maybe it’s the crisp air, rocky coastlines, and lighthouses. Maybe it’s the worn-down, green faces of those soothing Appalachians. Maybe it’s town greens, white churches with sharp steeples, and the smell of the Long Island Sound. Maybe it’s wearing fall clothes as soon as school starts, scraping snow off of cars in November, and welcoming spring after Easter. I don’t know what it is, but I find it all so comforting.

Of course, I could be a little bitter because I can hardly find a good cup of clam chowder around here. I’m just saying.

Nerd to the nth Power

2007-03-18T20:14:00.000-05:00

I keep finding that no matter how well I think I know JG, he keeps topping himself. It’s not just that his itch to plant grass seed has sprung up earlier than last year. I can overlook the constant monitoring of no less than three unique March Madness brackets, complete with talking smack on the corresponding message boards. Tonight, however, JG hit a new high.

Thanks to one of his oft-read math blogs, JG discovered a source of great pleasure in The Klein Four, an a capella musical group made up of Northwestern University math graduate students. The blog featured a YouTube video of The Klein Four singing their original hit, “Finite Simple Group (of Order Two)”, from their album, Musical Fruitcake. From what I gathered from JG’s exclamations and bursts of laughter, the song lyrics contained a huge number of mathematical references within the context of a romantic relationship. “This is awesome,” he breathed.

JG hopped on the group’s website and became a fan before my very eyes. “Look at these lyrics! So cool! And they have other stuff!” My husband is not an impulse buyer by any means, but within fifteen minutes, he ordered Musical Fruitcake and a geeky-but-ominous t-shirt. JG mused gleefully, “I am totally playing this CD for my kids. They are going to hate it!” He exhibited a surprising level of restraint when he resisted the urge to buy the perfect classroom accessory: the modular wall clock. I’m so proud.

Don’t get me wrong - I could count the number of jokes I understood from the YouTube video on one hand, but I still thought it was clever and funny. Those grad students can actually sing! I mock, but I love that JG loves math so much. I really think it makes him a better teacher for his students and it’s sweet to see him so enthusiastic. Besides, he puts up with me when I wax poetic about how water’s specific heat and polarity make the world go ’round, but that’s another story.

I started typing while JG was finishing up his order of geek merchandise. He turned to me and said, “RA, I’m glad we’re a finite simple group of order two.”

“Um. You know just what to say to make a girl feel good.”

“I do think a simple connected graph with two nodes would be more accurate, but whatever. Let’s always be a finite simple group of order two.”

“Okay.”

“Are you writing about me?”

“… Nope.”

“Are you lying?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care! I’m a nerd and I’m okay with it!”

Mm hmm. They say acceptance is the first step.

Material Girl

2007-03-17T16:59:00.000-05:00

A couple of months ago, I realized that I don’t buy clothes for myself unless the need is utterly dire (i.e. shrinking my go-to black pants – argh) or I have money from a gift lying around. So, for my birthday, I asked for gift cards to clothing stores so that I could treat myself to some new stuff. I don’t know if there was a conspiracy behind all of this, but in the end, I had a fistful of gift cards that were all for Ann Taylor. Maybe my family is trying to class me up or something.

Armed with my birthday money and some leftover Christmas funds that were never spent, I headed out to the mall this afternoon. (I had a slight delay while JG and I unearthed my car from a layer of snowcone shavings from yesterday’s ice storm. My car was covered in 4 inches of tiny ice marbles with not even one flake of snow. I had never seen anything like it.) I had plugged a list of things I was looking for into my Palm so that I would stay focused. Shopping is serious business for me.

Ann Taylor was my first stop because my spending there was completely guilt-free. I am very cost-conscious and I pride myself on being a savvy bargain shopper, so the experience of walking straight to the Petites section, choosing items based on size and style, and taking a pile of clothes to a dressing room was totally foreign to me. Usually, I go directly to the sale portion, survey my size section quickly, try on something if it’s marked down at least 50% and I could really use it, decide that it’s not worth the money, and cruise right out of the store. For once, the fit of the clothing was more important to me than the cost, which was strangely liberating. Is this what it’s like to be on What Not to Wear? For the first time ever, I put on a pair of jeans that fit me correctly and immediately made me feel great. Even better, I was able to pick up another pair on the way to the register! At the conclusion of my euphoric experience, I had a bag stuffed with two pairs of jeans, a pair of denim-like pants, a black-and-white dress, and two pieces of jewelry. Get this - I didn’t even spend all my gift card money and the only thing on sale was the pair of pants. It kind of freaks me out.

I emerged from Ann Taylor feeling optimistic about the rest of my day. The first item on my list was a pinstriped suit and I had a few guesses for where I might find it. In store after store, I avoided salespeople and crept around racks of jackets and pants, hoping to find the elusive combination of perfect pinstripe and separates in the right size. I could tell that there were a few of us looking for the same thing. We circled around each other, vying for the “good racks” but trying not to be pushy. We eyed the garments draped over the others’ arms, hoping to spy a pattern that looked desirable. I used my best skills in flicking through the racks to eliminate styles that didn’t come in my size and kept my ears open for cries of discovery. Alas, all of my efforts were to no avail. I could not find a suitable (ha) combination of pants and jacket in a pinstripe that I liked that happened to be for a short person. It’s so depressing to find a pair of pants that have potential and hold them up at the waist, only to find that there are eight inches of fabric pooling by your feet. Sigh.

I checked off a few items on my list (black ballet flats, camisoles), but not finding the one at the top irked me. I drove home with aching feet and an empty stomach, feeling somewhat blah. Excited to hear about my excursion, my sister called me as I parked in the driveway. I recounted my afternoon and found that I was gaining excitement over what I had found and not just what had eluded me. My sister commended me for not bargain shopping for once and said that she was looking forward to seeing all my stuff whenever we get together again. Talking to my sister was a nice way to end my session of retail therapy. It’s almost as good as actually going shopping with her.

Playing Hooky

2007-03-16T10:19:00.000-05:00

March is a tough month for JG because he has to teach on all five weekdays for five weeks in a row. I am not very sympathetic. That’s what the rest of us call the majority of the year. At the same time, I’m not about to volunteer to supervise classrooms of kids who are straining toward spring break, so I suppose I see his point. This year, I suggested that we take a day off in March together so that we can spend a free day together, and so we did – today!

I suppose it’s somewhat inaccurate to call it “playing hooky,” but that’s what it feels like. We stayed up late last night and slept in this morning. The plan for the day consists of getting subs for lunch and renting a couple of movies. JG has heard a lot of great things about The Departed and I want to see The Notebook because I never have (gasps all around!). I figure we’ll each bear the other’s movie and it’ll be even overall. Most importantly, though, I’m looking forward to hanging out with JG for an entire day without jobs or errands in the way. I feel like the daily grind makes it difficult for me to be really present after work because I’m so dog-tired, and then I feel guilty. My irritation rises faster than makes sense because – don’t I want to be home? It’s not fair to JG and we both needed a break. This week, twenty percent less time at work plus a whole day with each other is just the cure for job-related doldrums.

This long weekend is a nice midpoint on the way to spring break, when I’ll use some vacation time to spend JG’s week off with him. Until then, I plan to savor my lazing around in comfy clothes, eating a yummy sub, and being a couch potato on a rare day of leisure.

From the Random Department

2007-03-14T12:20:00.000-05:00

Today is Pi Day! Did anyone celebrate this with a kooky math teacher in their day? Well, JG is that math teacher. He left for work today wearing his “I Heart Pi” t-shirt and carrying geeky cookies and coffeecake for his geometry students. When nerds unite, their wives bake crazy stuff, or at least this one does.

Figuring out my March Madness brackets is number one on my to-do list when I get home. The deadline is looming, but since I don’t know anything about NCAA basketball, I hope it doesn’t take me that long. I usually go for UConn all the way, but they didn’t make the tournament this year – boo! – so that “strategy” is shot. I will have to revert to decision-making factors like which team’s colors I prefer, whether I know someone who attends that school (and if I like that person), and if I think one mascot would clearly win over another in a rumble. At least I have a system, right?

People talk about being chocoholics or workaholics and I want to know – where are they getting this chocohol? Or workahol? I understand that this strange suffix, “-holic,” comes from alcoholic, but in that initial case, the suffix is just “-ic.” Maybe it’s just not as snappy to say that someone is a “workic.” Doesn’t this usage downplay how serious alcoholism really is? Sure, you might really really really like shopping, but come on, now. If the Wiktionary definition is any indication, this bizarre -holism is getting out of hand. Skateaholic? Kayakaholic? Show me some kayakahol and we’ll talk.

Fun with Fondue

2007-03-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

Much to JG’s chagrin, last night’s birthday-weekend dinner didn’t turn out to be a total surprise.

See, a few days earlier, I mentioned that Saturday would be kind of a sad day for me; I just didn’t want to JG to be all freaked out if I was crying for no apparent reason. He hugged me and said, “Sorry, dear. Is there anything I can do?”

I didn’t expect an opportunity like this. I had an internal ethical battle … for about a second. “What if you told me where we were going for dinner?”

“Fine,” he groaned. “We’re going to The Melting Pot.”

“Yes!” I crowed with victory and then backpedaled a bit. “I didn’t tell you about Saturday just to make you tell me…”

“Sure…”

For real! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Anyway. We had never been to The Melting Pot before, but after hearing rave reviews from our friends, I asked JG if we could go there for an anniversary sometime in the future. As a birthday surprise, it was pretty hard to beat. For those who may live in one of the fifteen states without one of these restaurants, the idea behind The Melting Pot is that you get a multi-course meal of fondue:

Appetizer: bread, vegetables, and apples dipped in cheese fondue
Salad: okay, this course isn’t fondue
Entrée: selection of raw meat cooked in a vegetable-broth-base
Dessert: strawberries, cheesecake, and pound cake to dip in chocolate fondue

We mixed and matched the different types of fondue for a combination of a lager-based cheddar dip; a burgundy wine coq au vin cooking broth with lobster tail, ahi tuna, pot stickers, and shrimp; and a mixture of white and dark chocolate fondue. I have to say - oh, my goodness. Yum.

Our fantastic waiter whipped up the fondue courses in front of us, so it was entertaining as well as amazingly tasty. I was expecting a Cheez Whiz-type cheese fondue, but I was pleasantly surprised to have a garlicky, lager-tinged sauce. The apples seemed odd to me at first, but I enjoyed the hot and cold contrast. An added bonus was that the fruit and vegetables helped to minimize the fact that we were consuming the majority of a bowl of melted cheese.

After we ate our salads, our waiter set out platters of raw meat and vegetables, a double-boiler of cooking broth, and something like eight sauces for dipping. He gave us a quick tutorial on meat doneness and separating raw meat from the cooked stuff (which JG loved since he is Mr. Food Safety) and we went for it. There is something oddly satisfying about spearing pieces of meat, dunking them into a vat of bubbling liquid, and dipping them into melted butter, teriyaki sauce, or a spicy wasabi. The lobster was to die for and, just like our waiter said, the curry sauce really could go on anything. Seeing each other through the steam wafting up from the fondue pot, JG and I happily polished off the entrée, but we were careful to leave some room for dessert.

Are there many things much tastier than strawberries dipped in chocolate? Or chunks of cheesecake? Or marshmallows? We were already very full from the first three courses, but dessert pushed us over the edge onto a level of fullness that was on the verge of a food coma. It’s how I imagine bears might feel when they’re just about ready to hibernate for the winter. Mm …

Even though the element of surprise didn’t exactly work out, the dinner was a fantastic success. I had a bright raspberry martini, I dressed up and felt sassy, and JG and I had a wonderful night out together with amazing food. It was one of those rare occasions when I could not have thought of anything that would have made for a better time.

(Thanks, JG!)

Train Friend

2007-03-09T23:50:00.000-05:00

I’m curled up in bed, wearing sweats and bundled in layers of blankets. My book light casts a moonbeam onto the pages before me. The before-bed reading that usually slows my brain and rests my thoughts is not doing its work tonight. Reading is not the answer right now. A memory reserved for a birthday and an anniversary swims up to the surface.

- - -

I was on a train headed up to my parents’ house. I usually took the Amtrak train up the Northeast Extension, through Philadelphia and New York City, for almost all of my holidays back home. Normally, I looked forward to the train ride because it was relaxing. After the conductor tossed my luggage on the overhead rack, I’d sleep until we crossed the border into Connecticut. Involuntarily, I would snap awake to watch the marinas, the craggy beaches, and the small skylines of Hartford and New Haven through my window. I knew I should sit on the right-hand side for the best view. But this time was different.

A few days earlier, I had received a phone call from a friend from high school. Sit down, she told me.

I sat.

“I had to call you. Kip is dead. He committed suicide last night.”

No. Oh, no.

I called JG instinctively, my voice tight inside my throat. He biked over to find me speechless, stiff in his arms. There was no processing or talking it out. I curled into myself, physically and otherwise. Knowing that one of my best friends, a polar opposite and complementary figure, was no longer alive was too much. I could barely breathe without crying.

That is how I ended up on a train up to Connecticut with no major holiday to speak of. I was relieved to find a seat by myself, but at the Philadelphia stop, a young man boarded the car and asked if the seat was taken. I shook my head. I didn’t feel like talking, but the man struck up conversation, asking me where I was headed.

“New London,” I said, swallowing hard. “I have to go to a funeral.”

His face fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I hope everything goes well.”

“Thank you.”

My train friend paused, then struck up conversation on a different note. He told me about how he was headed back to Boston, after an interview in Philadelphia. He told me about graduate school and waved a book in his hand for emphasis. He told me about how he was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend and that, for Valentine’s Day, he gave her a bouquet of balloon-animal roses because he couldn’t afford real ones. I nodded along, quietly.

