This afternoon I purchased my very first bottle of nail polish. Ever. Now of course, I have had my nails painted in the past. My mother was always big into manicures and pedicures. However, I have never actively purchased, or applied, nail polish of my own volition before today. Upon perusing the overwhelming amount of brands and hues, I decided upon Essie brand- in two shades- "vermillion" orange, and "trophy wife" teal. That is one thing i have always appreciated about nail polish- the color names. I'm a sucker for a snappy name. Something enticingly sensual and slightly humorous....like "cherry poppin' red" (my own creation).
It was odd, as soon as I had the vermillion in my possession, I felt immediately compelled to paint! It was a half hour before I was scheduled to work, and I spent it crouched in my ford focus, carefully lacquering my mangled nails in day glow orange. I was surprisingly successful with the painstaking chore of utilizing my left hand to paint the right. I went to work with fresh and dangerously tacky fingernails. To my surprise, the effect was huge.
It goes back to that old cliche "it's all about the little things..." , because I felt like a million bucks. It was a small act of grooming and frivolity that paid off ten fold. I showed them off at every opportunity. I must have looked like Vanna White all day- waving my hands with proud femininity. And to think- all those years I swung so wide of such detailed attention to aesthetics- and I could have felt so giddy and pretty!
Monday, August 22, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Thoughts on Food and Food for Thought
Food fascinates me. I don't cook, I barely grocery shop (my cart always tends to reflect the unsophisticated palate of a 70 year recluse-with Attention Deficit Disorder), and these eyes have never studied a recipe that didn't involve a microwave in some incremental way. However, I love to talk about food. I suppose the most fascinating thing about food, to me, is how people feel towards - and the manner in which they treat it. When I am at the beginning stages of any friendship, I pay close attention to their eating habits. They can speak volumes about a person.
Recently, a friend of mine (we'll call her A) met me at Whole Foods for lunch and a little conversational catch-up. We perused the offbeat aisles and diverse cuisine in non-committal loops. This occurs upon EVERY visit to Whole Foods that I make. Generally speaking, decisions are tough for me ANYWAY. The smaller (and more insignificant), they tend to be - the more painstaking the decision-making process becomes. Such crucial choices lay before me.....shall I risk further indecisive panic and brave the salad bar? Puss-out and go for the safe pizza/sandwich counter? Befuddle my senses with reading the prepared food labels? Decadently graze the hot entree selection? The problem is that every option appears desirable when you're stomach is empty and your eyes are wide.
As we meandered (to the chagrin of the patient and earnest produce workers), A talked about her recent efforts to eat more healthfully. She has been struggling to lose weight for almost two years now, to no avail. Unfortunately, I have found, that with some female friendships- many truths are better left under that emotional rock in the corner. Best not to lift it and get your hands all grimey and slimey. If this were not the case, I would have pointed out to A that she doesn't actually overeat; overeating is not the issue here. She eats a reasonable amount of food- hell, she probably eats less than I do! It is my opinion, that her weight issues lie in the TYPE of foods she deems appropriate to eat- which is almost nothing. A is extremely finicky. She is what I snarkily refer to as the "Boxed potato breed". She is the type of person that doesn't feel completely at ease with her food unless it is mass produced, deep fried, accompanied with ketchup, served in cellophane, or in nugget form. She essentially has the same culinary inclinations as the baby boomer generation. It must be sanitized and loaded with saturated fat for her to take two glances at it. And forget about sea dwelling proteins entirely- this girl won't come anywhere NEAR fish. She hates anything unfamiliar or even slightly exotic. However, with some friends, punches must be pulled. So I ignore her dietary narrow-mindedness; opting to listen, and gently encourage instead. I nod sympathetically as she rails against vegetable stew with a cruel prejudice that makes me want to grab the nearest asparagus and whisper words of reassurance. I keep my opinions safely tucked behind my eyes while she furrows her brow at a container of stuffed grape leaves, which I happen to love.
