bummer

Its almost time for school to start. I feel like this summer has flown by me, like a celebrity sighting that I barely missed but would really have loved to experience. Jennifer Garner, maybe. Yeah, Jen Garner and her beautiful little daughter drive by in their Land Rover and I totally miss it because I'm changing the radio station because 102.7 is playing that ridiculous Sean Kingston song AGAIN and I just can't listen to it ANY MORE and, wait, was that Jennifer Garner?! Come back, Sydney Bristow! Teach me your moves! Where's Michael Vaughn!?

That's what this summer was like.

Birthday Weekend

Yesterday was Husband's birthday. Happy Birthday, Husband! As such, this entire weekend was dubbed by Husband as "My Birthday Weekend." For three solid days, I lost all notion of personal sovereignty.

"Will you go to Panera and get me 2 Cinnamon Crunch bagels? Its My Birthday Weekend."

"Will you come with me to Brother Robby's while I play his XBox 360 for several hours? Its My Birthday Weekend."

"Will you go to the mall with me while I spend my giftcards? Its My Birthday Weekend." [As shopping is on my top 10 list of Things I'd Rather Eat Live Maggots Than Do, this one was especially hard to swallow.]

"Will you scratch my back? Its My Birthday Weekend."

To his credit, Husband never demanded anything. He asked very politely. He simply reminded me of the date. Every 30 seconds.

I should have known I had this coming. Growing up, we never had to do chores or even lift a finger on our birthdays. It was the one day of the year I could ask my brothers to wait on me hand and foot and they could not say no because, hello?! It was my birthday. I remember fondly the ridiculous requests I would come up with every December 28. While my mom was always willing to take care of us, even when it wasn't our birthday, I always made sure that Brother Robby or Little Scotty [who now, at 16, is much bigger than I am and doesn't really deserve that title] was the lucky person who got to rub my feet or watch a girly movie with me or ride a bike to the store to get me a candy bar.

So, if this is how Husband wants to play it, its ON. I have 23 years of experience on him. He better start training now because once its MY Birthday Weekend, he will be carrying me around all day. Like the Princess that I am.

whilst stuck in traffic

"I've always wanted Harry and Hermoine to get together."

"Really? Why? I don't think that would work at all. They are like brother and sister. It would never work. Not ever"

"They would work better than Hermoine and Ron."

"Are you kidding? Did you READ the books? Rowling has been setting up Hermoine and Ron since Book 1, just dangling that in our faces. Making us wait. Using her powers for EVIL."

"Hermoine is too smart for Ron. That's why she should be with Harry."

"It doesn't work that way. They are too much alike. Hermoine and Ron work because Hermoine is all, 'arrrrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh!" and Ron is very mellow and laid back. "

[Silence.]

"Sounds like someone else I know."

"Yeah, I was kind of thinking that, too."


"Babe, I'm your Ron!"

When Husband has to Listen to My Inner Monologue

"Do you need a sandwich for lunch today?"

"I'm tired of sandwiches. I'm sick of them. I know I need to pack my lunch because it costs a fortune to eat out five days a week, but I HATE sandwiches. I am TIRED of sandwiches. Why can't I think of anything else to pack other than a sandwich? I could pack a salad, or maybe some soup. Or maybe left-overs. Wait, Brother Robby ate all our would-be left-overs. Dang it! Why didn't I think to save something for lunch so I would not have to eat a SANDWICH? Do I have any of those 'free taco' things from Taco Bueno? I could get two free tacos and drink water. Would that fill me up? Is that incredibly lame to get food totally free? Should I spring for the $1.50 drink? Wait, that totally defeats the purpose. GEEZE. Why does it cost so much money just to EAT?! Isn't that like our basic human right? Shouldn't the Founding Fathers have mentioned something about how we should all get free tacos? What is the point in having CIVIL RIGHTS if they do not include the right to eat something OTHER THAN A SANDWICH?!?"


"So, do you need a sandwich for lunch today?"

"Fine."

For Whitney

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

While I've had the first part of this quote on my blog for over a year, I recently discovered the next few sentences. I think this paragraph summarizes the last five to seven years of my life. Thankfully, even the last sentence is true. Sometimes you really do "live your way into the answer."

