I locked myself out of my own home today. This has probably happened to me at least 22 times in my life. On this occasion I had reached my destination before I realized, not only had I left my keys on the couch, but my purse (and all its crucial contents) as well. I agonized for a moment, as we all do, with a few profanities and a shrug of the shoulders. Eh, well, I have gotten used to this sort of thing as a regular occurrence in my daily life- I tend to move too quickly, which causes me to gloss over the finer details (like ya know, KEYS and DRIVERS LICENSES). Anyway, I shook it off and headed back to the homestead. I also had the welfare of my brother/roommate's dog to think of. My brother had left for Chicago early that morning, and I was put in charge of keeping our beloved pooch thriving and happy, hence being locked out for the weekend was really not an option.
When I arrived, I performed the classic pipe-dream; I hoped the backdoor was open. It wasn't. I HAD remembered to lock it before leaving- it's wonderful how my vigilant/responsible impulses come and go that way! But, as I mentioned before, I have been locked out a lot in my life. I have become an expert at looking for passive entries. I meandered to the side yard and spotted our living room window- bingo! It looked hopeful. I trudged through the wet (it was raining-of course) shrubbery and groped the window ledge for confirmation that it was, in fact, unlocked. It was, and after wrestling with it for a good two and a half minutes it flew up (the house is somewhat old- so the windows open- but they whine about it). Once the window gave in, it was a cake walk. I used the hose hook as leverage and lumbered into our living room. Granted, it wasn't my most flattering/graceful moment, but I still felt proud of my problem solving abilities. Meanwhile, our dog, Mick, was losing his shit at the sight of me. Not only was he simply happy to see me, but I kind of felt that he was also amused at the show he just got free admission to. I crawled in like a clumsy, spider monkey and landed with an awkward thud against the hardwood floors.
The whole experience just reminded me of childhood- which is perhaps, why I felt no real stress about it. My brother's were the keeper of the keys in our house. Unfortunately, my brother's are just (if not slightly more) forgetful than I am. Obviously, I spent some time on our front porch, waiting. Sometimes, as a child, I felt like a bulk of my time was spent waiting. Waiting for someone to pick me up, waiting for someone to come home (occasionally- with the key), waiting for a call, waiting for an acceptance letter, waiting to leave, waiting to go, etc. As an adult, I love that I can take charge. I almost never have to wait. I can take action instead- and it usually works! Even if I had not been able to bust through that window, I could have driven to my boyfriend's workplace and ask him for the copy I gave him- ta da! Entry! Open Sesame!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Wilson
Last fall, after a frustrating string of interviews and dead-ends, my stint of unemployment ended and I was hired in at a daycare center. Though I had babysat as an adolescent, I had never really taken care of "baby" babies. The children I watched were generally off of bottles and swaddlers. Hence, my anxiety skyrocketed when I was handed a tiny infant WHILE being interviewed. Her name was Claire, and she is a true spitfire. Claire's now in the toddler classroom and not so tiny, but still very much a spitfire. I think I will always hold a soft spot for Claire- she was the real interviewer that day. She squirmed and squawked as I awkwardly hugged her to my chest, and cooed her using my gentlest tone; clearly, she was determined to put me through the ringer, make sure I could cut the mustard, yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I thought "I would either love it here or hate it." Luckily, I managed to jump through every necessary hoop and land the gig. I have been an assistant teacher ever since, and miraculously, I happen to love it.
In mid-December, the mother of a two year-old named Charlotte, came in with her brand new bean in tow. A little, shapeless, dumpling named Wilson. I peered over into his car-seat and saw a shrunken potato, slumbering soundly. To be honest, I did not find anything particularly cute about him upon my first viewing, but I fawned and fussed as if he were the Gerber baby. I didn't think much of this brief interaction until 7 or 8 weeks later- when he was enrolled into the infant room. The infant room just happens to be one of the several classrooms I frequent. My job description includes the term "floater", which is exactly how it sounds- I float. I move between classrooms and maintain order while the lead teacher goes on break, or leaves for the day.