Because, unlike A, I will try anything once. The more unrecognizable the better. The more ingredients the merrier. Tabouli is colorful, fresh, and absolutely fantastic. Majadarra rice is starchy divinity. And I've never actually met a fruit or vegetable that I didn't like, or learn to love (with certain ones- it's all in the preparation). I delight in foods of color, character, and unique flavor combination- ones that taste of their country, and culture. I call it the " Anthony Bourdain school of thought". Don't get me wrong, I also have a petulant four year old living deep within my soul that snacks on graham crackers, and considers fluffer-nutter sandwiches to be mouthwatering (almost beyond comparison). Basically, I'm all over the place. It may seem snotty, but I'm always slightly disappointed when someone I respect lacks an adventurous spirit with their edibles. I mean, as my mother used to say "it's not gonna kill ya, and you never have to eat it again if you don't like it." Simple words that continue to evade many, seemingly mature individuals.
Anyway, at some point I began eying the sushi section. I'm madly in love with sushi. Gun to my head- if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life- it would be sushi. With its delicate loveliness, orderly presentation, and wholesome nutritive properties.....it had me at konnichiwa! While scanning the rows of pretty pink sashimi, A walked up beside me and shrieked in horror "IS THAT RAW MEAT!?"
Now, there are too many things wrong with the substance of this statement to even dissect it. Because, in that moment it happened to be the volume at which she screeched that I found appalling. Everyone standing within a three foot radius became well informed of her opinion. I was mortified. I glanced at the sushi chefs apologetically. They continued to pleat their seaweed wraps in quiet dignity. I instantly began questioning my relationship with this particular friend. Her IQ just plummeted right before my eyes. That may seem like a cold and elitist assessment, but hey- just being honest here!
I need people in my life who can dare to dabble with their taste buds. I need people who can sit across from me at a Korean restaurant, gleefully spooning mysterious piles of goodness onto their plate without the faintest idea what lay before them. This attitude transcends the dinner plate. It's indicative of one's viewpoint in life. Rolling with the punches- and coming back for seconds- is what I want my life to be about. With an open mind and an open mouth (insert obvious sex joke here), I want to savor the sights and sounds with an equally daring companion by my side. Sure, it's risky- sure, it might taste like rotten dust bunnies, and you may regret that heaping bite you took- but so what!? It's my goading immaturity that compels me to leap without ALWAYS looking. But I am what I am- you can take a bite, or you can shriek in the prepared foods section of the grocery store. A word to the whiny, fussy, persnickety set-if the idea of eating an unknown kabob on the streets of Munich at 4am doesn't appeal to you- don't call us- we'll call you ;)
Recently, a friend of mine (we'll call her A) met me at Whole Foods for lunch and a little conversational catch-up. We perused the offbeat aisles and diverse cuisine in non-committal loops. This occurs upon EVERY visit to Whole Foods that I make. Generally speaking, decisions are tough for me ANYWAY. The smaller (and more insignificant), they tend to be - the more painstaking the decision-making process becomes. Such crucial choices lay before me.....shall I risk further indecisive panic and brave the salad bar? Puss-out and go for the safe pizza/sandwich counter? Befuddle my senses with reading the prepared food labels? Decadently graze the hot entree selection? The problem is that every option appears desirable when you're stomach is empty and your eyes are wide.
As we meandered (to the chagrin of the patient and earnest produce workers), A talked about her recent efforts to eat more healthfully. She has been struggling to lose weight for almost two years now, to no avail. Unfortunately, I have found, that with some female friendships- many truths are better left under that emotional rock in the corner. Best not to lift it and get your hands all grimey and slimey. If this were not the case, I would have pointed out to A that she doesn't actually overeat; overeating is not the issue here. She eats a reasonable amount of food- hell, she probably eats less than I do! It is my opinion, that her weight issues lie in the TYPE of foods she deems appropriate to eat- which is almost nothing. A is extremely finicky. She is what I snarkily refer to as the "Boxed potato breed". She is the type of person that doesn't feel completely at ease with her food unless it is mass produced, deep fried, accompanied with ketchup, served in cellophane, or in nugget form. She essentially has the same culinary inclinations as the baby boomer generation. It must be sanitized and loaded with saturated fat for her to take two glances at it. And forget about sea dwelling proteins entirely- this girl won't come anywhere NEAR fish. She hates anything unfamiliar or even slightly exotic. However, with some friends, punches must be pulled. So I ignore her dietary narrow-mindedness; opting to listen, and gently encourage instead. I nod sympathetically as she rails against vegetable stew with a cruel prejudice that makes me want to grab the nearest asparagus and whisper words of reassurance. I keep my opinions safely tucked behind my eyes while she furrows her brow at a container of stuffed grape leaves, which I happen to love.