Our train rolled into Penn Station in New York and the man jumped up. “I hear there’s a Krispy Kreme stand here, so I’m going to grab one. Save my seat?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, he returned, bag of donuts in hand. “Do you like glazed?”

I was dumbfounded. He bought me a donut?

He waved away my dropped jaw. “They were having a special. Do you like glazed?”

“Yeah,” I said, “they’re my favorite. Thanks for this.”

He hunkered back down. “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for a saved seat.”

I ate slowly and wondered - are donuts therapeutic? Do they ease tension and lighten burdens? Or was it simply because this donut was a gift from a stranger from Boston?

As the train rolled out of Penn Station, my train friend reached into his brief case and asked, “Did I mention that I wrote a book?” He pulled out a slim children’s book with a picture of a locomotive on the cover. It was a re-telling of The Little Engine That Could and I leafed through it with pleasure. He had brought the book along as a sample for his interview and it was very charming, indeed. After I returned the book to him, I fell into a deep sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the train on the tracks. In my exhaustion, I missed out on my ritual of watching the boat docks and rocky seashores flow by the window.

When we arrived at my stop, my train friend helped me with my luggage and said, “I really do hope everything goes well for you. It was nice talking with you today.”

I was so grateful to him that I could only whisper my thanks.

At the service that night, I cried quietly. Hundreds of people had come to show their support, so I was one of many standing in a room that was not nearly large enough to hold the love we had for Kip. Afterward, I waited in a long line to greet his family: parents who had seen Kip and me singing in chorus concerts since the sixth grade, giving presentations, and graduating; and a younger brother who had long ago measured his growing progress next to me. As I hugged them, new tears sprang into my eyes. What can a person say? I am so, so sorry. I miss him, too. I know that I can’t miss him more than you do and it hurts me so much to know that you are hurting more than I am. I am so, so sorry.

When I got to him, Kip’s dad put me at arm’s length. Eyes sparkling, he said, “You were one of Kip’s best friends. We’re so glad to see you.” He hugged me closely and I could feel him crying into his beard.

- - -

Oh, my train friend. If not for you, I would have been concentrating on containing my grief with the fragile strands of control I had left, too afraid to speak from the threat of crying. But you drew me out, distracted me with tales of locomotives and balloon flowers, offered me well wishes in the end, and somehow made me strong enough to handle was ahead. Could you tell that I was broken? Was it apparent that every inhale pained me? Whatever the case, I was thankful for your kindness. I still am.

Tomorrow is a dark anniversary for me and I have already stained the cuffs of my hoodie with tears. JG is sleeping beside me, but I’ll wake him up for a bit. I need a hug.

Better Late, Really

2007-03-07T16:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a fantastic birthday. I got a call from a friend from church that ended with me hearing a tinny cell-phone version of “Happy Birthday” sung by thirty-odd church people. It was so cute! And thanks for all of the sweet wishes!

I devoured a mountain of yummy mussels and JG did a great job with presents this year. Nerd that I am, I had asked for a book light for Valentine’s Day and here it was! In all of its LED glory! Add in a good book about digital photography and Pinky and the Brain DVDs and you’ve got a winning birthday combination. The DVDs were more of a gift of self-sacrifice because JG does not exactly enjoy the comic genius that is encapsulated in Pinky and the Brain, so I appreciate that one very much.

In the aftermath of the birthday hoopla, I realized something. I may not be excited about my actual birthday, but do you know what I really love? Belated birthday wishes and things!

I think it all started in college. My mom would dutifully ship me a care package, my grandma would mail a check, and my sister would send an e-card to be followed up by a gift card to Starbucks or somewhere. Between all of this mailing, almost nothing arrived on time. I’d get the packages in dribs and drabs for the week after my birthday and I loved it. It wasn’t a birthday anymore – no, no! Happy birthweek! Happy birthmonth!

This year was no exception. Today’s mail brought in cards from my sister and JG’s grandma. My sister called me today to let me know that things were on the way and she added, “But I know you like birthday gifts to be late. I planned it that way.”

Yeah, right. But I’ll take it!

And Many More ...

2007-03-06T15:15:00.000-05:00

Birthdays have never been a big deal for me. I’ve never been the type to count down the days and I can’t remember ever feeling different when it comes around. In fact, since my birthday falls in the beginning of the month, I’m almost always caught off-guard. It’s March 6? Already?

In my eighteen years of living at home, I can only recall 4 birthdays when I had an actual party. Before any “deprived childhood!” accusations ring out, let me clarify. We always had cake and opened presents with the family, but a party wasn’t an every-year thing. Looking back, I realize that they were stressful events for my mom and I didn’t really miss them. As long as I had cake (mm, marble cake), I was good to go.

Lack of parties notwithstanding, I still had my share of memorable birthdays:

7: We had a snow day! I went sledding and opened presents in the same day!
10: I had a double birthday party with my friend from gymnastics. Our moms treated all of the girls from the gym to pizza and we played charades. I remember trying to act out “possum.”
16: My friends threw me a Sweet Sixteen party that involved a dull game of Truth or Dare (winning questions included, “What did you get on the SATs?” and “What is your biggest regret?”) and the smart idea to throw me up in the air to “see if RA can do a basket toss.” Thankfully, no one was hurt.
18: A giant blizzard closed school for two days, including my birthday. I was so disappointed that I wasn’t able to walk through school and gloat about being able to buy things I had no intention of purchasing, like cigarettes and lottery tickets. To my surprise, several snow-delayed flower arrangements were delivered to my house the day after my birthday.
19: My then-boyfriend had broken up with me two or three days before, so my floormates threw me a calzone party and bought a cake that said, “Happy Birthday, RaRa!” Then all of the girls ate candy and watched The Wedding Planner. It was exactly what I needed.
21: JG took me out for dinner and my first drink and I was terrified of getting drunk because I had zero alcohol tolerance. I ordered a strawberry daiquiri that ended up much being much bigger and pinker than I had expected and I barely finished it by the end of the night. JG chuckled at me all throughout the meal because he knew that I kept asking myself, “Am I drunk? Is this what it feels like?”

I know I should be excited about the year ahead of me, but I just don’t get that excited on birthdays. I had bigger thrills on the first day of school or on our wedding anniversary; to me, birthday mostly says, “Congratulations for still being alive,” and I have to remember to say my updated age if anybody asks. The fact that today is Tuesday didn’t exactly invite an all-out party, either.

But when I came in to work this morning, there were birthday signs wallpapering my desk. The e-cards in my inbox produced welcome laughs during a particularly stressful morning and my co-workers even signed a fantastic card. There’s a giant crowd of penguins on the front and one of them is wearing an enormous sombrero. The inside reads, “Happy Birthday to Juan in a million!” Ha! Juan in a million! I love it. I’m not used to a whole big birthday thing, but I must admit that I enjoy a day that’s all mine.

Tonight, JG is cooking me a yummy dinner. Birthdays for us consist of whatever the birthday person likes to do, so I requested steamed mussels and pasta, with tiramisu for dessert while we watch the new episode of Gilmore Girls. Woo! We know how to party it up, let me tell you. On Saturday, JG is taking me out to an undisclosed location that he refuses to divulge and my sneaky attempts at trickery (“So where are we going, again?”) have proved fruitless. Ah, well. Maybe that’s what I’ll wish for when I blow out the candle on my tiramisu.

Waiting for the Red-Eye

2007-03-02T21:20:00.000-05:00

San Francisco International Airport, Gate 28:

I am waiting to board my flight in a quilted vinyl seat facing the tarmac. Distant runway lights shimmer in the distance, obscured by finger-printed glass and those fold-up walkways. Caravans of luggage trundle down below. I wonder if I’ll see any of those guys with the light sticks who guide arriving planes. A light bulb over my head flickers irregularly. The stark fluorescence casts sterile light on an already subdued troupe of travelers.

We’re a motley crew, this red-eye bunch. With many rows of vinyl seats between two gates, we’ve spread out strategically so that each person has at least three seats to himself. Two young families with toddlers and babies play in the pod of gates. The toddlers admire the planes and while other little ones fuss. People shift uncomfortably, silently hoping that they don’t share a cabin with the children. There’s really nothing anyone can do if it’s the case. We all know we’re in the airport for the same reason and a good night’s sleep is a characteristic of an ideal scenario. We’re all going to board a plane, receive a blanket and pillow of doubtful origin, and hope for a decent amount of rest in what is inevitably a restless situation. Perhaps, like me, the people in this gate did not savor the idea of leaving the city the next morning, only to arrive at home about eight hours later. At least this way, uncomfortable seats and cramped quarters notwithstanding, I have the prospect of a good lunch and a relaxing afternoon and evening at home. The weekend will be only slightly shorter.

I look around. I’m not the only one who has dressed for the occasion, sporting comfy layers. It is evident that some unfortunate ones have come straight from their workplaces and their business casual attire is bound for a night of obtaining new wrinkles. I yawn. It’s a good sign that I’ll manage to rest during this flight, despite my middle seat placement.

I’m almost home.

Shaken

2007-03-01T21:34:00.000-05:00

I was sitting at the hotel desk, typing away to make up for a day without checking e-mail. Suddenly, the armoire holding the television shuddered noisily. The re-run of The Office skipped a beat. The floor trembled and my stomach flipped and flopped.

What was that?

I chalked it up to someone slamming their door down the hall and went along my e-mail way. The hotel where I was staying was hosting a technology conference and you never know what to expect from those rowdy techies.

Fifteen minutes later, the local NBC affiliate broke into The Office to announce that there had been an earthquake in Lafayette, which is a mere 20 miles from San Francisco. Sure, it was only a 4.2 on the Richter scale and, apparently, that’s “light” – insert finger quotes here – or something. I know San Francisco folks get used to these things, but come on! It was an earthquake! With tectonic shifting and everything! I had to hear the phrase “Richter scale” in reference to an area where I was currently located. What’s up with that?

This is why I didn’t apply to CalTech, Mom. The San Andreas Fault and I would not get along. I’ll take the predictability of good old East Coast blizzards, hurricanes, and humidity any day.

Frantic Wednesday

2007-02-28T10:26:00.000-05:00

Recently, I was placed on a project that involves developing internal software. I was identified as the best person to be the Requirements Expert (doesn’t that sound smart?) and I was told that I would need to fly out to San Francisco to spend some time with the guy who is doing the actual developing. So, here is my itinerary for the next few days:

Wednesday

11:15am: get picked up to go the airport
2:30pm: flight takes off (hopefully)
5:30pm (Pacific time): flight lands
7pm: I call a co-worker to meet for dinner

Thursday

8am: arrive at the office so the tech guys can fix my computer
9am: get locked in a windowless room called the Bat Cave – seriously – with my development buddy
12pm: get released for lunch
1pm: back to the grindstone
5pm: out for happy hour (amen!) and dinner

Friday

9am-5pm: repeat Thursday’s schedule
5pm: coerce some co-workers to spend their Friday evening with me
10pm: take off on a red-eye flight back to the east coast

Saturday

6am (Eastern time): flight lands in Philadelphia
7am: arrive back home, most likely an attractive combination of disheveled and disgruntled
7:02am: fall into bed for a couple of hours of non-plane sleep

Doesn’t that sound great?!

As of this morning, I hadn’t packed at all, unless you count a chicken-scratch list on the refrigerator white board, so if you had had the misfortune of being at my house this morning, you would have seen me running around and muttering things like:

Don’t forget the phone charger! And those materials that consultant asked me to bring along! Wait, what’s the weather like in San Francisco? Do I need a heavy coat? What time is my ride coming? Oh, no, I forgot to run those reports from Monday! Can I finish twelve of them before 11? Will I have internet access at the airport? How many pairs of shoes do I need?

I’m happy to report that I was packed and showered before I logged on to my computer at 8:30, I sent out all twelve reports before 10, and I remembered to record an out-of-office voicemail on my work phone. Even though I ate Thin Mints for breakfast, I consider this morning a success.

Unrequited Girliness (and Cupcakes)

2007-02-25T20:30:00.000-05:00

Last week, I received an e-vite for a girls-only Oscars party:

Come in your PJs and watch the stars! We’ll make popcorn, have some snacks and drinks and keep tabs on who is a Do and who is a Don’t! Who needs boyfriends/husbands when you’ve got Jake, George, Brad, and the rest of the Hollywood hotties in tuxes!

I wasn’t sure. I’m not very invested in awards shows – I usually skim the summary lists the day after – and the invitation came from one of JG’s teacher friends. We’ve hung out in groups for game nights, but I’ve never gone to a function by myself. Still, the idea of genuine girl time was attractive, since I don’t naturally seek out that type of company on my own. I’m no tomboy, but for whatever reason, girls were never my closest friends. This invitation intrigued me, and despite a little nervousness, I clicked the button indicating, “I can handle the red carpet!”

The party planner instructed us to “bring whatever” so I decided to make the girliest dessert I could think of that would be easy to transport. Eager to use up my superfluous valentine cupcake liners, I whipped up two dozen strawberry cupcakes, topped them with vanilla icing, and scattered the caps with pink sugar crystals. With my box full of sugary, glittery, all-girl treats, I felt ready. JG and I even watched Little Miss Sunshine yesterday so that I would know at least one of the nominees for Best Picture. I was all set. Here I come, Girl Time.

And then we got another storm.

Three inches of snow with sleet and rain for dessert mean that I’m watching the show on my couch, with no one to admire or eat my cupcakes. Well, that’s not exactly true. JG “took one for the team,” even though it was more like two or three. Even though I like being home when it’s snowing and I feel all cozy, I was really looking forward to dishing about the red carpet. I have no one to discuss with me how amazing Helen Mirren looked, what in the world Jessica Biel was thinking, or how many times Ryan Seacrest complained about being behind an azalea bush. Oh, well. I know I would have hated to be out on the roads in bad weather even more. It really was for the best, but I’m still kind of disappointed.