Anyway, it was another hectic day in the baby room; bottles to warm, diapers to freshen, solids to prepare, etc. We had 10 infants enrolled at the time, and it seemed as though each one were hellbent on screaming themselves into oblivion. All, except Wilson. He spent half the morning slumped in the swing, sleeping, with a mysterious little smile on his face. While all the other babies had their volume dials turned to 11 ("these go to eleven..." - what can I say, I love Christopher Guest), Wilson was content and patient in his swing state. He actually had to be woken up for his feedings. Somehow, I never got to be the one to feed him until the very end of the day. His 5:30 feeding rolled around, and as luck would have it, I was the only teacher not occupied with another task. When I hunkered down with the half-conscious, little ball of a boy, I was met with the most pleasant surprise. His eyes- actually open for a change. Two bright blue orbs, shiny and sweet. They widened at the sight of another new person in his daycare life. Little did he or I know, the romance had begun. From the minute those round, innocent peepers fixed on me I was head over heels.
Over the next several months, my little pal brightened many exasperating days for me. While strapping on my blue, paper shoe-booties (a sanitation rule so as not to track gunk into the room, lest a curious baby decide it was a culinary delight), Wilson's smile would radiate out the front door and put a skip in my step as I entered. Many mornings I would find myself getting lost in thought, only to have Wilson snap me into the here and now. He went through an exploratory phase with my shoelaces- untying them when my attention was elsewhere. And let me tell you, tripping over one's converse certainly has a jolting effect. I would stumble in befuddlement, look down, and meet the gleeful gaze of my little blueberry boy. This trick always sent him into a giggle fit of knee-weakening adorableness. It also served as a humbling reminder to Ms. Danielle not to take herself too seriously. Which is one of my favorite aspects about working with children; they require you to exist in the present-no excuses, no anxious head-trips, and no restless daydreaming will be tolerated. In addition to keeping me in the moment, Wilson also kept himself extremely focused on the business of growing up. He breezed past eating solids in the blink of an eye. Which made me very happy; mixing together gelatinous contents of tiny jars with powdery bland cereal into a sickly green paste, was not exactly appetizing. I always felt I owed little Wilson an apology as I strapped on his bib in preparation for an undoubtedly disappointing dining experience. He had a lust for life, and food that just could not be satiated by pre-packaged goop. He would finish each feeding, covered in slop and hungry for something different, more exotic....and just plain more!
One of my favorite moments with Wilson came when he was finally able to eat real food. Particularly, swedish meatball day. Ahhhh, meatball day- it's tucked away so vividly and warmly in my mind. I trudged into the baby room with very little umph in my step- I had been having a lot of trouble sleeping, and it was starting to show. My lackluster mood was lifted at the sight of the school menu- today was meatball day, and my buddy Wilson was about to become a meat-baller. And boy was I right. That kid went to town. He made a mockery of those meatballs- there was nothing left within 20 minutes. The sight of his greasy, satisfied face- completely devoid of self-consciousness and doubt, as he took down the entire plate was nothing short of inspirational. Later that evening, when the weight of my world -and all it's irrational anxieties had caused my shoulders to slope, I discovered a constellation of gravy splotches on my sock. I giggled- even in absentia, Wilson was still instructing me to lighten up. I kept the sock. Wilson is now getting ready to move onto the next classroom. Sadly, this means we will be seeing much less of each other. But whenever Wilson and I share eye contact- I can see that glint in his eyes, and he certainly can see it in mine. He will forever be my blueberry boy, and I will forever be his magical, goddess and bringer of meatballs.