Because, unlike A, I will try anything once. The more unrecognizable the better. The more ingredients the merrier. Tabouli is colorful, fresh, and absolutely fantastic. Majadarra rice is starchy divinity. And I've never actually met a fruit or vegetable that I didn't like, or learn to love (with certain ones- it's all in the preparation). I delight in foods of color, character, and unique flavor combination- ones that taste of their country, and culture. I call it the " Anthony Bourdain school of thought". Don't get me wrong, I also have a petulant four year old living deep within my soul that snacks on graham crackers, and considers fluffer-nutter sandwiches to be mouthwatering (almost beyond comparison). Basically, I'm all over the place. It may seem snotty, but I'm always slightly disappointed when someone I respect lacks an adventurous spirit with their edibles. I mean, as my mother used to say "it's not gonna kill ya, and you never have to eat it again if you don't like it." Simple words that continue to evade many, seemingly mature individuals.
Anyway, at some point I began eying the sushi section. I'm madly in love with sushi. Gun to my head- if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life- it would be sushi. With its delicate loveliness, orderly presentation, and wholesome nutritive properties.....it had me at konnichiwa! While scanning the rows of pretty pink sashimi, A walked up beside me and shrieked in horror "IS THAT RAW MEAT!?"
Now, there are too many things wrong with the substance of this statement to even dissect it. Because, in that moment it happened to be the volume at which she screeched that I found appalling. Everyone standing within a three foot radius became well informed of her opinion. I was mortified. I glanced at the sushi chefs apologetically. They continued to pleat their seaweed wraps in quiet dignity. I instantly began questioning my relationship with this particular friend. Her IQ just plummeted right before my eyes. That may seem like a cold and elitist assessment, but hey- just being honest here!
I need people in my life who can dare to dabble with their taste buds. I need people who can sit across from me at a Korean restaurant, gleefully spooning mysterious piles of goodness onto their plate without the faintest idea what lay before them. This attitude transcends the dinner plate. It's indicative of one's viewpoint in life. Rolling with the punches- and coming back for seconds- is what I want my life to be about. With an open mind and an open mouth (insert obvious sex joke here), I want to savor the sights and sounds with an equally daring companion by my side. Sure, it's risky- sure, it might taste like rotten dust bunnies, and you may regret that heaping bite you took- but so what!? It's my goading immaturity that compels me to leap without ALWAYS looking. But I am what I am- you can take a bite, or you can shriek in the prepared foods section of the grocery store. A word to the whiny, fussy, persnickety set-if the idea of eating an unknown kabob on the streets of Munich at 4am doesn't appeal to you- don't call us- we'll call you ;)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Always Try to do Better
Everyone, at any given time, is a work in progress. Like art, science, literature, etc.... nothing, and no one, is ever completely finished- only caught in adaptation. Captured for a brief moment by some version of truth. A photograph, a theory, an idea, seizing a moment- amidst a spectrum of processing. I love and hate this simultaneously- as I suppose, we all do. It implies that reality is messy, undesigned, but also (ta da- here's where the magic is)....changeable! We can grow. We can learn. We can do better. We are not hampered by what has come before- it's only our own stubborn consciousness that holds us back. It pigeonholes us to the idea of who we were, but has a more difficult time accepting what we are in the malleable moments that comprise the bulk of existence.
When asked what her spiritual beliefs are, my mother responds "always try to be good". And while these are pretty sturdy words, I prefer to replace "be good" with "do better". Good is too complicated of an idea to completely nail down in such a phrase. Good automatically conjures Bad and then it's all just shades of gray (she throws up her hands in swaying exasperation). It also has a lot of religious, semi-judgemental overtones in my opinion. However, the word better is simple and relatable. We all know what better is; we can feel it in our bones. It's a term that aligns harmoniously with the process of existing; a word devoid of the implied stagnation that "good" and "bad" carry (like philosophical dead-ends). When one tries to do better, they are acknowledging the past, without letting it shade one's current or future behavior. It's the acceptance that mistakes were made, but that efforts are focused upon higher ground. It's Sisyphus, pushing that boulder, every moment of everyday. Beautifully bleak, and a perfectly fitting allegory for humanity's constant struggle towards better- whether it MATTERS or not.