Maybe I’ll help myself to a cupcake.

New Toy for Me

2007-02-23T20:20:00.000-05:00

I pulled up the confirmation e-mail, clicked the handy Gmail link to track my UPS package, and waited for the page to load with bated breath. I scanned quickly. Out for delivery! Woo hoo!

My company has a fabulous perk where each employee gets a yearly allowance to spend on a hobby or outside interest of some sort. People buy craft supplies, golf equipment, or even small kitchen appliances. My first year, my funds went toward a historic tour and snorkeling on my honeymoon, books, and a whole slew of camping stuff. Last year, I invested in a hangboard and a cute PDA. Last week, I blew this year’s money on a little something that was on track to be delivered right into my hot little hands.

My new camera came today!

I waited until I got home to explore the new features with JG, since he was just as excited about the newest addition to our household. We followed the directions in the manual labeled, “Read this first,” and attached the neck strap and lens cap, inserted the batteries, and slid in the memory card. I flicked the On switch and suddenly, everything had potential to be artistic. My guitar! Our UD afghan! Garlic sizzling in a saucepan! Cracked pepper! Oh, the possibilities.

Of course, there’s the minor detail that, when it comes to photography, I am definitely a novice. I sort of have an eye for composition, but I’m looking forward to learning much more as I figure out everything I can do with this newfangled machine. Watch out, world.

Writing It Out

2007-02-21T20:53:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was a lovely combination of pathetic and resigned. When I reflected on the letters and spaces that made up my tired mindset, I realized that writing it out had two effects. On the one hand, writing un-frazzled me. I was able to distill all of my frayed nerves into coherent thoughts. It was soothing.

On the other, unexpected hand, once I’d written everything out, I could see my discontent for what it was, which was pretty silly. I can only wallow for so long and last night was the limit. I saw my complaints out in the open, condensed into letters and spaces, and I had an overwhelming sense akin to “What the heck is the big deal?”

I sat back and realized that I didn’t want to miss a major portion of my life because I was so busy wishing that I was somewhere else. I didn’t want to look back at this period and wonder why I felt so occupied and stressed but not recall what I was actually doing. I may not remember my commute some mornings, but I really want to remember my actual life. If nothing else, my post was a big smack across the head with a ringing “Pay attention!” attached to it.

I can’t promise to be an ever-shining beacon of optimism; in fact, it’s a safe bet that I will hardly ever be that. But I can make a greater effort to be more present and aware of what I’m going through, not just dazing off into a dream world where things are automatically easier, more attractive, or faster. It’s the difference between being an active participant in my own life – as corny as that sounds – and being an observer. Simply observing isn’t fair to my friends, JG, or myself. If I’m tired, I don’t want the fatigue that comes from being beaten into submission by the daily grind. I want the tiredness that comes from having a full day behind me. A full life.

It's Only Tuesday

2007-02-20T21:28:00.000-05:00

… and I feel like my brain is fried. I’m in the midst of a streak where I wake up tired in the mornings, wanting to succumb to the pull of gravity on my body and the lure of soft t-shirt sheets on my skin. I’m unable to resist dozing past my alarm. I dread the inevitable moment when I need to fling the covers off and trudge to the shower, where the water wakes me up, but not in a way that stops me from leaning against the acrylic, off-white wall with my eyes closed. It’s a temporary escape from the world of neon-green, digital numbers and the countdown to when I need to leave the house, but time doesn’t stand still, not even in the bathroom. I blink my contacts into place and try to settle on an outfit for the day before blasting my hair with the hair dryer and trying to hide my fatigue with makeup.

I drive to work and realize that after 25 minutes, I’ve arrived at the office and I don’t remember the ride at all. It bothers me a bit because I know I should be more aware. While my computer boots up, I hang up my coat, put my lunch in the fridge, peel an orange. My co-workers float in as the next half hour goes by and I offer them a cheerful face and a hi-how-are-you-how-was-your-night. I try not to seem tired, but my office mate can’t help but notice my frequent yawns and eagerness to eat lunch. Work keeps me busy, but not interested. I guess one out of two isn’t bad.

At the end of the day, I’m glad to push my chair back into place and tie a scarf around my neck. I notice that my shoulders relax as soon as I get into the car and pull out. My grip on the wheel is looser than in the morning. I’m much more energetic during my commute back home. I sing along to the radio and look forward to being home, a comforting haven where my husband and a good dinner are bound to show up; seeing JG is the first thing I’ve looked forward to all day. After giving my mind a break during an hour of primetime television, I head down to bed after JG – we operate on teacher time. I reverse my morning routine, donning pajamas and glasses to read a couple of chapters. JG turns in before I do and we exchange a good-night hug and kiss. When I can’t hold up the book any longer, I turn off my bedside lamp and burrow down into the covers. The morning comes far too soon.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe I need more sleep or less sleep. JG says I need to drink more water. I know I should do yoga in the mornings. Maybe that’s it. Common sense tells me that it’s too early to be yearning for the weekend, but my tired mind and body don’t agree.

An Oldie, but Goodie

2007-02-16T17:04:00.000-05:00

Those leftover marshmallows were annoying me. They’d been sitting by the microwave for months, holdovers from the chocolate fountain dipping bonanza at our New Year’s Eve party. Marshmallows don’t go bad, right? I didn’t know what to do with them, other than make s’mores, but it’s hardly campfire season. And then I bought a box of Rice Krispies. Oh, yeah.

It had been way too long since I made Rice Krispie treats and I can’t let myself forget their high ease-to-yumminess ratio. I watched the marshmallows melt into the yellow puddle of melted butter and suddenly, I was back in my parents’ kitchen. I was wearing a striped apron with sundry kitchen utensils poking out of the top of a big front pocket, standing on a footstool, and dumping cupfuls of Rice Krispies that my mother had measured into the mixture of butter and marshmallow. This time around, my arm ached a little as I folded in the cereal and I regarded it fondly, remembering how I never could incorporate it fully. Mom always had to finish it up for me. Then, we’d push it into a baking dish and it was cruel punishment to wait until it was solid enough to cut into bars. Why not just eat it gooey and warm, straight out of the pot? I would pull at the stubborn, stuck clusters of puffed rice on the side of the pot, stretching marshmallow strings until they gave way and that sweetened clump was all mine.

In preparation for baking cupcakes earlier in the week, I had inadvertently bought a package of no less than seventy-five valentine-themed cupcake wrappers (who needs that many?!). The stack of remaining cups inspired a stroke of genius around this particular project, if I do say so myself. Why make regular Rice Krispie treats when you can make cupcake ones? I lined a muffin tin with a dozen cupcake wrappers and used soup spoons to drop in chunky dollops. I topped them off with red, white, and pink sprinkles, which made for quite festive Rice Krispie treats. My co-workers were very pleased and not one of the snacks came home with me at the end of the day.

Fortunately, I had enough leftover “batter” to fill up two mini loaf pans, so now we have own stash at home. JG was also very pleased.

Cold Outside, Warm Inside

2007-02-14T09:00:00.000-05:00

We have harsh weather today. The neighborhood is blanketed with a quiet layer of snow, but pellets of ice are raining on the windows, as though someone is tossing small marbles against the house. Thankfully, I’m able to work at home, so I’m sitting in the living room, typing away on my laptop, wrapped in a blanket. There was no way I was going to brave those slippery roads just to sit at my desk in the office.

Even better, the school where JG teaches closed for today! Along with the excitement of the first snow day of this school year, it’s such a bonus that we’re home together and on Valentine’s Day. It’s certainly a far cry from last year, when we were apart for the entire day and only managed to have dessert together. Despite the icy, rattling weather, we’re making today a day for hot beverages, dark chocolate cupcakes, and gifts tied with red ribbons. Being snowed in has never had better timing.

Shameless Plug

2007-02-12T13:02:00.000-05:00

Guess what! I’m writing a column!

Two weeks ago, I started to write at a site focused on long relationships, like dating and marriage. The plan is to share my reflections on my married life so far, give suggestions to couples out there, and comment on relevant articles and the like. I would love for folks to hop on over, check out the site, and offer any comments or feedback. I hope to have content that’s helpful and entertaining, so suggestions are always welcome.

The blog is part of the 451 Press network, which publishes websites on all sorts of topics, like entertainment, hobbies, and parenting, so click around and check out what’s available! 451 Press is always looking for new talent, so if you’re interested in writing about a specific topic, I encourage you to apply and see if it’s a good fit.

Of course, I’ll still post about life in general over here. If you have a spare second or a glimmer of curiosity, click on the link in my sidebar - there will be something new to read over there every weekday morning. I hope to see you there!

Sunday Goodness

2007-02-11T10:45:00.000-05:00

“How do you feel about pancakes this morning?”

JG wanted pancakes, partially because we had a carton of buttermilk in the fridge. I agreed enthusiastically and he got to work, mixing up batter and heating up a griddle. We usually cheat our way past buying buttermilk (mixing a tablespoon of vinegar for every cup of milk) and it usually works, but lately, we’ve had a rash of runny, floppy, pancakes of disappointment. Having the buttermilk around gave us the first opportunity to actually follow the recipe.

“Your pancakes are almost ready,” JG called from the kitchen. “I think these are the best ones I’ve ever made.”

Well! This should be good.

I sat down at the table with a glass of orange juice and JG set down a plate stacked with four fluffy, steaming pancakes. “Ooh,” I breathed. The aroma alone indicated superior pancakes and I inhaled deeply. Following my usual procedure, I buttered between each layer and then spangled maple syrup over the whole stack. I’m a minimalist when it comes to syrup. I cut a wedge out of the quivering tower and steam wafted up. I admired the distinct strata of golden-brown-deliciousness, glistening butter, and gooey syrup. I speared the top two layers for my first bite. Each piece had absorbed a touch of butter and sweet syrup, but not too much so that the cake itself was overwhelmed. Puffy enough for a good bite but tender so as to melt in one’s mouth, the pancake was exactly the right answer on a Sunday morning.

“So, how is it?” he asked.

Oh, my.

“I think we should buy buttermilk from now on.”

Sunday Scribblings #46: Yummy

Puns Intended

2007-02-09T12:30:00.000-05:00

Evidently, I am not the only person who enjoys a good pun! When I was a kid, I had a whole shelf full of joke books: 101 Dinosaur / Hamburger / Vampire / etc. Jokes, The Biggest Riddle Book Ever, and 1,001 Knock-Knock Jokes. I knew them all, but the ones with puns were my favorites. I mean, how great is, “Orange you glad you didn’t say banana?” It’s a classic!

Unfortunately, JG does not share this opinion; even worse, he insists on calling puns “the lowest form of humor”! I always respond, “But it’s okay because I’m a low person,” emphasizing my shortness and – ha! – slipping in a pun, kind of, for good measure. When I told him over dinner that I was going to post my 21-Pun Salute, he groaned dramatically.

“Hey! My mom gave me that card and I love it!"

Another groan.

I narrowed my eyes and pointed my fork at him. “Your bad attitude will be properly documented, mister.”

I had to dig out the card from a shoebox of old birthday cards, postcards from friends, and mementos from studying abroad. Being a pack rat does pay off at times! I thought I would simply transcribe everything, but the illustrations added so much. I’m uncertain of the copyright situation, so here is a disclaimer: this card was manufactured by Ambassador Cards, a Hallmark brand.

Lastly, I have to give a big shout-out to my mom for sending me this awesome card back in the day. It still makes me laugh out loud, especially #6 and 20, but I will understand if some people can’t help but groan. Meanwhile, JG will be writhing around in pain if he happens to read this post. Heh.

(click for a super-zoomed-in version)

#31

100 for the Hundredth

2007-02-06T17:30:00.000-05:00

In honor of my centennial entry, I present 100 things about me, including some I’ve already revealed around here. I’ll try and elaborate on some of these in the future, too.

Let me know if you make to end of the list!