In mid-December, the mother of a two year-old named Charlotte, came in with her brand new bean in tow. A little, shapeless, dumpling named Wilson. I peered over into his car-seat and saw a shrunken potato, slumbering soundly. To be honest, I did not find anything particularly cute about him upon my first viewing, but I fawned and fussed as if he were the Gerber baby. I didn't think much of this brief interaction until 7 or 8 weeks later- when he was enrolled into the infant room. The infant room just happens to be one of the several classrooms I frequent. My job description includes the term "floater", which is exactly how it sounds- I float. I move between classrooms and maintain order while the lead teacher goes on break, or leaves for the day.
Anyway, it was another hectic day in the baby room; bottles to warm, diapers to freshen, solids to prepare, etc. We had 10 infants enrolled at the time, and it seemed as though each one were hellbent on screaming themselves into oblivion. All, except Wilson. He spent half the morning slumped in the swing, sleeping, with a mysterious little smile on his face. While all the other babies had their volume dials turned to 11 ("these go to eleven..." - what can I say, I love Christopher Guest), Wilson was content and patient in his swing state. He actually had to be woken up for his feedings. Somehow, I never got to be the one to feed him until the very end of the day. His 5:30 feeding rolled around, and as luck would have it, I was the only teacher not occupied with another task. When I hunkered down with the half-conscious, little ball of a boy, I was met with the most pleasant surprise. His eyes- actually open for a change. Two bright blue orbs, shiny and sweet. They widened at the sight of another new person in his daycare life. Little did he or I know, the romance had begun. From the minute those round, innocent peepers fixed on me I was head over heels.
Over the next several months, my little pal brightened many exasperating days for me. While strapping on my blue, paper shoe-booties (a sanitation rule so as not to track gunk into the room, lest a curious baby decide it was a culinary delight), Wilson's smile would radiate out the front door and put a skip in my step as I entered. Many mornings I would find myself getting lost in thought, only to have Wilson snap me into the here and now. He went through an exploratory phase with my shoelaces- untying them when my attention was elsewhere. And let me tell you, tripping over one's converse certainly has a jolting effect. I would stumble in befuddlement, look down, and meet the gleeful gaze of my little blueberry boy. This trick always sent him into a giggle fit of knee-weakening adorableness. It also served as a humbling reminder to Ms. Danielle not to take herself too seriously. Which is one of my favorite aspects about working with children; they require you to exist in the present-no excuses, no anxious head-trips, and no restless daydreaming will be tolerated. In addition to keeping me in the moment, Wilson also kept himself extremely focused on the business of growing up. He breezed past eating solids in the blink of an eye. Which made me very happy; mixing together gelatinous contents of tiny jars with powdery bland cereal into a sickly green paste, was not exactly appetizing. I always felt I owed little Wilson an apology as I strapped on his bib in preparation for an undoubtedly disappointing dining experience. He had a lust for life, and food that just could not be satiated by pre-packaged goop. He would finish each feeding, covered in slop and hungry for something different, more exotic....and just plain more!
One of my favorite moments with Wilson came when he was finally able to eat real food. Particularly, swedish meatball day. Ahhhh, meatball day- it's tucked away so vividly and warmly in my mind. I trudged into the baby room with very little umph in my step- I had been having a lot of trouble sleeping, and it was starting to show. My lackluster mood was lifted at the sight of the school menu- today was meatball day, and my buddy Wilson was about to become a meat-baller. And boy was I right. That kid went to town. He made a mockery of those meatballs- there was nothing left within 20 minutes. The sight of his greasy, satisfied face- completely devoid of self-consciousness and doubt, as he took down the entire plate was nothing short of inspirational. Later that evening, when the weight of my world -and all it's irrational anxieties had caused my shoulders to slope, I discovered a constellation of gravy splotches on my sock. I giggled- even in absentia, Wilson was still instructing me to lighten up. I kept the sock. Wilson is now getting ready to move onto the next classroom. Sadly, this means we will be seeing much less of each other. But whenever Wilson and I share eye contact- I can see that glint in his eyes, and he certainly can see it in mine. He will forever be my blueberry boy, and I will forever be his magical, goddess and bringer of meatballs.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Growing
My nephew Jackson started his first day of kindergarten today. I'm in serious danger of sounding like a blithering cliche, but it seems like only an hour ago that my stepsister brought Jack over to my house for the first time. He was a tiny little bundle of flesh; a vague and fussy being that I wasn't sure how to interact with. I was terrified of holding him the wrong way and breaking him in some permanent sort of way.