On a personal level, this phrase has fortified me through some discouraging times. Through unpaid bills, failed relationships, broken friendships, abandoned projects, huge errors in judgement (involving a bottle of saki and some long island iced tea), and worst of all (for me)- the crushing remorse of harsh words said, and true words unsaid. So, I bid my past a cheerful goodnight, and fuck you. I'm ready for tomorrow; I'm ready to do better.
When asked what her spiritual beliefs are, my mother responds "always try to be good". And while these are pretty sturdy words, I prefer to replace "be good" with "do better". Good is too complicated of an idea to completely nail down in such a phrase. Good automatically conjures Bad and then it's all just shades of gray (she throws up her hands in swaying exasperation). It also has a lot of religious, semi-judgemental overtones in my opinion. However, the word better is simple and relatable. We all know what better is; we can feel it in our bones. It's a term that aligns harmoniously with the process of existing; a word devoid of the implied stagnation that "good" and "bad" carry (like philosophical dead-ends). When one tries to do better, they are acknowledging the past, without letting it shade one's current or future behavior. It's the acceptance that mistakes were made, but that efforts are focused upon higher ground. It's Sisyphus, pushing that boulder, every moment of everyday. Beautifully bleak, and a perfectly fitting allegory for humanity's constant struggle towards better- whether it MATTERS or not.
On a personal level, this phrase has fortified me through some discouraging times. Through unpaid bills, failed relationships, broken friendships, abandoned projects, huge errors in judgement (involving a bottle of saki and some long island iced tea), and worst of all (for me)- the crushing remorse of harsh words said, and true words unsaid. So, I bid my past a cheerful goodnight, and fuck you. I'm ready for tomorrow; I'm ready to do better.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Flowers
My older brother Ryan moved to tennessee a few years ago for a career opportunity. He took a chance, and it paid off. And although he has experienced career/financial success, he still can't seem to shake a wicked bout of homesickness. As a member of his immediate family, I can say that we have made valiant efforts to visit as much as we can.
Unfortunately, during a trip down there this past March, my Mother's dog was hit by a car. We heard the news only a few hours after our arrival in good 'ole Nashville, Tennessee. Poor Yogi was a young boy. He was a healthy dog of only two years in age. And he just happened to inhabit a particularly sweet and sacred spot in my mother's heart. Needless to say, the trip sharply took a sombre tone. The next afternoon, we (my mom and I) decided that we needed to soak up some vitamin D pronto! So, we bought some sandwiches, gathered our art supplies, and headed for the nearest public park that Ryan knew of (despite the years he has spent in Nashville he has remained stubborn, and refused to accept that this is home- so he has yet to master the local landscape).
When we arrived, we settled upon a rocky (but adequately comfortable) area beside the modest, man-made lake that proved to be the main attraction of the park. My mom was sad, and it seared through me like a butter knife that had been recently microwaved (unintentionally/accidentally). She talked about her puppy, whose life had been cut short for no apparent reason. She talked about her childlike disappointment at the very notion of having pets. "It's part of the deal, I guess. You just have to expect to lose them. It's not fair." she said.
It's hard for me to relate to a sentiment like that.
It may seem cold, and emotionally detached, but I have always understood that unspoken agreement with pets. You will outlive them- if you're lucky. Hence, you can't expect a happy ending to the relationship. You will see them perish. Whether it is a premature death or not, you will see them perish (again-if you're lucky). But, my mother and I are very different creatures. I too loved Yogi, but more importantly- her pain resonates intensely with me. I can feel what she feels. Mother and daughter relationships are a bitch that way ;)
So, I wrote this poem for her (and her love of flowers)......
I consider these words to be the flower upon poor Yogi's grave:
Flowers for Prince Yogi Schwarma:
Daff-o-dills,
Bring cheap thrills,
Roses just turn up their nose.