I was born and raised in southeastern Connecticut.
My dad is a civil engineer and my mom is a teacher.
I have one sister who is four years older than I am. She and I are eerily similar in regard to mannerisms but vastly different in terms of taste.
I am Asian, but when someone asks me where I’m from, I automatically say Connecticut.
I like to think that I’m a good source on how to be respectful when discussing race. I have a few really good examples up my sleeve of when people were not tactful. Or I guess they could be really bad, depending on how you look at them.
It was my parents’ intention that I would play classical piano, so I started taking lessons when I was 7. Today, I am grateful that I can read music pretty fluently.
My future as a pianist was sidelined by competitive gymnastics. Three years after I started taking classes, I began competing at the age of 9.
I trained for 30-40 hours a week, depending on the time of year, in the hopes of making it to the Sydney Olympics.
I didn’t make it. I chose to quit gymnastics at the age of 13 because I was very stressed out.
A down side to the gymnastics was that I was never allowed to do any other kind of physical activity due to the risk of being injured. I’m glad that I learned how to swim before all of that. I learned how to jump rope in high school; as a result, I am terrible at it.
An up side to the gymnastics career was that I discovered an awesome human trick that has trumped all others I’ve encountered. I can lie on the floor on my stomach and arch my back so that my feet go over my head and land on the floor. Then I can stand up.
I was in practically every club in high school except for a sport. My favorites were colorguard in the marching band and drama club.
I never paid attention to the football games; they were just an arena for band performances.
My colorguard friends started calling me RA and it has stuck ever since.
Variations have included Amon-Ra and RaRa.
In my junior year, I played mean people in both of the plays: Juror #4 in Twelve Angry Jurors and Baroness Elsa Schräder in The Sound of Music. It was so much fun.
I applied to seven colleges during my senior year. I don’t recommend that to anyone.
I went to the University of Delaware for chemistry because I wanted to become a brilliant pharmaceutical chemist and get a PhD.
I took two semesters of only math and science and realized that I missed reading and writing. So I switched my major to English and kept a chemistry minor. I’m fairly certain that I am in the very small minority of English majors who also took Instrumental Methods of Analysis and Intro to Biochemistry.
I had a concentration in Business/Technical Writing, which can cover anything from writing instructions for machinery to writing advertising copy. I enjoy organizing information, doing layout, and proofreading, so it was a perfect fit for me.
People assume that, since I was an English major, I have a complete hold on the English language. Even though I loved Eats, Shoots & Leaves, I do not wholly grasp all of the nuances. English is hard.
What I do know (how to use apostrophes correctly, the difference between lie/lay and that/which, when to use objective vs. subjective pronouns) I know very well.
I am trying to become a better writer, by which I mean a communicator through the written word. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but I want to see what I can do with a thousand words.
I love to read and I love getting book recommendations almost as much.
My favorite author is Madeleine L’Engle and I have a running list of her books that I do not currently own in case I run into them somewhere.
I am addicted to used book stores; it’s almost impossible for me to pass one without at least going inside.
My favorite Madeleine L’Engle book is A Swiftly Tilting Planet. I have three different copies and I read it probably every other year just because I miss it.
I still really enjoy chemistry, especially the periodic table. It’s a thing of beauty.
If you accidentally get me started, I will pontificate on the wondrous properties of water. It is amazing, amazing stuff.
I will celebrate Mole Day with anyone will will celebrate it with me. Experience has taught me that Mole Day is not as much endearing to people as it is annoying. I’ve been forced to repress jokes about avocados and molasses.
I love puns more than anyone probably should. My mom gave me a 21-pun salute for my 21st birthday and I still have it. I’m one in a bullion!
During my freshman year, I went to Trinidad for a missions trip and it was amazing. It wasn’t a bad way to spend two weeks in January, either.
I met my husband, JG, in our first week at UD.
JG and RA are the nicknames we use for each other. When we’d meet for brunch on weekends, we called it “JARG time” because it’s an anagram of our “initials”. We call our inside jokes JARGon because we are that cool.
JG and I started dating in the beginning of sophomore year. If you ask him, JG will not hesitate to tell you how I reacted when he brought me flowers on our first date.
We both worked at a summer camp for a few years (2 for me, 3 for him) as lifeguards and program facilitators.
It was probably the most thankless work I ever did, but I made some of the best friends of my life. It was a good life experience to do thankless work, too.
JG and I learned how to climb and belay at camp. I still really like to climb, but we don’t get out nearly as much as we’d like.
I studied abroad in London during our five-week winter session. I loved that I could walk everywhere, do my reading in the British Museum, and see plays all the time.
While overseas, I spent a weekend in Scotland. It was gorgeous and freezing cold in the highlands.
Much to my parents’ relief, in the summer before senior year, I finally got an internship that could actually go on my résumé. I was a technical writer for research students in UD’s civil engineering program.
I knew nothing about structures but I learned to love bridges with the sort of affection that most people lavish on houses or gardens.
My favorite bridges are the Delaware Memorial Bridge and the Brooklyn Bridge. So far.
During my internship, we all took the Myers-Briggs type indicator and I was an ISTJ. When I read the description, it was scary-accurate.
JG proposed the day we moved in to college for our senior year. I said yes.
Finishing school, finding a job, and planning a wedding were a bit too much for me. I think I could have handled two out of the three things, but all three made for a lot of stress.
We were married in June 2005. We loved every minute of our budget wedding and wouldn’t have changed a thing.
I experienced my first no-stress vacation during our honeymoon cruise in the Caribbean and I would recommend it to anyone.
On the first anniversary of our engagement, JG and I found out that the offer we made on the house we wanted was accepted!
In October 2005, we moved out of our apartment into a house in the Mushroom Capital of the World. Veggie mushrooms, not druggie ones.
I am at my most geeky when I’m using Excel. I try to incorporate it into as many aspects of my life as possible, like wedding planning, Christmas shopping, and blogging.
I get unnecessarily excited when I put together a formula and workbook that just plain work.
I’m also really geeky when I subconsciously anagram words or try to make up palindromes.
Anagramming makes me pretty good at playing Scrabble, which is one of my favorite games. It also has fun derivatives that I love to share with people.
I love to play games in general, especially Cranium, Catch Phrase, and Apples to Apples.
It’s disappointing to JG that I don’t like cards very much, but I don’t mind dealing for Texas Hold ’Em.
We’ve discovered that I’m a good teacher for Texas Hold ’Em for girls who might be intimidated. I think the key is a list of the hands in order of “value” and then playing as a team with whispered commentary.
I’m not as proficient a cook as I would aspire to be. Hot oil and flame generally freak me out.
I really enjoy baking, especially if it requires the use of my mixer. When I make dinner, it’s usually a casserole so that I can bake it.
JG and I watch our TV shows religiously. My favorites are How I Met Your Mother, Gilmore Girls, CSI, and Best Week Ever.
I watch the Food Network compulsively. I hang on every word from Alton Brown, but Emeril makes me want to claw my eyes out.
I also watch HGTV all the time. I think it’s gotten worse since I have a home I can decorate with something other than posters and putty.
If I were on What Not to Wear, they would take away my collection of v-neck cardigans. And then my drawer of funny socks.
If I were a Friend, I’m afraid that I would be Monica.
I am terrible at anything involving hitting, catching, throwing, or kicking a ball.
I am a very good spectator and cheerleader as long as I know what side I’m on and what they’re trying to do. Sometimes I need a quick tutorial, but after that, I’m good.
When I was a child, I constructed my opinion of football from beer commercials, which made me think that it was only for overweight, body-painted men who liked their cheerleaders buxom and blonde. I’ve since learned that it’s not just for them.
Watching UD football has helped to broaden my view of the game, but my tolerance for sports is still relatively low.
I love comfort food. Give me pasta or meatloaf over dessert any day.
To go carb-free would be a form of torture for me.
I don’t really enjoy chocolate even though I’m not allergic to it. I know that it’s kind of unfeminine of me, but there it is.
I highly prefer fruity candy to chocolate, especially Swedish fish or Twizzlers.
I love root beer and my favorite dessert is a root beer float.
My favorite color is green, but not in sickly shades. You know which ones I mean.
I have a very weak stomach. I need to avert my eyes whenever those dive-in shots come up in CSI. I can’t really handle any scene with the coroner.
I love to ride roller coasters, which is surprising to most people.
I’m petite in every way; there are 15 inches between JG and me. He would like to clarify that he is “not not petite”, from a chubbiness perspective. He is a beanpole, if you really wanted to know.
My most frequent facial tics are raising my right eyebrow and rolling my eyes.
I type from the home row and very quickly.
JG and I prefer to host the party rather than be guests because cooking and cleaning up is a fair trade for not having to drive.
I would rather be a passenger in any vehicle than drive. I’m a good co-pilot; I’ll hand you money for tolls, hold a soda, change CDs, and look for street signs or house numbers.
I still drive the car in which I passed my driver’s test. I’m afraid that whenever it dies, I’m going to have to relearn everything.
I am terrible with directions and spatial reasoning in general.
I am, however, very good at loading the dishwasher to maximum capacity, which doesn’t really make sense.
I would love to be a backup singer for someone. I enjoy singing harmony much more than the melody.
My favorite movie is The Emperor’s New Groove and I have seen it over 35 times.
If I had my way, I would buy everything online.
I am a very good bargain shopper. JG says I can sniff the air and know whether something is on sale. I love to display my purchases and say, “Originally priced at X, but I got it for Y!”
This pride spills over into everyday conversation when, instead of thanking someone in response to a comment like, “Nice sweater,” I say something bizarre like, “Ann Taylor Loft, ten bucks!”
I feel uneasy if I don’t have anything to write on and with.
I take notes in bullet form, with dashes.
I kept a journal faithfully from the age of 8 to 18. I’m glad that moving out of my parents’ house has forced me to stop looking back at the stack of journals because, clearly, I was a raving lunatic.
I love learning new words and trying to incorporate them into my conversations.
For the most part, I am a very good speller, except for a few recalcitrant words that always seem to end up with red, squiggly lines underneath them.
When I was in fifth grade, I was buzzed out of the state spelling bee because I misspelled “plethora”. You can bet that I know how to spell it now.
I am not a morning person and I emerge from bed very, very grumpy.
I love stationery and I have a habit of hoarding blank cards. You never know when you can use them!
I am startled very easily, but I don’t readily admit to being tense or uptight.
I hate surprises, especially ones that involve people jumping out of dark places and yelling at me. Please don’t do that to me. I’m more likely to burst into tears than to be glad to see you.
I am horribly nearsighted.

Power Puff Girls

2007-02-05T23:23:00.000-05:00

My checklist for our Super Bowl party:

Steaming slow cookers of chili
Baked potatoes
Cheese and sour cream
Chips and salsa
Veggies and dip
Giant cookies
Puff-painted “I Heart Peyton” t-shirt

That’s right. Puff paint. Peyton. It was a fabulous combination.

Let me explain that I don’t know that much about professional football. I like watching college football, but to me, the professional version seems to have a lot of bells and whistles, plus a generous smattering of illegal and distasteful shenanigans going on, like with the Minnesota Vikings, for example. It’s safe to say that I can’t match the teams to their states with the exception of maybe three lucky teams. (I mean, which Carolina gets to claim the Panthers? It’s like saying something is from Dakota.) When Super Bowl comes around every year, it’s more an excuse to get together with friends than a serious sporting event for me. And I do enjoy a good commercial.

I really enjoy a commercial with Peyton Manning, especially the one when he puts accountants on his fantasy team. Ha. I like that he hasn’t been arrested. I enjoyed his tango in an 8th grade musical. I saw an endearing interview with his mom before the Colts-Giants game and she was so cute! And there we have my main reasons for liking Peyton even though I have no clue about the rest of the Colts. There was no better way to express this affection than with a puff-painted t-shirt.

Fortunately, I had an accomplice in this operation in a friend who was coming for our Super Bowl party. She loves Peyton with fervor approximating my own and also enjoys a good puff-painting session. Last Friday, during a game of Monopoly, I said jokingly, “I thought about doing this to surprise you, but would it have been scary or pathetic if I puff-painted Peyton t-shirts for us?”

She whipped her head around. “No! Let’s do it tomorrow!”

“Yes!”

And so we did. Hunched over my kitchen table, we dressed up plain black t-shirts with sparkly puff paint in lopsided letters, footballs, horseshoes, tufts of grass, and lucky #18. JG noticed a strange lack of conversation between the two of us and remarked, “This is serious business, huh? No small talk, even. Wow.”

That’s right. The shirts were amazing. One of the other girls at our party took one look at the two of us and simply said, “Oh. My.” How about that for admiration?

Now that I’m no longer nine years old, jittery from soda at a slumber party, or lacking fine motor skills, I’m actually kind of good at puff-painting. If this skill were even slightly profitable I might try doing it more often. And look – the Colts won! That is what puff paint can do.

French Fries for Lunch

2007-02-03T13:25:00.000-05:00

Several weeks ago, a co-worker shared with us that she had resigned from her position. Unlike others in our office, I was not entirely surprised because I was listed a reference for her and I knew that it was a possibility. She’s moving on to a really great opportunity that is closer to her home and it makes sense in all sorts of ways, except in a way that makes me sigh. My small office is very tight-knit as a whole, but agreeing to be her reference made me realize that I would feel her absence more acutely than anyone else’s.

She mentioned at one time or another that her fantasy snack food would be “a whole bar of French fries, with all sorts of fixings to choose from”, so everyone helped to put together one last hurrah over the lunch hour. One of us went out to get ten side orders of fries while the rest of us assembled the condiment bar: ketchup, mayonnaise, honey mustard, Old Bay seasoning, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper, chili, and cheese sauce.

Well, she loved it.

While reading through the thoughtful goodbye messages people had sent in, she drizzled cheese, swirled chili, and spattered vinegar over her stack of fries. I was pleased that she was enjoying the festivities, but it was bittersweet for me. I might otherwise have had a normal day, but a thought cloud hovered over me: She’s not coming in tomorrow. But I didn’t act differently, except to slip her a congratulations-and-good-luck card. I felt awkward, as though I inadvertently stumbled into a funeral. It’s an exciting opportunity for a new job and advancement, I reminded myself. It makes sense! It’s not personal, it’s business.

And yet, it is personal, at least a little bit. She was at this company when I started, so this workplace without her is colder, less forgiving, more severe. We partnered to cultivate new products and bring them to fruition; thought I manage them on my own now, I could always look to her if I need to bounce around new ideas. During a time when I seriously questioned what I was doing with my life, decided to take a leap, and then met disappointment, she was there with an understanding ear, practical advice, and radiant optimism. I will miss all of these things in her.

When we hugged goodbye after happy hour, I promised to come visit her so she could show me around her city. My stomach ached, deep in the pit. The French fries for lunch didn’t help at all.

Sunday Scribblings #45: Goodbyes

Resigned to It

2007-01-31T17:25:00.000-05:00

It pains me to admit that I will not meet my goal of reading four books in January.

I know that it’s normal for most New Year’s resolutions to go by the wayside early on, but I really wanted do well with this reading one. It’s something I enjoy and for my benefit, unlike something that’s only for my benefit, like exercise or car maintenance. If I can’t even stick with a goal that I like, what are the odds that I would persevere with something I don’t? They are not good. Not good at all.

Over the weekend, I knocked out #2 and 3 and I had the temptation to choose a nice, slim #4 that I could finish up easily in three days. Instead, thanks to sheer stubbornness, I grabbed the next one on the queue, without knowing that The Hundred Secret Senses has over 400 pages. Initially, I suffered a lapse of reality and thought, “Four hundred pages? That’s only … 150 pages per night! Let’s go!” Needless to say, it has sealed my fate to be unsuccessful for January, seeing as I’m only on measly page 72 right now and even I have to accept the fact that I am not able to read 344 pages in one evening.