Five years have passed since that curious November night, and so much has changed. He is going to "real" school now, and I comfortably interact with infants on a daily basis. I feel that we have both come into our own (so to speak). He has developed into a verbally sophisticated, and devilishly clever child. He possesses an irresistible combination of rough and tumble boyishness, and snarky confidence. He manages to carry an exuberance for life and experience that could melt any jaded soul. But beware, this boy is sharp. He seems to absorb and imitate adult conversation and innuendo like a specialized little sponge. He also has that rare and wonderful appreciation for the outdoors; he's a nature boy (as the Talking Heads would say). One day he carried a sprightly grasshopper to his mother's open (and unassuming) palm. He informed her with absolute certainty "This grasshopper is so handsome, just like me." Needless to say, much revelatory laughter ensued. I have no doubt that he will charm the cardigan sweater off of any schoolteacher who might stand in his way.
My own personal progress has been quite the contrast. Jackson has grown-up, I have grown down. In the last two years I have learned the importance of play. I have learned the crucial need for absolute silliness; the need to make funny faces in the mirror- just to make yourself laugh. Blowing bubbles for the hell-of-it. Singing loudly to music, even if you don't know the lyrics. Crying when you feel sad. Dancing when you need to express yourself in all of your awkward glory. The joy of existence. As simple as it might seem, this joy was absolutely lost on me for a very long time. I can't exactly explain why, but in my younger years, I seemed to consider myself a serious person-with very serious motivations in life. While this might be the makings of an extremely impressive person- one bound for glory and success, in my case, it was a recipe for disastrous depression. I moped- hardcore-for years. I found the lifelong task of somberness to be a considerable burden. As you can see, I wouldn't exactly be a good fit to care for small children. However, last year I began working at a daycare center. This vocational shift aided greatly to my Dorian Gray-esque experience. Working with babies has slowed me down, taught me patience, and displayed my glaring blind spots. Their need for love and affection cuts me to the proverbial quick. It's so simple and basic- they smile at the sight of me. It blows my mind- the idea of being so emotionally dependent on others! I have developed such a neurotic, numb shell that I forget the sensation of raw living. I consider it a privilege and a gift to be able to nurture, play, and adore the babies I get to work with. They bring me back to the core of human reality.
Five years have passed since that curious November night, and so much has changed. He is going to "real" school now, and I comfortably interact with infants on a daily basis. I feel that we have both come into our own (so to speak). He has developed into a verbally sophisticated, and devilishly clever child. He possesses an irresistible combination of rough and tumble boyishness, and snarky confidence. He manages to carry an exuberance for life and experience that could melt any jaded soul. But beware, this boy is sharp. He seems to absorb and imitate adult conversation and innuendo like a specialized little sponge. He also has that rare and wonderful appreciation for the outdoors; he's a nature boy (as the Talking Heads would say). One day he carried a sprightly grasshopper to his mother's open (and unassuming) palm. He informed her with absolute certainty "This grasshopper is so handsome, just like me." Needless to say, much revelatory laughter ensued. I have no doubt that he will charm the cardigan sweater off of any schoolteacher who might stand in his way.