Violets bleed;
Carnations concede,
to each flimsy breeze that blows.
Daisies delight
with petals of white,
lilies sing so lovely and lilt.
Orchids romance,
a tropical dance,
One wonders- oh why must they wilt?
The answer you see,
I said to the tree.
Their grace is a flicker of time.
Each lilac's perfume,
to waft through my room,
hits my heart, with a soulful chyme.
xoxo
Unfortunately, during a trip down there this past March, my Mother's dog was hit by a car. We heard the news only a few hours after our arrival in good 'ole Nashville, Tennessee. Poor Yogi was a young boy. He was a healthy dog of only two years in age. And he just happened to inhabit a particularly sweet and sacred spot in my mother's heart. Needless to say, the trip sharply took a sombre tone. The next afternoon, we (my mom and I) decided that we needed to soak up some vitamin D pronto! So, we bought some sandwiches, gathered our art supplies, and headed for the nearest public park that Ryan knew of (despite the years he has spent in Nashville he has remained stubborn, and refused to accept that this is home- so he has yet to master the local landscape).
When we arrived, we settled upon a rocky (but adequately comfortable) area beside the modest, man-made lake that proved to be the main attraction of the park. My mom was sad, and it seared through me like a butter knife that had been recently microwaved (unintentionally/accidentally). She talked about her puppy, whose life had been cut short for no apparent reason. She talked about her childlike disappointment at the very notion of having pets. "It's part of the deal, I guess. You just have to expect to lose them. It's not fair." she said.
It's hard for me to relate to a sentiment like that.
It may seem cold, and emotionally detached, but I have always understood that unspoken agreement with pets. You will outlive them- if you're lucky. Hence, you can't expect a happy ending to the relationship. You will see them perish. Whether it is a premature death or not, you will see them perish (again-if you're lucky). But, my mother and I are very different creatures. I too loved Yogi, but more importantly- her pain resonates intensely with me. I can feel what she feels. Mother and daughter relationships are a bitch that way ;)
So, I wrote this poem for her (and her love of flowers)......
I consider these words to be the flower upon poor Yogi's grave:
Flowers for Prince Yogi Schwarma:
Daff-o-dills,
Bring cheap thrills,
Roses just turn up their nose.
Violets bleed;
Carnations concede,
to each flimsy breeze that blows.
Daisies delight
with petals of white,
lilies sing so lovely and lilt.
Orchids romance,
a tropical dance,
One wonders- oh why must they wilt?
The answer you see,
I said to the tree.
Their grace is a flicker of time.
Each lilac's perfume,
to waft through my room,
hits my heart, with a soulful chyme.
xoxo
Saturday, August 13, 2011
An Ode to Lady Pandora
It's Saturday night, and only one truth presents itself to me in bold and blatant nudity. Pandora Radio and I have one of the most lopsidedly, generous relationships that I have ever been privileged enough to be involved in. She gives so much and demands so little. Really, who doesn't want to be asked to thumb their opinion on things? Thumbs up for kick-ass, awesomesauce jams by Spoon; thumbs down for buzz kill, weep-fests by Iron and Wine (Yes. I know. I shall have every prose writing , intellectual girl- complete with hipster spectacles- at my throat). It's like getting to be Lester Bangs for about 36 seconds. Pandora has been like a lovely geisha that visits my bedroom each night , introducing me to the most charming and adorable friends. Feeling frisky for The Blow, waxing rhapsodical to Matt and Kim, hanging my head for Haiti with Arcade Fire; memories made possible only by dear Pandora. Its a beautiful dinner party, one that allows me complete control over the guest list. Actually, I suppose it is more akin to speed dating- if some snippet of a song/conversation strikes my ears in discord- click! snap! On to the next.... (with a sweeping hand gesture- for dramatic effect, of course.)