I really do like the book and I have to keep reminding myself of the real point here. It’s about me making time for reading, actually enjoying it, and not feeling like I have homework. I can’t seem to squelch my inner overachiever, who is eager to earn any gold star that might be out there. Maybe some personal growth and letting go of the need for rewards is somewhere embedded in here, too.

Anyway, being slow in January is no excuse for the rest of the year, so to achieve an average of four books per month, here’s to five in February…

Eavesdropping

2007-01-29T16:30:00.000-05:00

During my brief stay in a hotel completely populated by high school students, I overheard some interesting tidbits …

While in an elevator with one boy who might be Chinese and a classmate who appears to be Indian:
Boy 1: But what’s the point of living well? Karma or something?
Boy 2: Well, if I lived well in the last life, then I’m enjoying a good life now as a human.
Boy 1: But you don’t know if you’re screwing something up now. What if you find yourself as a mushroom in the next life?
Boy 2: That’s not really the point, though. It’s really just to live as well as you can while you can.
Boy 1: … But then you’re a mushroom.

[Ha. I love it when teenagers are unintentionally hilarious.]

-----

While walking through a hallway lined with lounging kids:
Girl: If it’s a girl you don’t know, you really shouldn’t play boob tag.

[What in the world…?]

-----

While walking through the SEPTA station:
Another Girl: Mr. JG, you’d make a good daddy!

[Let’s not even go there, kids.]

Over the Top

2007-01-28T18:37:00.000-05:00

On Friday, JG and I found ourselves on the top of the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the ones made famous by Rocky and his gray sweatsuit. No, we didn’t run all the way up the stairs; we accidentally drove across them. In a car.

It all started out very innocently with a trip to the museum. I had never been there, so JG was humoring me and two of his friends came along for the ride. We followed signs for the parking lot, winding around and around the building at what I thought was a curiously high altitude. “I feel like we’re driving on top of the museum,” I commented, and of course, the rest of the car just laughed at me. RA was worrying again, as always. Then, the scenery opened up to reveal the stairs falling down to the right and columns of the museum’s façade rising up on the left. We were on top of the stairs, staring down at the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. What in the world?

The friend in the driver’s seat paused as we reached the center of the patio and said jokingly, “Do you want to take a picture?” We yelled to get off the steps and we zoomed into a less visible side parking lot. As the car pulled into place, the ridiculousness of the whole thing settled in. We were on the steps! If Rocky had been there, we could have run him over. We might even be in people’s pictures of the museum. Crazy.

JG would later describe the episode as the highlight of his weekend. At least the trip to the museum (that I loved, by the way) was worth that much, I guess.

Philly Weekend

2007-01-25T11:19:00.000-05:00

I’m taking the afternoon and tomorrow off! We’re going to Philly with friends! Yes! Oh, and meanwhile, JG and I are chaperoning a pack of kids.

I shouldn’t complain. The trip is almost free for us, not including the minor task of accompanying 45 high school students to participate in their Model United Nations fest. We’re all staying in the same hotel where the kids do their UN thing (compromise, treaties, resolution, etc.) so I’m told that this chaperoning gig is really more like checking off names on a list than babysitting. According to the faculty advisor, the kids are the “nerdy, well-behaved ones”, so hopefully, they’ll snap to attention if I ask them to do something. Being an authority figure for these students makes me uneasy. I’m not a teacher and, more importantly, over half of them are bound to be at least a head taller than I am. Much to my chagrin, this will be a situation where respectful students will call me Mrs. Married Last Name and I need to make a conscious effort not to wince every time that happens. I am just not used to that yet.

Between the art museum and the orchestra (yay!), the plan this weekend includes a lot of reading. As of right now, the reading resolution is completely unrealistic thanks to my current book that has me in a headlock. I can’t fail in the first month! It’s a matter of pride right now; I have to at least get through June. I’m going to finish my book and get at least halfway through the other one in my bag, darn it.

Regardless of students, married last names and sub-Arctic weather, I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself. Time off from work is always a good time!

My Niche

2007-01-22T18:27:00.000-05:00

I have a theory that my career path is based on doing things that other people would rather not do themselves. Now, I don’t mean jobs that would qualify for Dirty Jobs. It’s more that I doubt that the majority of professionals would choose to:

Check if periods have one or two spaces after them
Beat uncooperative headers, footers, and page numbers into submission
Ensure that every copyright sign is superscripted
Create graph and table templates in Excel that can be inserted into Word and still maintain legibility
Format an existing document so that it can populate a table of contents gracefully
Make sure that compound adjectives are properly hyphenated

See, my technical writing background has exposed me to a whole spectrum of tasks that are generally unsavory for the general population but I happen to relish. Boring to some, my workload caters to perfectionist tendencies and allows me to build and flex my Office muscles. I enjoy surpassing people’s expectations of Excel formulas and the challenge of a recalcitrant file that will not behave. Because Microsoft insists on making its applications think too much (die, Clippy!), my job is often a battle between how I want files to function and how Microsoft thinks I want them to function. You’re not the boss of me! I shout in my head, shaking my mental fist.

Today I was at home, hunkered down on my couch, for a day consisting of all of the above. Nothing says par-tay like software documentation! Pages of rough tech content had to be polished into a user-friendly, non-technical reference for project managers of all different learning styles. I’d already spent at least a full day on it, but I still had a long way to go before my end-of-day deadline. I spent hours making screen shots, reproducing examples, and creating hyperlinks. The sections had to be reordered for usage’s sake and I had to switch around the orientation of pages (fun with section breaks!) to maintain some white space for notes that should be scribbled down during an upcoming training session.

When I finally sent off my final (hopefully) twenty-four pages of hard labor, I realized that I was roasting. Having my computer on my lap, typing steadily for hours, and concentrating fiercely had made a physical effect on me. As I took off my hoodie, I felt a settling sense of satisfaction in my day’s work. Normally, I don’t feel a significant degree of accomplishment because my role essentially boils down to making other people’s jobs easier. Even though my work today had the same result of making processes run, this time was different; this morning, these twenty-four pages did not exist, but I made them! I created what would be helpful for the largest team at my company by finessing the output from the tech team and thinking through how the users would interact with it. I produced a clear, supportive piece of communication and I’m sure that I’m more excited about this than others might be. I am positive that when I have that documentation in my hands, I’ll know that it would not have come together if not for me. It really means something to me.

The question is, how do I get paid more for this odd skill set?

The Mad Scrappers

2007-01-21T16:55:00.000-05:00

Late-night games! Tables full of junk food! Door prizes! Overnight bags! Yep, my church’s women’s retreat is not a typical rustic, campfire, singing “Kumbaya” affair. I got to spend the weekend with really wonderful women who have helped grow me up and I’m not exaggerating when I claim that they are freaking hilarious. Full-contact, cross-country games of spoons and hard-core hikes in 45-mph winds are just some of the things that make these women are so much fun. As a younger one of the group, I’m more of a rare species, and stories about my wedding and being a newlywed jog their own memories. It’s a good time.

There was another group on the premises at the retreat center on the Chesapeake Bay. When I encountered participants in hallway, they wore slippers and oversized t-shirts with a giant logo emblazoned across the chest: the Mad Scrappers. A whole auditorium was devoted to what they called “cropping around the clock” and scrapbookers sat at tables covered with photos and craft supplies. In the background, elevator music hummed and an announcer held up crafty doodads that were available for purchase, of course.

Initially, the auditorium exerted a magnetic attraction for the avid scrapbookers in my retreat group. They nosed their way into the outskirts of the group, wondering what was going on. Upon discovering that the Mad Scrappers intended to have a marathon session of craftiness, the group became an object of fascination, rather than admiration. Did these people know each other? What compelled a person to sit at a table for a possible 48-hour stretch? Who could stand the background music? What if you didn’t want to buy anything? Wasn’t the announcer irritating? Were the slippers mandatory?

Unfortunately, the world may never know since none of us had the courage to ask one of the Mad Scrappers about their weekend. Speculation was part of the fun, really.

Slapping My Forehead

2007-01-17T19:35:00.000-05:00

This morning, I discovered that, in the midst of transferring documents in preparation for reformatting my hard drive, I somehow left out the folder that held all of the digital photos from the wedding. The ones from the photographer, our almost-photographer friend, and all the others that friends and family had sent us were sent to their doom in reformatting oblivion. To make matters worse, the carnage included a slideshow from the reception that was I compiled from photos from our childhood, dating relationship, and engagement. I planned on watching with JG for a significant anniversary, but that mood-lit plan faded as the realization took hold.

No. No!

It was a moment fit for a Homeric “d’oh” and a hefty chorus of “stupid, stupid, stupid!” I clacked away at a frazzled e-mail to JG:

So, I managed to delete all of the wedding photos. And the slideshow! I think we have backups of the photographer’s ones, but everything else is gone. I want to cry.

I was at work, so I couldn’t cry. Instead, my stomach developed a hollow that ached in a nagging, guilt-inducing way. I kept checking throughout the day to see if the folder had magically appeared, but of course, it didn’t. The computer only does what you tell it to do, which is not necessarily what you want it to do. It doesn’t intuit that you’d want to reserve a folder for the rare but significant times that you need some random item out of it. I’m irritated that I retained edited versions of a graphic that I used for the ceremony program but not the spreadsheet with people’s addresses. I am so stupid.

I feel somewhat sheepish that this has upset me so deeply because I wouldn’t assume that a loss of digital pictures would have that effect. The super-pragmatic imp in my brain says reasonably, “It’s not as though you lost something of value, you know. Like your car.” But, protests the rest of me, sentimental value is valuable! I can’t slap a price tag on it, but I’d still guard it carefully. I just didn’t realize that I had to, so I didn’t … now a lot of it is gone. Maybe that’s the point.

Thankfully, JG was understanding about everything and at least we found a backup of the expensive, professional photos, so it’s not all bad. I still feel like an idiot, though.

Monday's Moral

2007-01-16T19:24:00.000-05:00

It was raining. It was a Monday. I was running late. I had to go out of my way and pick up coffee and pastries before I got in to the office. Needless to say, I was not in a very good mood. I got up to the counter, holding my company credit card, and the barrista (Is it barristo for a guy?) said, “Oh, we only take cash and check, but we have an ATM over there.” I gritted my teeth into a smile and muttered that I would be right back. My bank was in the same shopping area, so I ran out into the rain to use their ATM to avoid that pesky surcharge.

Upon obtaining the cash, shivering in line, and then paying for bagfuls of muffins, croissants, and the like, I noticed that the slot where my ATM card usually goes in my wallet was strangely vacant. I panicked.

This would be something I would do, like forgetting my Styrofoam box of leftovers at the restaurant or the address when I need to ship a package! What if someone took it? I have to call the bank and make sure no one is debit-ing up a storm!

I grabbed the food, ran through the rain to the car, and frantically clawed through my whole wallet and purse – no ATM card. I ran back to the machine, only to find a beneficent green light blinking under the words, Insert Card Here. I took a deep breath.

The bank wasn’t open at the time, so I went to my office, trying not to overreact. I talked it over with a co-worker, who was almost positive that the ATM has a security measure to suck the card back inside the machine after maybe 30 seconds, so I followed his recommendation to call the branch itself, and lo and behold! They had my card! I walked over to pick it up -

Me: Hi, I called earlier because I left my ATM card in the machine out front.
Teller: Oh, are you RA?
Me: Yes, I am. (goes to pull out license)
Teller: Okay, I’ll be right back. (leaves, returns with card) Here’s your card and have a nice day!

Close observers will note that not only did I not have to show my photo ID to verify that I was the holder of the card, I didn’t even have to state my own name. Any random girl could have walked in and ended up with the same result! And maybe I’m just paranoid and maybe it’s just that I have a shifty bank, but honestly. What did I learn? Don’t leave the ATM card in the machine.

But that’s probably common sense already. Or something like that.

It Seemed So Real

2007-01-15T20:30:00.000-05:00

This morning, over breakfast…

RA: So, last night, I had a dream that we got robbed. We were doing something here in the kitchen, and these two mean guys walked right in and started raiding the Tupperware cabinet.
JG: I think that says something about your protectiveness about the Tupperware.
RA: Oh, whatever. So then I’m all, “What’s going on here?” And one of the guys whipped out a gun! Then you whisked me away –
JG: Rrrr! (flexing motions)
RA: – and crammed me into a closet…
JG: Oh.
RA: And then the closet turned into a room!
JG: Um…
RA: Then I heard all this rumbling outside and you had wrangled up the two guys!
JG: Rrrr! (more flexing)
RA: And then you threw them into the room with me!
JG: Oh, sorry.
RA: One of them called me “sweetheart” and I felt dirty. And then I woke up.
JG: (pause) I’m amazed that you can remember how dreams made you feel.
RA: Well, I think it’s because I dream in first person. I never watch myself do anything. How do you dream?
JG: … I didn’t even know someone could ask that.

Jiggety Jig

2007-01-13T12:17:00.000-05:00

It’s good to be back. I enjoyed my swanky hotel room and eating out all week, but there is a certain charm to lazing on a comfy couch in a big hoodie. I also enjoyed 10 hours of sleep in my native time zone, without a jangling wake-up call and someone mispronouncing my name.