[Side note: I first discovered this small book when Sister Mary Clarence (Whoopi) recommends it to Rita Louise Watson (Lauryn Hill, ya'll!) as she struggles with the decision to abandon her high school choir because, in the words of her tightly-wound mama, "singing does not put food on the table--singing does not pay the bills" in the screen classic Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. This little gem also boasts the best movie quote of all time, which Brother Robby and I like to use against one another: "Baby, SAVE IT for OPRAH!"]

by the numbers

10.5
hours it took Summer and I to finish Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

31/32
positions of Summer and I in the line to get Harry Potter, which totaled at least 400

99%
my level of satisfaction with the novel and how it ended

>20
various people in airports or on planes who asked me if Harry died

8
number of large, delicious scones consumed by Summer and I

12?
number of times I laughed hysterically while reading the novel (who knew Ron was so funny?)

1
number of times Summer cried while reading the novel

5
number of hours slept between obtaining novel and finishing it

3
number of children belonging to the middle aged man in line behind us at midnight

0
number of words Husband spoke once I handed the novel off to him

In Honor of my (Brief) Return to Corporate America

Like most graduate students, I scrambled to find gainful employment for the summer months. For some reason, Husband did not approve of my plan to watch endless reruns of America's Next Top Model and read all 6 Harry Potter novels in anticipation of Book 7. I mean, how is this a bad plan?

Luckily, I got a call from my former employer, where I worked during my undergraduate degree. In terms of summer work, that was like winning the lottery AND finding $20 on the sidewalk all in one day [because then you can buy a Mercedes AND some really good ice cream!]. I love this job. I love the people that I work with at this job.

One thing that I had obviously blocked out of my memory, to make room for more Jane Austen plotlines and celebrity gossip, I'm sure, was the tendency of higher-ups in the business world to be mean to "the help." I don't mind being "the help" that much anymore. I guess I'm used to it, and at my job, I am treated like an equal. My boss tells me to consider him my colleague rather than my boss. [See? My job is awesome. You can't have it.] So, I was a bit taken aback the first time I had dealings with a big shot at another company who felt he needed to put me in my place as "the help."

All of which brings me to one of my favorite rants from Blog 1.0. Apparently, people don't change!
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Marxism Rears Its Ugly Head
June 28, 2006

Although the last time I checked, it wasn't 1854, Americans still uphold very specific ideas about class consciousness, particularly in business. I am 22. I have a college degree and a fair modicum of intelligence. Yet, Mr. CEO of Large Corporation feels that he can behave VERY RUDELY toward me because I am merely Clerical Peon of Small Business. I go out of my way to demonstrate respect to those older than myself. However, I find it incredibly inappropriate for Mr. CEO to refuse to speak to me because I am simply Clerical Peon. Mr. CEO of Large Corporation only wants to deal with Mr. CEO of Small Business (my boss), not his CP. At which point, I asked if I was excluded from the throne room of grace because of my gender or my sinfulness.

Kidding. Sort of.

The irony of it all is that Mr. CEO's work is done by the CPs of the world. His meetings would not get scheduled, his emails would go unsent, and his coffee would certainly not materialize on his desk every morning were it not for his own CP. (And notice, I do not discriminate. CPs come in both genders.) So, why do I not merit the respect that my drudgery so clearly deserves? The very instance that occasioned Mr. CEO's rudeness was an act of service on my part that he had personally requested from Mr. CEO of Small Business, my boss (who, by the way, treats his own CPs in an appropriate manner). I was HELPING him, and it even happened to be something not entirely related to his business relationship with my boss. It was a personal matter that my boss had offered to take care of for him. And this is the thanks I get?!

Ahem. The lesson behind today's story? If you have a CP, treat him/her with respect. If you are a CP, know that you are not the only one getting crapped on. And if you feel tempted to put salt in CEO's coffee rather than sugar, I would not judge you.

Because the Kitchen Provides Endless Laughs at My Expense

So, last night I invited Brother Robby over for dinner. Brother Robby is always good for a laugh, and he shovels food like a trash compacter, eliminating the need for Tupperwared leftovers that inevitably go bad in my fridge because Husband does not so much eat leftovers. Coincidentally, Brother Robby is also highly skilled at the art of "sister, this is so good!" and "sister, you are so pretty and talented!", which makes him an extraordinary dinner guest on nights when I'm trying something new.