Recently, due to a lowered immunity to stress and a heightened sense of social anxiety, I have taken a specific fancy to this song by Field Music. It seems to encapsulate many of the conflicts I wrestle daily:
Alternating Current
He's seen to understanding what you do
He's seen to watching everywhere you move
He can hear when you're fooling
He can see sparks are overflowing
He knows you without you even knowing
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
He's got a log of all your conversations
He analyses every word in case you
For any chance you're trying to give a signal
And like to sing a song out your window
Or when all the lights out in a discotheque
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
It's strange to think we're all just faces
(It's strange to think we're all just faces)
It's just a case of switching on to you
(It's just a case of switching on to you)
It's just a case of switching on
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
I blame it on the diagrams that should show you
How to wire me up correctly
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
(AC turning me on)
I can't see you
PS- Thank you Pandora, for finding my feelings better than I can.
xoxo
Recently, due to a lowered immunity to stress and a heightened sense of social anxiety, I have taken a specific fancy to this song by Field Music. It seems to encapsulate many of the conflicts I wrestle daily:
Alternating Current
He's seen to understanding what you do
He's seen to watching everywhere you move
He can hear when you're fooling
He can see sparks are overflowing
He knows you without you even knowing
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
He's got a log of all your conversations
He analyses every word in case you
For any chance you're trying to give a signal
And like to sing a song out your window
Or when all the lights out in a discotheque
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
It's strange to think we're all just faces
(It's strange to think we're all just faces)
It's just a case of switching on to you
(It's just a case of switching on to you)
It's just a case of switching on
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
I blame it on the diagrams that should show you
How to wire me up correctly
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you
(AC turning me on)
I can't see you
PS- Thank you Pandora, for finding my feelings better than I can.
xoxo
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Oh Me Oh My, Each Tree I Cry
This is a silly poem, written at an uncivilized hour, in reaction to a ridiculous notion. It was recently suggested that my brother and I cut down a tree in our backyard to allow for a satellite dish to be installed. Obviously, I was less than amused....
Oh, woe is-me,
for every tree,
that was cutdown for me.
For I wish they could see,
the infinite glee,
their paper brings me.
But, alas just maybe,
they'd read and decree-
SUCH RAMBLING WORDS,
-SUCH NEUROTIC DEBRIS!!!
Oh, woe is-me,
for every tree,
that was cutdown for me.
For I wish they could see,
the infinite glee,
their paper brings me.
But, alas just maybe,
they'd read and decree-
SUCH RAMBLING WORDS,
-SUCH NEUROTIC DEBRIS!!!
School Lunches
A creative and vibrant pal of mine recently slipped me Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird. It has rekindled my fiery love for writing. Sadly, writing and I have been in the throes of a cold, and distant stand-off for quite a few years. Needless to say my renewed infatuation has me somewhat starry-eyed and sparkling. One of my habitual problems with writing is the sheer possibility of it. I am overwhelmed by a blank page, and the infinite choices/opportunities it presents. It paralyzes me. My ideas inflate too quickly to successfully capture them on paper- they are cancerous in nature. They grow exponentially, and unmitigated, at too alarming a rate to have proper grounding or foundation. Which is why I halt, stupefied, and slightly offended by my pen and pad. However, upon a recent sitting with Ms. Lamott, I was reminded of the importance of short assignments. Taking smaller bites, one step at a time, "bird by bird". She suggests the subject of one's childhood school lunches to get your creative juices flowing. So I began with this nostalgia sweetened assignment. So it goes....
By the time I had dipped a toe into high school I had given up on school lunches- in a conventional sense anyhow. School lunches had provided me with about the same amount of psychological stability as anything else in my up to that point- which was slim to none. At the risk of being a badly broken record, it was the inconsistency that turned me cold. Mom was typically too frantic and busy to agonize too much over ziplock baggies and lays potato chips (a definite staple when she WAS able to pack an actual brown bag lunch for me- but they were almost always completely/semi-smashed). I felt that when she did pack my lunch it tended to be depressingly generic and hurried. Teachers looked at me somewhat pityingly; the lunch looked lazy. But what they didn't see was my mother- a woman who never stopped moving/working/providing/rushing/nurturing/loving. She often attempted far too many things at one time. School lunches were low on the totem pole. Similar to laundry duty, my mother expected me to pack my own lunch. It was around those emotionally-laden, foggy years that followed my parents divorce. A time when our entire domestic structure was redefined and redistricted. A time when my mother had to learn to make ends meet for three children. But I'm dancing around the main point; my mom's lunches consisted of a mushy peanut butter and jelly sandwich (my jelly always soaked the bread, giving it an unsavory blood-clotted look), greasy lays potato chips, and baby carrots coated in that weird white fuzziness that usually signaled too much time had been spent rolling around in the vegetable crisper. Needless to say, dipping sauces and beverages were omitted. A majority of my lunch period was spent glaring in resentment at the kids with juice boxes and fruit snacks. Their lunches looked so tidy and perfectly portioned. I glared at each pampered bite taken, as they bashfully read the napkin note that was invariably tucked inside like a parental fortune cookie. Ironically, when I was left to assembling my own brown bag lunch- they looked eerily identical to my mother's. They had that same hasty haphazard quality I was accustomed to; they were given about as much care and attention as one gives to plunging a toilet.