Even though I love our little house in the suburban neighborhood, I really savor my occasional, short visits to cities, especially San Francisco. I loved walking from the office to whatever restaurant my friends had chosen that was so different from my normal fare by virtue of being on the west coast. The brisk air on my face and slapping sound of my flats on the sidewalk made me feel more engaged and aware of what I was doing, as opposed to the zoning out that usually occurs during my commutes. I delighted in the conversation over dinner, mostly because I hardly ever have the chance to spend leisure time with my west-coast cohorts. I snatch up whatever opportunity I have, which resulted in a happy hour, a lunch, and three dinners during my three-day stay. Thai, Italian, crepes, and comfort food – I happily ate it all. I enjoyed the feeling of being active and mobile, since it’s easy for me to fall into a rather sedentary mode in my normal life.

Because my hotel was a bit of a trek from my office (thank you, Macworld), I saw most of San Francisco from the passenger seat of a cab, my stomach flipping and flopping as we rolled over the hills. In one particular ride, I realized that I wasn’t craning my neck to see where we were headed; I realized that the driver had simply removed the headrest for the seat next to him. I told him that I appreciated it because I liked to take in the scenery and he chucked, saying, “It’s the open floor plan model.” Ha.

It was a good trip.

After my ride pulled up to the house and I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I breathed in the mushroomy air that defines my little town. Ah, yes. Home again, home again.

I May Regret This

2007-01-10T21:37:00.000-05:00

I have never been one to succumb to peer pressure. I was unapologetically geeky, even before geeks were chic, thank you very much. This time, though, I just can’t help myself.

Apparently, we’re halfway through a bloggy special occasion known as De-Lurking Week and many of the sites I frequent are participating by encouraging those who read and don’t comment to come out of the woodwork, resulting in a fantastic response. Some are being charitable while others are witty, but me? I’ve been reluctant to put out this invitation because, well, I’m afraid that no one out there is actually lurking and how sad would it be if no one was there to de-lurk? Is it pathetic that I wish there were lurkers, even if that word makes stalkers and other scary people spring to mind? While I’m jumping off this bridge with everyone else, I may as well admit that welcoming a pity de-lurk is not below me, in case anyone was wondering.

Let me just say: if anyone out there reads this site and would like to prove that I’m not in an empty room, that would be very nice of you and I would really appreciate it. You don’t even have to be an official lurker because I am all about the love. Plus, I promise to respond with a friendly e-mail and many thanks for humoring me by saying hi.

Hi!

Musings on Flight

2007-01-09T22:35:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I let myself think about air travel and it boggles my mind. How does the plane lift off? Is it the sheer speed that makes it take off? The same one that sucks everyone into their seats? Is there a rocket involved? And then, how does landing work? That bump-bump-ROAR of the landing always makes me draw my breath in all at once while wringing my hands. What is that learning curve like? And then parking afterward? I can barely pull into a space with my little car (forget parallel parking). I do not understand it. It doesn’t behoove me to ponder these lingering questions when I’m a passenger on a plane, but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me.

At other times, I can see why people back in the day wanted to fly, resulting in funny bicycle-powered contraptions from those speckled, black and white reels with tinny piano music playing in the background. As my plane dropped down from cruising altitudes, I saw glimpses of the sunset over the San Francisco hills, burnishing the passengers on the left. Everything had tinges of gold – graceful, sloping bridges, straight, shiny skyscrapers, and seemingly miniscule cars on the freeway. I held my breath on the inhale, dazzled for a few moments. I couldn’t have seen all of this as a pedestrian in the street. Sometimes, the best view is from the top.

Then there are other times when I am absolutely sure why taking a train is my favorite mode of long-distance transportation. There are lots of trains, a short waiting period, and – most applicable today – no middle seats. There were only middle seats left on my flight when I booked it, so I picked one at random because being small means that I can fit into pretty much any situation coach seats throw at me. Unfortunately, I ended up next to a heavyset French woman who decided to forgo the armrest and essentially spilled onto my seat. It took all I had to maintain some semblance of courtesy as I gently nudged her chenille sweater to the left, brought the armrest back down while she was at the restroom, and shimmied to the right to give myself as much space as I could without getting all up on the man on my other side. I’m as affectionate as the next guy (with close friends and such, ahem), but for public situations, I definitely need my personal space. When the people on both sides of me took up the whole armrest and more, the bubble got a lot smaller and the six-hour flight seemed much longer.

In any case, thank goodness for fun co-workers, a yummy (and only $2!) cocktail, and a plateful of pasta. I won’t be good for much for too long. I can feel myself fading… Darn you, jet lag…

A Bumpy Re-Entry

2007-01-06T18:13:00.000-05:00

It didn’t occur to me until this year, but the worst part about hosting the New Year’s shindig was that I had to go back to work with no recovery period from mountains of dishes, loads of laundry, hours on my feet, and lack of sleep. Well, I should maybe correct that last one to excessive sleep, since I subtly (and stupidly) adjusted my internal clock so that I would believe that 10am was a reasonable time to get up.

On each morning of this shortened-but-didn’t-feel-like-it week, I woke up feeling as though gravity had a greater hold on me – especially on my eyelids – than it did when I went to bed. I simply could not drag my sorry carcass out of bed to join the living despite the nagging blare of the clock. I admit that I managed to get up on Tuesday morning and do 20 minutes of yoga, but that was a one-time thing and I blame it on New Year Unrealistic-ness. Even then, when my blood was flowing, I practically napped my way to work and it’s obvious that that is not a good idea when you are driving.

I trudged my way through the week with a thought bubble hovering over my head that read, “Don’t forget that you have to travel to the west coast office next week! Better clean up that desk, gather your travel arrangements, and make sure you can afford not to work for three whole days!” Groan. That explains why I spent the greater part of this absurd 70-degree afternoon composing an article that turned out to be torturous to write and ultimately sub-par. The only thing worse than working on the weekends is producing work that you know is crap.

As a child, I remember hearing that space shuttles would burst into flame (or at least get very hot?) as they entered into the Earth’s atmosphere. Why is that? Something about the heat from the sun inside the atmosphere? I have no idea. But man, I know how that shuttle feels. Houston, I do not enjoy this.

Despite the rough landing overall, I had a pleasant surprise waiting for me in my inbox yesterday morning. Today is my two-year anniversary at my job (so weird to me) and the anniversary tradition at my company is that people write fun notes under a given theme. Well, my supervisor got wind of my reading ambitions for the year and I received a nice stack of book recommendations! I couldn’t be more pleased, though it was a bit eerie reading through the notes because I kept thinking, “Ooh, I loved that book!” or “I did always want to read that one.” They really had my number.

How I Roll

2007-01-04T09:14:00.000-05:00

A co-worker of mine arrived at the office this morning and remarked, “It’s so quiet in here!” She proceeded to change that fact by exclaiming about the pile of mail on her desk, check her voicemail on speaker phone and talk very loudly to no one in particular so that we could all hear everything.

There are only nine people in my office, five of whom telecommute, so quiet is the norm. How loud can four people be? Why is quiet bad? Doesn’t it mean that we’re all working?

I’ve received feedback that I adhere too strictly to my schedule. I freely admit that flexibility is not my strong point, but I don’t see anything wrong with doing a full day of work and then getting the heck out of the office. That’s not to say that I don’t have longer hours at times or that I’m completely antisocial, but it’s frustrating to me when getting work done is seen as a hindrance to socializing, and then, something worthy of condescension. I’m all about having fun at work during a lull, but when the deadline looms, no amount of fun helps the job get finished. If I have a lot to do, I don’t need distractions in the form of random bursts of hip-hop music or someone else’s conference call on speaker phone, but my wearing headphones is viewed as exclusive or even rude.

Um, sorry? I have to write two articles this morning and I have a hunch that blocking noise would be helpful in that process. But that’s just me.

Whatever. Back to the grindstone.

Books of 2007

2007-01-02T19:06:00.000-05:00

To keep me on track with my new year’s resolution to read four books each month, I’ll log my progress here and grace the books I enjoyed most with a fancy link. However, as of press time, it’s clear that I don’t have nearly enough books to get me even halfway through the year, so please! Recommend your favorites! I don’t pressure myself to finish a book if it ends up being a chore (Take Walden. Please.), so I’m open to whatever other people liked. I’ve never read anything by Jodi Picoult and I hear she’s good. Is she?

For those who are curious whether I’d enjoy a particular book:

I try to vary my reading with fiction and non-fiction
My favorite authors are Madeleine L’Engle, C.S. Lewis, James Thurber, and Jane Austen (in that order)
I’ve become fond of memoirs lately and I like short story/essay anthologies
I make my best effort to read books that I should read on sheer principle, building character and all that
I can’t handle a lot of suspense, gore, or ridiculous romance

And so it begins!

January
Teacher Man, by Frank McCourt
The General in His Labyrinth, by Gabriel García Márquez
Come Back, Barbara, by C. John Miller

February
The Hundred Secret Senses, by Amy Tan
Lapsing into a Comma, by Bill Walsh
Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpa Lahiri
Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson

March
Traveling Mercies, by Anne Lamott
Ellen Foster, by Kaye Gibbons
March, by Geraldine Brooks
Life of Pi, by Yann Martel

April
The Kitchen God's Wife, by Amy Tan
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris
Spring Snow, by Yukio Mishima

May
Good in Bed, by Jennifer Weiner
Singing My Him Song, by Malachy McCourt
Friends for the Journey, by Madeleine L’Engle and Luci Shaw
The Bonesetter’s Daughter, by Amy Tan

June
Loud and Clear, by Anna Quindlen

Waiting in the wings: (alphabetically)

Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell
The Code Book, by Simon Singh
In a Sunburned Country, by Bill Bryson
Empire Falls, by Richard Russo
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, by Ken Kesey
Runaway Horses, by Yukio Mishima
Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut

The First Hours

2007-01-01T09:34:00.000-05:00

I had not seen the 2am hour in I couldn’t remember how long. But there’s something about a living room full of friends, a coffee table covered with food, and weeks or months of absence from one another that make 2am a reasonable time to fall, exhausted and full-bellied, into bed. The house is packed with sleeping people, overnight bags, and foil-covered plates of baked goods. Every couch and bed is occupied and it is strangely satisfying to me, whose house usually consists of empty, unheated spaces. I like it in its inhabited way. My ear is tuned to any sounds of movement, but the house is still at the moment.

JG and I woke up after only six hours of sleep (we’re kind of lame in our eight-hour habit), but we’re hoping it’ll tire us out to slot us into the right waking up hour for the abrupt re-entry into the working world tomorrow. I haven’t awakened to the jarring poke of an alarm clock since the Friday before Christmas and I dread its insistence. Let’s not think about that. For now, I will savor the peace of my last day off and share with you what I resolve for this year.

1. To read four books every month
Basically, I want to read more, and I work best with a timeline, so there we are. If this goal ends up being a homework assignment, I’ll probably decrease the quantity because the ultimate objective here is to make time for leisure reading rather than hit a certain number of books.

2. To try two new recipes every month
So, there’s that timeline thing again. My mom gave me a subscription to Cooking Light for Christmas and JG received the cookbook from America’s Test Kitchen for his birthday, so I will have a wellspring of recipes from which to glean. My idea is to try a recipe from baking and cooking because I prefer to bake but I aspire to improve my cooking skills. Hopefully, this balance will cater to my inclination and help me grow.

Guests are starting to stir and I hear the clank of mugs and glasses upstairs. It’s time to get a move on. I drag my pointer across the date in the taskbar just to see the pop-up – there it is. Monday, January 1, 2007.

Ringing It In

2006-12-31T14:10:00.000-05:00

This time of year prompts summaries of the milestones and memories from the past twelve months. But I am leaving all of that to news anchors and snarky commentators because I am so excited about our plans for tonight!

A whole gang of friends is coming over for New Year’s Eve and the occasion is especially exciting because we hardly ever get hang out all together. We all worked at a camp in the Pocono Mountains within the past five years where we forged amazing friendships. Nowadays, we’re scattered all over the place so it’s hard to make schedules coincide and we grab any chance we can, even to help each other move. Tonight is just one of those chances and I am looking forward to it so much.

Because I need to continue the trend of stuffing my face during my time off, there will be a ton of food. Thanks to JG, the fridge is full of dips (taco, spinach and artichoke, and seven-layer) ready to be baked and the new chocolate fountain is ready for its debut with marshmallows, pretzels, and graham crackers playing supporting roles. Towers of Tupperware are packed with jumbo chocolate chip cookies, sour cream cookies, brownies, and a batch of surprise birthday cupcakes for one of our friends. Everyone is staying the night to watch the Penn State bowl game tomorrow and I’ve prepped two crock pots full of yummy chili. It’ll stew slowly after we crash for the night, making the house smell amazing, so that we can devour it over baked potatoes during halftime. I love any excuse to make chili! I mean, I love seeing my friends and making chili for them…

We’ll play games (including The Best Game Ever, hopefully), catch up on our lives, watch the ball drop, and then cheer on Penn State to a victory against Tennessee. It will be a blast and I can’t wait.

May your celebration be as bright! See you in 2007!

Wishful Pictures

2006-12-30T20:18:00.000-05:00

Sure, we took the normal Christmas photos of the dinner table all laid out, the whole family in front of the tree and various “ooh, look what I got!” poses during present-opening. I don’t know about you, but there are times when I wish I could create a print of whatever was going on. Sometimes it’s a camera in my eye; I would say, “click”, in my head and the resulting photo would be as sharp and spontaneous as it appeared to me regardless of things like lighting or talent. At other times, it would be some third-person photographer who just happened to be around to capture, say, JG and me bustling around to make Christmas dinner. Unfortunately, these are all figments of my imagination and the following great moments do not exist on film or in digital form, but it would be so great if they did.