As I'm in the midst of preparing the something new, I'm elbow deep in cilantro, garlic, red peppers, and various cooking paraphernalia. If you have to be elbow deep in something, I suppose good food and fabulous kitchen essentials you got for free at various wedding showers are a good option. However, my apartment kitchen has about two square feet of counter space, making food preparation, at times, a wee bit difficult. [Also, my apartment kitchen's air circulation is a bit nonexistent, so turning on even one burner requires that I change into a tank top and shorts to even stand in there.] So, I'm sweatily plugging along with my chopping and sauteeing and such, all the while tossing dishes I am finished with in the sink. [I'm a clean-as-I-go kind of gal. I don't like big messes. They make me nervous. What if my mother walked in unexpectedly? What if my mother-in-law walked in unexpectedly?] Unfortunately, the sink filled up almost immediately, and when I opened the dishwasher to transfer the various measuring cups and cutting boards into it, I realized it was already full of clean dishes.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows how I feel about cooking. I've chronicled my nuerosis in detail. I am still learning, and the thought of something being inedible makes me feel like a failure. Isn't that my one job?! To keep Husband nourished?! And sleeping on clean sheets?!

In short, the stress of making something new coupled with the heat of two burners and the slightly smoky smell of sauteeing fish was already making me feel overheated and panicky. The addition of my inability to clean up my mess due to the dishwasher already full of clean dishes just about PUSHED ME OVER THE EDGE.

Husband and Brother Robby were at this point looking at something on Husband's computer, and as much as I hated to disrupt their manly bonding, if I didn't call for reinforcements, I might end up in the fetal position on my kitchen floor. Stammering, I decided to ask Husband if he would unload the dishes and perform a sink-clearing, mess-eliminating miracle.

"Ummmm... babe? Not necessarily right now, because I mean, you look busy right now, but maybe sometime in the next few minutes... I mean, whenever its convenient for you---"

Opening the dishwasher, trying not to laugh at my OCD, and appearing to me somewhat like Superman right before he sweeps Lois into his arms and soars high above danger, stress, and kitchen messes, he says, offhandedly, "I know what you mean."

Pretty and telepathic?

If not for Brother Robby's presence, I might not have finished dinner last night at all.

Welcome

Well, I deleted this blog a few months ago for various reasons that all seemed perfectly legitimate at the time. Since then, I've become bored and in need of an outlet, so I've decided those reasons are less compelling than my personal needs. And what is a blog if not a place where selfishness is the order of the day? It's megalomania in its most socially acceptable form.

In all seriousness, I've missed the old girl. I've missed the thrill of reading comments and finding out that people actually read it. I've missed the emails I get from my mom after she reads an entry where I am particularly whiny. So, we're back. Me and blog. Together again.

In honor of our return, I will be posting some of my favorite entries from Blog 1.0 (may she rest in peace). Enjoy!
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Salmon (the fish, not the color)
Sunday, January 21

I have a small confession: I have a mild panic attack once every day. It always occurs at the same time, around 6:30 pm when Husband calls to tell me he has begun his 30 minute drive home from work. Panic generally creeps up my spine in slow waves as I realize its time to start cooking dinner.

The problem, I think, is that I was never interested in cooking before living on my own. My mom would try to get me to help in the kitchen, but I never cared much about the food preparation, so I would set the table while she cooked. I learned a few things, like how to make guacamole, but they never stayed with me because I really didn't care.

When I lived in my first apartment during college, I started cooking a few random things. I think my staple was heating up a can of soup, but I could brown ground beef to make tacos and cook pasta and tomato sauce. After college, I lived with a roommate and started dating the man who would become Husband, so I had to cook more for my very survival. However, once I realized Boyfriend had serious Husband potential, I felt a foreshadowing of The Panic. If I was ever going to be Wife, especially sometime in the near future, I had to learn to cook, post haste. My mom gave me a few new tips and taught me how to cook my favorite home food, Southwest Chicken Pasta (bowtie pasta with garlic chicken and sauteed onions and bell peppers..... mmmmm.....). I started feeling good about my skills. I could make a mean turkey sandwich. I now shopped for groceries regularly. I KNEW things, like how to tell when avacados are ripe and which brand of lunch meat was cheapest and best tasting. I was so ready for this whole Homemaker thing.