Oddly enough, when my father packed my lunch it was a different tale entirely. He was always good at things like that- those minor, seemingly insignificant duties that you would assume an alcoholic of his severity would completely overlook. However, he took school lunches seriously. Very seriously. For a brief time in Middle School when I lived primarily with him (extremely brief- 6th grade I believe, and only for a few months), he packed the most quirky , eccentric, and personality-fitting lunches I have ever seen. Always with a sandwich on rye bread (sometimes marble rye- if he was feeling fancy). It was the perfect choice. I loved rye bread- seeds and all! Unlike mom, Dad packed things he knew I would actually eat. I think he respected my stubborn streak; well, I DID get it from him after all.....
A liverwurst spread could always be found between my slices of bread. Ohhhh the liverwurst! That suspicious, pink spread with a smell so distinct it could wake you from the soundest of slumbers. Other children wrinkled their noses, looking on with morbid curiosity. Also included, was a mini sized tuper-ware container filled to the brim with green olives so salty they dry your eye sockets at the mere sight of them. A can of pepsi to cleanse my palate, and a snack cake of some decadent sort rounded out my menu quite nicely. I loved my fathers lunches. I basked in the waspy disgust of my peers. I savored each pungent bite of rye/liverwurst, sucked every red pimento with a misfit's flamboyance, and opened each can of pepsi with a boisterous CRACK. I felt loved. I felt looked after. I felt cared for. So, thank you daddy- I'll always split my sandwiches with you.
By the time I had dipped a toe into high school I had given up on school lunches- in a conventional sense anyhow. School lunches had provided me with about the same amount of psychological stability as anything else in my up to that point- which was slim to none. At the risk of being a badly broken record, it was the inconsistency that turned me cold. Mom was typically too frantic and busy to agonize too much over ziplock baggies and lays potato chips (a definite staple when she WAS able to pack an actual brown bag lunch for me- but they were almost always completely/semi-smashed). I felt that when she did pack my lunch it tended to be depressingly generic and hurried. Teachers looked at me somewhat pityingly; the lunch looked lazy. But what they didn't see was my mother- a woman who never stopped moving/working/providing/rushing/nurturing/loving. She often attempted far too many things at one time. School lunches were low on the totem pole. Similar to laundry duty, my mother expected me to pack my own lunch. It was around those emotionally-laden, foggy years that followed my parents divorce. A time when our entire domestic structure was redefined and redistricted. A time when my mother had to learn to make ends meet for three children. But I'm dancing around the main point; my mom's lunches consisted of a mushy peanut butter and jelly sandwich (my jelly always soaked the bread, giving it an unsavory blood-clotted look), greasy lays potato chips, and baby carrots coated in that weird white fuzziness that usually signaled too much time had been spent rolling around in the vegetable crisper. Needless to say, dipping sauces and beverages were omitted. A majority of my lunch period was spent glaring in resentment at the kids with juice boxes and fruit snacks. Their lunches looked so tidy and perfectly portioned. I glared at each pampered bite taken, as they bashfully read the napkin note that was invariably tucked inside like a parental fortune cookie. Ironically, when I was left to assembling my own brown bag lunch- they looked eerily identical to my mother's. They had that same hasty haphazard quality I was accustomed to; they were given about as much care and attention as one gives to plunging a toilet.