The spread of appetizers provided by my non-cooking sister that included seven-layer dip and crabcakes. We were all duly impressed.
Me falling on the kitchen floor, gasping with silent laughter, thankfully out of sight, while my dad parsed out the details of the new Bond flick with my exasperated sister:
Dad: You know how the girl told James Bond that the tuxedo was “custom”? What does that mean? How did she get his measurements?
Sister: I don’t know, Dad, it’s just part of the movie.
Dad: What is she, a psychologist?
Sister: …
JG’s face when he thought we had received a third slow cooker.
JG’s face when it turned out to be a chocolate fountain!
My sister in each of her three outfits for Christmas Day. No exaggeration.
The amoebic pancakes – due to a strangely runny batter – that graced our Brunch Extravaganza. We also had eggs, sausage, fruit, coffee, juice, and an enormous coffeecake that I had to ration out to the rest of the family just so it would be eaten.
The hundreds of poinsettias we saw in the conservatory while taking in the holiday display at Longwood Gardens. Also, the gorgeous all-white tree in the topiary garden.
My dad scraping out the last bits of JG’s jambalaya out of a giant bowl. It was that good.
My mom throwing her hands up and whooping with delight that she beat all of us in Apples to Apples.
Me during Catch Phrase, with an intense, incredulous expression, while describing incomplete pass to my sister and mom: “This is when, in football, the quarterback’s throw is not caught by the receiver. … It’s not caught! What is that called?! Okay, what’s the throw called? Pass, yes! So, when it is not caught… it’s unfinished! Not done yet!” If they hadn’t figured it out after all that, I would have had to bust some heads.
My dad’s look of ecstasy when JG demonstrated the glory that is surround sound and my mom’s shifty, worried expression when she entered the living room and asked, “What’s all this ruckus?”
“The most awkward hug ever” as described by JG after he misinterpreted my grandmother’s indication to shake hands and went in for the embrace.
A quiet, clicking scene that should have qualified us for Electronics Anonymous: immediately after waving off my parents and grandmother, JG turned on the football game, I checked e-mail, and my sister and her boyfriend tapped intently on their Blackberrys. I am not sure that we could have stopped any time we wanted to.

In the Quiet Afterward

2006-12-27T14:23:00.000-05:00

We did it! We successfully hosted Christmas! My parents and grandmother left after breakfast, I just waved off my sister, and JG and I finally had the house to ourselves. Of course, the first thing we did was fire up the computer and check e-mail.

We surveyed the wreckage and, thankfully, it’s not that bad. We have a big plastic container of leftover London broil (we’ll have cheese steaks and fried rice aplenty), a pile of presents, and linens waiting to be washed. All in all, it was a good experience to host a family event and I would much rather do this than travel all over the place, but it is tiring. It’s a relief not to have to ask people if they need a drink or if they’re too warm or cool. I’ll be glad to wash all of the towels and replenish our dangerously-low supply. Running (and emptying) the dishwasher twice a day was not so fun, but it certainly helped our sanity level during the past few days.

Despite my tired feet and tendency toward yawning, it was a great Christmas. There was something about opening up the house, telling stories about the ornaments, and sharing baked goods that triggered a dormant hostess hormone in me. JG and I buzzed around the house, whipping up dinners, setting out cookies, distributing towels, and placing gifts under the tree. We worked well together and chuckled softly when my family made funny-without-knowing-it comments. I’m glad that we both emerged relatively unscathed from the holiday, not dreading the thought of seeing my family again but still enjoying the quiet respite of an empty house.

For now, I plan on lapsing into a nap while the laundry cycles through. We confirmed earlier in the day that JG’s mom and siblings are arriving tomorrow morning to visit us for a short while, so we’ve got to re-make up those beds tonight. I might be kicking myself for committing to so much later on, but for now, it’s just right.

Belated

2006-12-25T12:02:00.000-05:00

When I was a senior in high school, I auditioned for and got a solo in the annual Christmas show presented by the chorus. I sang “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and did a tap dance number with Rudolph, or as much as a tap number as can be faked in sneakers or a reindeer suit. That year, one of my best friends, Kip, played Rudolph and we had so much fun with the song. He and I had always been in the same classes since fourth grade and even though we were polarized in terms of interests and temperament, we spoke the same language. I reminded him of when our assignments were due and he got me to loosen up, but most of all, we made each other laugh. Being friends since the fourth grade gave us plenty of fun times and being Rudolph & Girl was another one for the books. Somewhere, there’s a picture of the two of us from that performance, and I really wish I had a copy.

Kip’s birthday fell on Christmas Eve and one of our rituals was that he would tease me about how I’d never given him a gift for his birthday or Christmas. He knew that on the day before we got out of school for winter break, I’d hand him a candy cane taped to a Christmas card and say with a healthy dose of attitude, “Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas. Happy, now?” Kip would punch me, I would roll my eyes, and everything was how it should have been.

Just a few days after my twentieth birthday, I got a phone call at college with news that Kip had committed suicide. I boarded a train to go back home, where I wept silently during the funeral, and his parents cried when they hugged me. All I could think of was that however badly I was feeling, it must be so much worse for them. I ached with the knowledge that they were trying to comfort me. The anniversary of that week is still raw for me.

This morning, after reading a particularly poignant blog post, I sighed to myself, eyebrows furrowed. In response to my husband’s questioning eyes, I said slowly, “Yesterday was the first Christmas Eve that I didn’t remember that it was Kip’s birthday. In maybe fifteen years. And that makes me a little sad.” I hope I’m not on the path to forgetting, that the anniversary will go by and it’ll be just a regular day. I’m grasping at the memory, kicking myself for not remembering last night and having a quiet moment to reflect on it.

But the memory stings today when it's clear that not all of the tears are spent.

The Night Before

2006-12-24T20:00:00.000-05:00

I can hardly believe it, but everything is done. After I woke up at 6am and was unable to go back to sleep – very unlike me – I spent most of the day in the kitchen, wearing slippers and my new pajamas (thanks, JG’s mom!), while I measured ingredients and whipped mint icing and dipped finished products in chocolate. But I’m finished! Boxes of cookies are stacked up and a cheesecake is quivering in the fridge.

Tonight, per my request, JG and I will watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. It cracks me up to watch Lucy insist on being the Christmas Queen and that Schroeder should buy “pretty things for pretty girls.” I also laugh out loud when all of the kids sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and they tilt their heads backward and open their mouths really wide – in unison! The best part, though, is when Linus takes the stage and says, “Lights, please.” Oh, I can’t wait.

Aside from the excitement of hosting Christmas (like a real adult or something) I’m savoring the time alone with JG most of all. Christmas brings out the contemplative in me, what can I say? It all reminds me of a certain strip from Calvin and Hobbes, my favorite comic. In 1989, Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, so cartoonist Bill Watterson wrote a poem for the occasion, framed by a single-panel, color illustration of Calvin leaning up against Hobbes in front of a toasty fire. I may not have a fireplace or a stuffed tiger, but I have a comfy couch and a wonderful husband, and the lines are pretty close to what I’m feeling now. From our quiet, cozy living room, I leave you this poem and the warmest wishes for a great Christmas.

On window panes, the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, crissed & crossed,
But in our house the Christmas tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this winter night.
Christmas songs, familiar, slow,
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and hisses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.
My tiger is now fast asleep
On his back and dreaming deep.
When the fire makes him hot,
He turns to warm whatever’s not.
Propped against him on the rug,
I give my friend a gentle hug.
Tomorrow’s what I'm waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

It's Crunch Time

2006-12-23T11:09:00.000-05:00

There are two dry-erase boards in the kitchen: one is just for grocery store items and a larger one is for working out math problems (JG) or compulsive list-making (me). I derive great satisfaction from swiping my thumb across a task with a ringing “Done!” in my ears and a list of to-do’s that looks that much emptier.

Today calls for a Big List. We’ve jotted down all of the things we need to do before my family descends upon our house on Christmas Day and even though it’s not as bad as it could be, it’s still a little intimidating. It’s the last push, the final cram session! Thankfully, the majority of my list is baking. Between my family’s expectations and my church’s Christmas Eve festivities, I committed to quite a bit. By Sunday afternoon, I will have produced:

8 dozen cookies (3 varieties)
4 dozen brownies
A pumpkin cheesecake
A loaf of bread

Aside from a clean house and piles of baked goods, I’m looking forward to a prize at the end of it all. JG had the forethought to add “snuggle during a movie” to the list, so that’ll be a nice reward to successfully erasing off things during the day.

Here we go…

False Advertising

2006-12-20T21:39:00.000-05:00

Last week, while celebrating JG’s birthday, I encountered a ridiculous product that I won’t ever use again. It’s a public service announcement, really.

After we ate our Chinese takeout and JG opened his presents, I set off to frost the cake. I have zero cake-decorating experience, so when I was at the grocery store picking up supplies, I spied something called Easy Squeeze Decorating Icing. Ooh, you just screw on one of their handy decorating tips and off you go! I bought a tube of white and blue (flavors unknown, I guess) and I was all set. I wasn’t worried that I had left the actual decorating to the day of because, really, how long was it going to take? My plan was to write, “Happy Birthday” in white, do a nice thick, scrolly border in blue, and then I’d make random white flecks across the border to satisfy the “lots of frosting” request from JG. Simple enough, I thought:

Okay, so the writing should be narrow. Here’s the smallest tip. Threading it on was easy enough. So, I’ll just squeeze it out and write out the words. Maybe in cursive? That would be fancy. Man, I’m squeezing really hard and nothing is happening. Oh, I see, I have to squeeze hard enough to get the tip to fill up with icing, too. Okay. Good, here’s the icing coming out! Now, I can start my letters!

What the heck?! Why isn’t the icing sticking to the cookie?! I guess I need to apply more pressure, but my hand is already killing me and the cake only says, “Hap”. That’s not even a word! Maybe the narrow tip is the hardest one to squeeze. I’ll try the biggest one for a little bit. … Oops, I can only fit “Bday” in with this one. Argh! It’s still not sticking! Whatever, I’ll just pick up the “y” and put it in place. There.

I’m sure it’ll be easier to do the border, so let me break into the blue. Okay, and I’m using the second biggest tip… Here we go. What is the blue stuff leaking out?! Agh, it’s all over me. No, not on the cookie…! Too late. I’ll dab that off with a paper towel. All right, let’s give this a try. I’ve seen people make those little wavy humps to make a pattern, so maybe I can do that. More leakage! What in the world! And the more I squeeze, the more it leaks! But my hand really hurts. This isn’t working. I hate this stuff!

I ended up flipping the tube of icing over, slashing it open with my kitchen shears, and glopping the icing along the cake’s edge with a butter knife. But then I studded it with extra chocolate chips because I’m classy like that. An hour after I began, I presented the mangled thing with aching hands. JG liked the end result, but I felt like the whole thing was mocking me. Stupid icing. Unless your day job consists of testing those tension dolls with pop-out eyes, those ridiculous tubes are not easy to squeeze. I shake my fist at you, Easy Squeeze Decorating Icing! Never again!

A Bubble Burst

2006-12-19T13:59:00.000-05:00

It all started when we heard “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on the radio.

Radio: All of the other reindeer…
JG and RA: Reindeer!
Radio: …used to laugh and call him names.
RA: Like Pinocchio!
JG: Like Funny Face!
Both of us: What did you say?
(Meanwhile: “They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games”)
RA: Like Monopoly!
JG: Like football!
Both of us: What?!

Those echoes aren’t really something to debate reasonably, even if you are well-informed adults, if we do say so ourselves. We just learned them in different ways, so the logic ended up being really sophisticated, such as, “How would Rudolph play football?!” and “His nose didn’t grow, so Funny Face would make way more sense!” We ultimately agreed to disagree and mused about how some things are simply left up to regional differences.

A few days later, JG said out of the blue, “So, I surveyed the other teachers in my lunch at school about the whole Rudolph thing. (Oh great, I thought, everyone thinks football is a reindeer game.) Half of the people had never sung the echoes before and half of them agreed with you!”

Oh, wow. I win?

He continued, “I still can’t believe no one had even heard of calling Rudolph Funny Face.”

JG seemed so disappointed at this recent disillusionment that I didn’t have the heart to rub it in. I didn’t even launch into the “I Told You So” dance from Will and Grace, even though I do love any excuse to break that one out. But that would not be in line with the Christmas spirit, huh?

Tree Nostalgia

2006-12-17T22:17:00.000-05:00

It’s a little bit strange to have a Christmas tree that’s not my parents’ artificial one, sitting in the back of the living room by the piano. It’s odd not to unwrap the old funky ornaments that I made in grade school or the ones with zigzaggy trim that my mom made when my parents were first married. I felt a little disoriented last year without my familiar Christmas surroundings. Now that it’s our second married Christmas, though, I enjoy the feeling that JG and I have started to establish our own little traditions, and it all started with the ornaments.

In the summers between semesters at college, JG and I worked at a summer camp as lifeguards and counselors, where one of the traditions is to have a staff reunion at the annual New Year’s Eve party. Every year, any engaged couples from the course of the year receive an ornament shower to furnish their first Christmas tree, and two years ago, JG and I were the recipients. I appreciated it so much because our tree features the ornaments we received that night and we may not have had many ornaments otherwise. Some of them are pretty generic, but that’s okay – not everyone knew us well. We really like the snowman made up of ice cubes and the Noah’s ark, but we don’t remember who gave them to us. Others are amazingly personal and I have loved unwrapping and hanging them on the tree.

A miniature, scaled lifeguard chair that one of JG’s eventual groomsmen created just for us
A chubby moose on skis, based on a joke that JG is a “fat moose”, when he is super-skinny in reality
A bejeweled glass ornament crafted by a former camper who happens to be an art major
A handmade collage of scenes from The Emperor’s New Groove, our favorite movie, which we forced our fellow staffers to watch several times
An “Our First Christmas” picture frame ornament from the other engaged couple that year; we attended their wedding almost exactly a year after our own

With help from our parents, JG and I have supplemented our initial collection with sentimental ornaments from our childhood like JG’s “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament and my building block with my initials. We both love the patchwork tree where it’s all mixing and not really matching – not like those pre-planned trees that you see in catalogues. I like to think that it’s like a photo album that spans all of the years, and it’s always nice to flip through the pictures and recall the fun times.