My own personal progress has been quite the contrast. Jackson has grown-up, I have grown down. In the last two years I have learned the importance of play. I have learned the crucial need for absolute silliness; the need to make funny faces in the mirror- just to make yourself laugh. Blowing bubbles for the hell-of-it. Singing loudly to music, even if you don't know the lyrics. Crying when you feel sad. Dancing when you need to express yourself in all of your awkward glory. The joy of existence. As simple as it might seem, this joy was absolutely lost on me for a very long time. I can't exactly explain why, but in my younger years, I seemed to consider myself a serious person-with very serious motivations in life. While this might be the makings of an extremely impressive person- one bound for glory and success, in my case, it was a recipe for disastrous depression. I moped- hardcore-for years. I found the lifelong task of somberness to be a considerable burden. As you can see, I wouldn't exactly be a good fit to care for small children. However, last year I began working at a daycare center. This vocational shift aided greatly to my Dorian Gray-esque experience. Working with babies has slowed me down, taught me patience, and displayed my glaring blind spots. Their need for love and affection cuts me to the proverbial quick. It's so simple and basic- they smile at the sight of me. It blows my mind- the idea of being so emotionally dependent on others! I have developed such a neurotic, numb shell that I forget the sensation of raw living. I consider it a privilege and a gift to be able to nurture, play, and adore the babies I get to work with. They bring me back to the core of human reality.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships...
Recently, while on a road trip with my boyfriend Matt, I found myself reminiscing about my old man. I suppose I should explain, my father and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. We tend to go through cycles of not-speaking every few years. It is usually the result of us being hurtful to one another...or non-commmunicative. My Dad and I have similar reactions to betrayal/hurt- we retreat. We retreat with a quickness, and we stay there solidly and stubbornly for quite some time. Then, our hearts begin to ache, and our resolve (thankfully) weakens. Anyway, my resolve is currently weakening. My emotional shell is thinning by the minute. I miss my Dad. There is something mysterious about the open road that frees my mind and opens my heart a little bit. Maybe it's the transitory sensation, but I find that my eyes water more readily and my feelings gain clarity. So on this particular drive, I caught myself composing a conversational love note to my father. Well, so it goes....
My father has a work ethic that could bend steel. It's true. The show "Dirtiest jobs" is like a visual representation of my Dad's resume. He has pursued back breaking labor to the fullest. He was a roofer, a car-hauler, and candlestick maker ...(well-okay, not the last one, but you get the idea). The man didn't shy away from humble, sysphus-esque positions. He came home each day with the heavy smell of carbon paper and gasoline. I loved it. If there was a perfume that could perhaps capture those two scents, and maybe infuse it with something slightly feminine- like lilac- I'd be SOLD. I used to hold my nose to his pinstriped, collared work-shirts, and just inhale the aromatic cocktail that was my Dad. He also would spritz himself in jovan musk, for special occasions- of course. Which only added another element to my paternal, olfactory experience. It must also be noted, that I was a tried and true Daddy's girl for the first 6 years of existence. I would follow him to hell and back; not wanting to miss a moment of fun and spontaneity. I was the apple of Daddy's eye. When he spoke to me, it was as if I were his equal. He never underestimated my awareness or intelligence...regardless of their immaturity. He was an excellent partner in crime for a kid. He indulged my imagination with gusto. Dad's world was enchanting; full of sand-palaces, playdough civilizations, elegant tea-parties, frog-catching, and chalk masterpieces. As I wistfully told Matt- "I thought he hung the moon".
In addition to delightfully trotting through my father's world of whimsy, he also taught me the grave importance of hard work. Pure and simple. He believed in the dignity of hard work. He always told me "I don't care if you work at McDonalds, just as long as your working with integrity". In my Dad's eyes, nothing was more despicable than an unemployed, able-bodied individual.
My very first, formal job was at a local pizza joint. With my brothers. The manager was a friend of theirs. Need I say more? They put me through the crucible on that first day. I fled to my father's house after my shift, in tears.
"I hate it. I'm quitting tomorrow. Everyone hates me, and I feel stupid" I cried in angst.
"No you're not. It was your first day- what did you expect? It's work for a reason. You go back tomorrow and swallow your pre-madonna pride. Follow orders, and learn. As fast as you can."