[As an aside, I don't want to make it sound like I was COMPLETELY unprepared for taking care of Husband; that would be doing a disservice to my mom. I am a cleaning fiend. I can clean anything, and my neuroses (namely obsessive-compulsive disorder and the drive for perfection) require that my living space be pristine. Mom, you gave me skills that have proven invaluable. Like how to clean a toilet.]

[Also, its not like Husband demands that I do all the cooking. He makes amazing cookies. He can take care of himself. Its just that I grew up with a cooking mom, so I feel an in-bred need to be the main chef in the family.]

In short, nothing could have prepared me for the pressure and the pain of cooking dinner every night. The first three days we were home from our honeymoon were cake. Tacos? Check! Southwest Chicken Pasta? Check! Spaghetti with Meat Sauce? Check! But then... it seemed Husband was thrilled at the idea of eating the same three dishes in a never-ending cycle. Strange, no? I mean, I really could eat the same thing every week because then I would only make what I already have mastered, and thus, no stress! But unfortunately, that wasn't an option.

Luckily, I soon discovered the two most powerful weapons in the arsenal of Newlywed Wives. One, the ladies at my church made me a miraculous cookbook as a wedding present. I spent many a night trying to figure out how to make their dishes, and even calling them to ask questions. Two, my mother must keep her cell phone on her person at all times because she always answers when I call around 6:30 pm with a stupid cooking question that most 5 year olds could probably answer. Like, why does this sauce look weird? What is the difference between mincing and dicing? How do I know when the chicken is ready? In short, new recipes brought The Panic on with amazing rapidity, and my mom's calm advice helped keep it at bay.

Still, practice as I may, six months of wedded bliss have not yet banished The Panic from my kitchen. I still freak out about what to make for dinner (how long ago did I make tacos?!) and if I will be able to make it well.

Two days ago, I was fretting, per usual, about the tedium of making "the usual" yet again. I needed something new. I was tired of making the same 8 things in rotation. [Yeah, I said 8! I have expanded my knowledge! You should come over some time!] Over the phone, I mentioned this to my mom, who immediately armed me with How to Make Chili (which I feel like I should have known already... didn't they go over that in Girl Scouts once?) and How to Cook Salmon. Now, the salmon really got my blood pumping. FISH! Our diet had been a steady supply of beef and chicken, so the fish would be a nice change. I drove to the grocery store with a song in my heart. I greeted the Wal Mart lady warmly, navigated the crowd with ease, and thoroughly enjoyed collecting what I needed for dinner. Normally, I depise grocery shopping, but I was on a mission to keep variety and spice in my (dining) life.

Naturally, the good mood dissipated as soon as I arrived home and the impending doom of actually carrying out my glorious plan immediately brought on The Panic. I worried the entire hour I waited for the call that Husband was on his way home. I set everything out in nervous preparation. I tried to watch FRIENDS to distract myself. Finally, I could wait no longer, and after one more call to my mom to make sure I was doing everything right, I commenced.

Ok, so this is the most melodramatic way to communicate that I made salmon for dinner last night, but guess what? I DID IT!!! I DID IT!!! I made salmon and it was edible! Husband ate it! It was incredibly validating. I also made broccoli and rice, so it almost felt like a real meal. I wore my Wife badge with pride. I conquered the kitchen. I showed it who is boss. I cooked fish and Husband LIKED it.

This is not to say that my experience with The Panic is over. No, no. There is no escaping The Panic. I have a feeling I will live with it my entire life, or at least until I have children and don't have time to worry about cooking anymore. Kids are good like that, they take up lots of time and sometimes will only eat pancakes with jelly (true story... my cousin Erik wouldn't eat anything else for years). Until then, I will resign myself to the irrational fear that one day Husband will come home and see that once again we are eating tacos and threaten to divorce me. TACOS? AGAIN? IF I HAVE TO EAT ONE MORE TACO..... I will, rather, take a wicked delight in the fact that occasionally, The Panic can be beaten back in the face of a yummy, fishy treat.