An Unreliable Narrator

2006-12-16T18:31:00.000-05:00

I realized this week that I was in the middle of a memoir streak – three in a row. In my running loop of a reading list, I usually try to alternate fiction and non-, but this trend caught me by surprise. In two weeks’ time, I’ve gone through Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris; ’Tis, by Frank McCourt; and Running with Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs, with varying levels of affection. That is, I liked them all except the last one, which I read in the past twelve hours with the compulsion that comes from watching a train wreck and wanting it to end. I’m interested in how others may have felt about these books, but that’s not this is about; I don’t pretend to be a literary critic.

As I read both Me Talk Pretty One Day and ’Tis, I thought, “This is what my professors meant by showing, rather than telling.” I could picture David Sedaris’s strange performance pieces and shuddered at the awkwardness when his parents attended. I was next to Frank McCourt when he swept floors at the Biltmore and shared his sadness when he returned to Ireland for a less-than-joyful family reunion. Their stories were captivating because they were true and, sometimes, that very fact made their sadness and pain much more acute. I wanted to absorb the authors’ fluidity of language that made the words actually convey what happened, instead of producing a dim shadow that leaves the storyteller muttering, “I guess you had to be there.”

I’ve been struck by the idea that perhaps this phase of reading has been spurred by my entrance into the blogosphere. What are bloggers doing, if not creating a memoir of sorts? I’m interested, even invested, in the blogs I read because I know there is a real person typing out that story with any bias, background information, and baggage that might come along. I know memoirs have gotten the shaft lately because they may or may not be true and that makes me a little bit sad. It might be naïve, but I would like to take memoirs for what they’re worth and believe that they’re true accounts. What can you do? Even with the best of intentions, we all write from a point of view and unfortunately, none of us can assume the third-person omniscient one. I’m one of countless unreliable narrators, like Nick from The Great Gatsby.

My recent reading has challenged me to think of this little blog as a modern memoir. I don’t have delusions of publication or even slightly widespread renown – it’s just a collection of memories where I try my hardest to show and not just tell.

Party Time!

2006-12-14T16:28:00.000-05:00

What do Nostradamus and Patty Duke have in common with my husband? They were all born on December 14! Which is today!

After I race home from work, it’s an evening featuring some of JG’s favorite things for his birthday celebration:

Eating Chinese takeout
Opening presents
Having chocolate chip cookie cake, with “lots of frosting”, per his request
Watching Survivor and CSI

It’s a school night, so it won’t be too wild, but it’s all about him, and that’s what really matters, right?

Happy Birthday, JG!

Butterdoodles

2006-12-12T22:22:00.000-05:00

“Try this,” I commanded, sticking a cookie in front of JG’s nose. I had detected an error in my execution and wanted to see if the batch was salvageable. It was Sunday and fairly late in the evening for making cookies.

He took a bite. “Um, I think it’s fine. What’s wrong?”
“An extra stick of butter! I forgot that a stick was a half cup, and I used an extra stick of butter!”
“Well, it’s moist, all right.”

My office has an annual cookie swap for the holidays and I thought it would be nice to send a batch of snickerdoodles, my swapping cookie of choice, to our headquarters in San Francisco. This crepe-like batch was supposed to be for my co-workers out west and I could not send them the fat-laden cookies with a clear conscience. I tipped the unbaked balls of dough into the trash, along with the cookies that had spread from their own continental drift. I had baked Pangaea on my hands, extra-fatty.

“I am such a baking failure this weekend,” I complained dramatically.
“That is so not true. Two out of the three things you baked this weekend came out right.”

Okay, fine. It had been a highly domesticated weekend for me and it wasn’t all bad. I made another loaf of no-knead bread (now informally dubbed “weekend bread” at our house) that came out all crusty and wonderful; it sacrificed itself to give us top-notch grilled cheese sandwiches yesterday. I also experimented with miniature pumpkin cheesecakes intended for my family at Christmas. I’m pretty good at regular-sized cheesecake and individual portions of anything can be so darn cute, so I couldn’t resist. They ended up quite tasty, but I just don’t think cheesecake is a finger food. JG and I peeled off the cupcake wrappers and weren’t sure what to do with it. Just shove it in your mouth? It seemed rather coarse for what I had thought would have been a dainty finger food. What was the point of mini cheesecake if you have to get a fork to eat it? I may as well just make the normal big cheesecake since I know what I’m doing.

Then the buttery snickerdoodles. I was irritated primarily because I’ve made those cookies since nursery school, rolling the balls of dough with my mom at the kitchen island. Shouldn’t I know how to make them by now? I love watching the cookies rise up into little cinnamony hemispheres and then crumple back up later on, giving the impression of a perpetually furrowed brow. Baking is a mysterious alchemy to me; you start with humble ingredients and end up with something totally different and delicious from the properties of gluten and protein. JG chuckles at me crouching, entranced, in front of the oven door. But this time, I had to wash a sinkful of dishes, an additional source of annoyance, for cookies that ended up unbaked and in the trash can.

That’s how, today, I ended up making my third batch of cookies in three days. I shipped out yesterday’s batch out to San Francisco and tonight’s four dozen are packed up for the cookie swap on Thursday. Tomorrow holds yet another workout for my mixer, but making JG’s chocolate chip cookie birthday cake should be fun. If nothing else, I look forward to an adventure with frosting...

Metal and Carbon

2006-12-10T12:05:00.000-05:00

I look at my engagement and wedding rings a lot ... three times in an hour is probably a low estimate. I imagine that someone seeing the frequent gazes at my finger – maybe passing by my desk at work or standing behind me at the pharmacy – might think that I'm a brand-newlywed, but I'm okay with that.

The rings lure my eyes so easily but they're very simple. My wedding band is a plain, white-gold band and it sits snugly behind my engagement ring, which is a thin, white-gold band with a round-cut diamond. My sister commented that I had “gone way traditional” when she first saw it, but that’s what I think engagement rings look like. I don’t have a rock that will blind someone across the room, but I’m a small person, and I wanted something in proportion to me. When I look at it, I remember the first time I realized how amazingly reflective diamonds are. I was sitting at my computer and my hand drifted into the sunbeam that fell across my desk. Tiny points of light danced on my wall, and I moved my hand slightly, transfixed at the spots’ movements. I was stunned that the ring on my very own finger could create that much light and play. I still like to see how lamplight is reflected within and outside of the stone, but that’s a bit of the inner geek talking.

Sometimes, for just a few minutes, I take off my rings and wear one at a time. I feel like they embody different stages of my life. The engagement ring is anticipation: wearing it alone brings back the excitement of wedding planning, showers, and the pleasure of telling how JG proposed. The wedding ring is contentment; the solitary band is modest and symbolizes a long, strong commitment. It’s uncluttered and quiet, the way I’d like to be in the future. My rings give me aspirations of optimism and serenity and I like them together because of it.

Pragmatically, I know that these pieces of jewelry are just metal and carbon and these cold, hard materials do not intrinsically inspire affection and awe. What is it, then?

Ah, it’s the giver. Yes, I think of anticipation and contentment when I see them, but most of all, I think of JG. I remember him down on one knee and at the altar. I remember saying yes and saying vows. That’s a lot to handle, and somehow, all of it is compressed into these two rings. No wonder I look at them so often. Maybe I’ll be able to wrap my head around it one of these days.

Until then, I’m satisfied to look my rings periodically, and occasionally flutter them in front of JG and say, “Look how pretty!” as he shakes his head. He knows I love them and him, but not in that order.

The Nerdiest Gift (So Far)

2006-12-08T19:26:00.000-05:00

Because my husband is a math teacher who loves his subject like most people love chocolate, I tend to give rather nerdy gifts. A good example might be The Colossal Book of Mathematics, a collection of Scientific American articles, which JG has called "the best book ever" without even a hint of sarcasm. But this year, I may have outdone myself.

One of JG’s birthday gifts this year was a year’s membership to the National Scrabble Association (NSA). That’s right, there’s an association. With it, the lucky recipient gets eight issues of the NSA newsletter, a nifty membership card, and best of all, lists of handy words for slaughtering opponents. These lists contain categories like “2-letter words that start with J” and “3-letter words that can become 4-letter words”. I’m afraid that I have made my Scrabble-playing life much, much harder.

I was going to present this token of geekhood next week in a neatly-wrapped box containing a correspondingly-nerdy tree ornament and the list of membership perks. But no, the darn newsletter had to come in the mail today and JG found out about it prematurely. Curses! So I scrambled around to grab the list and the ornament – neither wrapped, grr – and give them to JG so that he could break into the newsletter. Happy early birthday, I guess.

Well, any worries about this gift being too over the edge were clearly unnecessary. While I watched Barefoot Contessa, he sat on the couch, contently reading the newsletter, taking note of tournaments in the Philly area, and skimming the word lists, all the while making thoughtful hmm noises. I leaned over and asked, “Do you like it?”

He smiled and said, “Yeah. After I get my master’s, I might consider studying for real so that I can compete in the tournaments.”

Oh, my. This may be more than I bargained for.

Practice Christmas

2006-12-06T20:40:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, we had a practice Christmas dinner. I try to practice whatever I’m about to do whenever possible. I walked through my route around campus the day before my freshman classes started. I had a wedding rehearsal, and thank goodness for that. This particular dry run was motivated by the fact that I am paranoid about trying new recipes with company, and even more so when that company includes a mother who cooks everything from scratch and a grandmother who has high expectations of a Christmas celebration that has the gall to located somewhere other than her house. Oh, boy.

Together, JG and I made an approximately two-person-sized version of Christmas dinner and I was pleasantly surprised that we did it with very little slamming into each other or usurping kitchen equipment that the other wanted. We ended up very full of yummy London broil, garlic mashed potatoes, and green beans with pancetta. Half of my satisfaction was derived from simply reporting to my mother that my practice run went well, so ha! Let’s hear it for no disasters!

Oh, wait. There was a disaster, but not with the food. Saturday also included the ritual of Cutting Down the Tree and I don’t think it can be Christmas without an amusing tree story. This one balances out the wild success of the dinner dry run, I’m afraid.

Around mid-morning, JG and I went to a local Christmas tree farm to find The One with the trusty bow saw in hand. JG got it for his birthday last year for this express purpose. At least we weren’t the weirdos wearing Santa hats or the psychos with the chainsaw.

We eventually found the tree, and after JG posed for the mandatory picture of him brandishing the saw at it, he cut it down and we made our way to the parking lot. I was carrying the little end of the tree in the back of the operation, so I couldn’t see where I was going at all. Suddenly, in front of Mr. Santa Hat and Son, I felt my ankle give way in a little hollow in the ground, and I thought, “Oh, no! The tree! Who cares about the tree?! Am I falling in mud here?” And down I went. Fortunately, the tree and I made it home in one piece, and JG proceeded to put it in the stand with very little trouble. We gloried in our good fortune and proceeded to lace it up with lights and ornaments galore.

Just before heading to bed, we heard a soft whooshing sound. JG and I turned to watch the tree crash down and hear that faint burble of the tree stand pouring itself onto the carpet. I stood paralyzed while JG ran over and yelled, “Grab the presents!” I rescued the boxes wrapped solely for the purpose of having something under the tree once we got it decorated and we began the sad process of recovering the tree. Ornaments were scattered around the living room – amazingly, none broke in the fall – the tree had to be re-positioned in its stand, and we tried to soak up the big water spot on the floor. After spending however many hours putting the whole thing together, it was very demoralizing to start over, especially since we had no idea what made the tree fall down after six hours of successful standing. I only just recovered and finished redecorating the tree tonight and I think it looks pretty good. It’s a little crooked, but it hasn’t fallen down in three days, so I think we’ll take what we can get at this point.

I Guess I'm It

2006-12-04T20:22:00.000-05:00

Here we go – I've been tagged by Janet to identify six weird things about myself. It was a little bit of a challenge to separate the many, many geeky things about me from the almost as many weird things, but here we are:

I love to dance in my kitchen, which is a small isthmus of hardwood in a sea of carpet. Turning pirouettes in my socks is one of my great joys in life. When JG gives me the inevitable eye roll, I always respond matter-of-factly, “Kitchens were made for dancing.” Okay, and maybe cooking and other stuff, but definitely dancing!
My favorite movie is The Emperor's New Groove (not the straight-to-video sequel or the superlame television series) and I have seen it over 35 times. I probably say, "This is my favorite part!" twenty times throughout the whole thing. What, you haven't seen it? C'mon, you'll love David Spade in llama form. But I’ll warn you that it takes about three viewings to appreciate the quirkiness.
I subconsciously anagram words in my head, producing gems like:
- "You know what Madden anagrams to? Damned." – while watching football
- "Mutiny plus I-M equals immunity, you know." – while watching Survivor
If I'm writing with a pen, I only use blue ink if I can help it. My logic tells me that I'll be able to tell that my version is the original because blue photocopies to black. Because forgers and counterfeiters only use photocopiers, or something.
Foods people usually eat by the handful I eat one at a time. Chips, Goldfish crackers, Smarties, and even Nerds. The one time I tried to tip the Nerds box backward into my mouth, I started to choke on one of the little buggers – that'll teach me! Since then, I've eaten them one at a time out of my hand. By size. Littlest first.
I can lie on my stomach and arch my back so that my feet go over my head and are flat on the floor. And then I can stand up. This little ditty usually trumps all of the ear-wiggling, tongue-nose-touching human tricks in the room and it came in really handy during a game of Cranium when I had to act out "contortionist".

And…what do I do now? Eh, I tag whoever reads this, if you haven’t already done it…