This is the part where his hard-ass facade falters and he offers me a hanky from his back pocket.
"But they're all yelling at me, and I feel like I just get in the way. I didn't know what to do" I whined.
He laughed in disgusted amusement.
"Well, yeah. That was your first day. Welcome to the world dear. You go back with thicker skin, but my daughter is not giving up so easily. You have seen worse"
I sat for a moment, considering his position and attitude. He was right. Work is a challenge- it challenges the body and the ego. If one cannot accept this challenge, than they belong to a softer section of people- one that was unacceptable for me to join.
With snot running down my wrists and a newfound sense of fortitude I croaked
"I need to get tougher I guess."
He nodded.
On one of our first dates, Matt described me as being "rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships". I scoffed; I feel that I have grown quite wimpy at this point in my life- gone soft I suppose! But I think, if Matt is correct- this thick skin is brought to you by my brothers, and, of course, my old man.
My father has a work ethic that could bend steel. It's true. The show "Dirtiest jobs" is like a visual representation of my Dad's resume. He has pursued back breaking labor to the fullest. He was a roofer, a car-hauler, and candlestick maker ...(well-okay, not the last one, but you get the idea). The man didn't shy away from humble, sysphus-esque positions. He came home each day with the heavy smell of carbon paper and gasoline. I loved it. If there was a perfume that could perhaps capture those two scents, and maybe infuse it with something slightly feminine- like lilac- I'd be SOLD. I used to hold my nose to his pinstriped, collared work-shirts, and just inhale the aromatic cocktail that was my Dad. He also would spritz himself in jovan musk, for special occasions- of course. Which only added another element to my paternal, olfactory experience. It must also be noted, that I was a tried and true Daddy's girl for the first 6 years of existence. I would follow him to hell and back; not wanting to miss a moment of fun and spontaneity. I was the apple of Daddy's eye. When he spoke to me, it was as if I were his equal. He never underestimated my awareness or intelligence...regardless of their immaturity. He was an excellent partner in crime for a kid. He indulged my imagination with gusto. Dad's world was enchanting; full of sand-palaces, playdough civilizations, elegant tea-parties, frog-catching, and chalk masterpieces. As I wistfully told Matt- "I thought he hung the moon".
In addition to delightfully trotting through my father's world of whimsy, he also taught me the grave importance of hard work. Pure and simple. He believed in the dignity of hard work. He always told me "I don't care if you work at McDonalds, just as long as your working with integrity". In my Dad's eyes, nothing was more despicable than an unemployed, able-bodied individual.
My very first, formal job was at a local pizza joint. With my brothers. The manager was a friend of theirs. Need I say more? They put me through the crucible on that first day. I fled to my father's house after my shift, in tears.
"I hate it. I'm quitting tomorrow. Everyone hates me, and I feel stupid" I cried in angst.
"No you're not. It was your first day- what did you expect? It's work for a reason. You go back tomorrow and swallow your pre-madonna pride. Follow orders, and learn. As fast as you can."
This is the part where his hard-ass facade falters and he offers me a hanky from his back pocket.
"But they're all yelling at me, and I feel like I just get in the way. I didn't know what to do" I whined.
He laughed in disgusted amusement.
"Well, yeah. That was your first day. Welcome to the world dear. You go back with thicker skin, but my daughter is not giving up so easily. You have seen worse"
I sat for a moment, considering his position and attitude. He was right. Work is a challenge- it challenges the body and the ego. If one cannot accept this challenge, than they belong to a softer section of people- one that was unacceptable for me to join.
With snot running down my wrists and a newfound sense of fortitude I croaked
"I need to get tougher I guess."
He nodded.
On one of our first dates, Matt described me as being "rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships". I scoffed; I feel that I have grown quite wimpy at this point in my life- gone soft I suppose! But I think, if Matt is correct- this thick skin is brought to you by my brothers, and, of course, my old man.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Nail Polish
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!
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!
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.
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