Oddly enough, when my father packed my lunch it was a different tale entirely. He was always good at things like that- those minor, seemingly insignificant duties that you would assume an alcoholic of his severity would completely overlook. However, he took school lunches seriously. Very seriously. For a brief time in Middle School when I lived primarily with him (extremely brief- 6th grade I believe, and only for a few months), he packed the most quirky , eccentric, and personality-fitting lunches I have ever seen. Always with a sandwich on rye bread (sometimes marble rye- if he was feeling fancy). It was the perfect choice. I loved rye bread- seeds and all! Unlike mom, Dad packed things he knew I would actually eat. I think he respected my stubborn streak; well, I DID get it from him after all.....
A liverwurst spread could always be found between my slices of bread. Ohhhh the liverwurst! That suspicious, pink spread with a smell so distinct it could wake you from the soundest of slumbers. Other children wrinkled their noses, looking on with morbid curiosity. Also included, was a mini sized tuper-ware container filled to the brim with green olives so salty they dry your eye sockets at the mere sight of them. A can of pepsi to cleanse my palate, and a snack cake of some decadent sort rounded out my menu quite nicely. I loved my fathers lunches. I basked in the waspy disgust of my peers. I savored each pungent bite of rye/liverwurst, sucked every red pimento with a misfit's flamboyance, and opened each can of pepsi with a boisterous CRACK. I felt loved. I felt looked after. I felt cared for. So, thank you daddy- I'll always split my sandwiches with you.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Please Bring Breadcrumbs.
Always be prepared- the Boy Scouts certainly had their finger on the button when they adopted that little nugget of wisdom. In fact, few moments bring as much personal satisfaction as being well-equipped for the ever twisting conditions of daily life. It's with a triumphant, (and slightly smug), air that we pull an umbrella from our oversized purse - just in time for the first drops of rain to splash against the pavement. We proudly stroll through the rain unscathed and arid, amongst the hordes of sad saps who have fallen victim to poor planning.
Flashlights, breath mints, pocket knives, bobby pins, chap stick, band aids, pencil erasers, tweezers, sanitizers, scissors, etc.- these tools all carry the imperious glow of an efficient scout-leader. I have spent a great deal of my young life scurrying against the clock in preparation; the curse of procrastination claims another victim in me! However, as an adult (sort of), I have developed my own practical bag of tricks- a veritable arsenal of useful gadgetry to help me get through my waking hours. You need to clip a hangnail? I've got the clippers my friend. Hungry? There's a packet of string cheese in my side-pocket with your name on it! Hands feeling a little dry? No worries pal, I carry lotion at all times. You get the point....
Although I still have a worrisome amount of blind spots (I almost always forget to pack a lunch, bring bug spray, or charge my cell phone), I'm trying. So, in the spirit of preparedness, and the off-chance that anyone is reading this blog (weird word- by the way), I want to warn you - bring your breadcrumbs. This will be a pointless blog- one consisting solely of the 23 year old meandering mind trails that threaten my sanity. So hang in there, be patient, and leave those breadcrumbs to guide you- these trails cannot be mapped (trust me, I've tried).
Flashlights, breath mints, pocket knives, bobby pins, chap stick, band aids, pencil erasers, tweezers, sanitizers, scissors, etc.- these tools all carry the imperious glow of an efficient scout-leader. I have spent a great deal of my young life scurrying against the clock in preparation; the curse of procrastination claims another victim in me! However, as an adult (sort of), I have developed my own practical bag of tricks- a veritable arsenal of useful gadgetry to help me get through my waking hours. You need to clip a hangnail? I've got the clippers my friend. Hungry? There's a packet of string cheese in my side-pocket with your name on it! Hands feeling a little dry? No worries pal, I carry lotion at all times. You get the point....
Although I still have a worrisome amount of blind spots (I almost always forget to pack a lunch, bring bug spray, or charge my cell phone), I'm trying. So, in the spirit of preparedness, and the off-chance that anyone is reading this blog (weird word- by the way), I want to warn you - bring your breadcrumbs. This will be a pointless blog- one consisting solely of the 23 year old meandering mind trails that threaten my sanity. So hang in there, be patient, and leave those breadcrumbs to guide you- these trails cannot be mapped (trust me, I've tried).
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