Lawyerish

Plenty and Want

My college boyfriend's mother HATED me.  It was weird; I mean, I don't consider myself to be universally likeable or anything, but she took a profound dislike of me that I found a bit startling.  She was mostly subtle about it -- like when we were coming for dinner, she'd cook something she knew I hated -- but sometimes she couldn't hide her contempt, like when I mentioned that (horrors!) I planned to work after going to law school and, therefore, might not have dinner on the table precisely at six every day, as she always had for her husband and sons.  On those occasions, she would let out this sound of shock and dismay: "AWWWWWP!" while glaring daggers in my general direction.

(The day of our graduation, she let out the same sound when she -- quite hilariously -- slipped and fell down the steps in the student union; my brother and I had to RACE outside so she wouldn't see us doubling over in laughter, grabbing each other for balance and gasping for breath.  MAN, that was funny.)  (It's ok, she was fine, so I'm not going to hell or anything.)

She did not work outside the home, which of course was all fine and good, more power to her.  The odd thing was that, with both of her kids grown and a weekly housekeeping service, she had literally NOTHING to do.  She didn't read (another reason we did not exactly "connect"); she didn't volunteer; she wasn't active in any community organizations of any sort; and as far as I could tell, she had no friends.  It almost kept me up at night, wondering what in the WORLD she did with her days.  I would picture her sitting in that big, immaculate house, just staring off into space (and likely plotting my untimely demise because I was NOT GOOD ENOUGH for her preshus son, with my working, book-learning ways).   

And then, on one of our visits, I found out what she did with her days: She shopped.

I don't mean that she strolled through the mall, browsing for handbags or scarves or knick-knacks.  No.  She GROCERY shopped.  She grocery shopped as though the nuclear holocaust could be upon us any day. 

She would clip coupons and then buy about 87,000 of each item for which she was getting a 50-cent discount, or she would search the sale circulars in the morning paper and stock up on whichever sale item happened to be one of her kids' favorites (the kids, mind you, who were NO LONGER LIVING THERE,  one of whom was married). 

I discovered the disturbing extent of her compulsion when I went down into their basement once.  I am not exaggerating when I say that a family of twelve could have lived in that basement for two years on everything she had stockpiled down there.  Salad dressing, wine, Diet Dr. Pepper, canned goods, pancake mix, Nutrigrain Bars.  And the Raisin Bran -- MY GOD, the Raisin Bran.  There must have been fifty boxes of Raisin Bran down there.  She and her husband couldn't possibly have consumed all of that food in their remaining life expectancy, let alone finished it before its expiration date.  I found it so unsettling that I hurried back up the stairs, forgetting whatever I'd ventured downstairs to find in the first place.

The thing is, I have always preferred to have JUST enough food in the house to get by; I loathe waste of any kind, so having even a little bit extra of something skeeves me out (we might have to THROW IT OUT, my God, man!).  It's especially unnerving if I have to get some specific, unusual ingredient for a new recipe that will leave some left over -- then I have to find some OTHER recipe that uses that same item so I can finish it off, or else WASTE, such WASTE, it is NOT ACCEPTABLE.  Plus, I get nervous if the cupboards are too stocked because I might be compelled to go and snarf all that food down. Especially snack food -- I feel like I can't be trusted with bags of chips or boxes of crackers nearby -- because, although it's never actually happened, MAYBE I will be unable to prevent myself from eating ALL OF IT.

At times, I have taken this to something of an extreme.  In law school, at any given time, my and my roommate's fridge would contain two Diet Cokes, several bottles of fine Champagne (let's not get too crazy with the minimalism, after all), and a jar of olives, while the cabinets revealed a meager selection of spices and several packages of ramen.   It was perfect for my not-too-much-food-around anxiety.  I think I've mostly recovered now, though; I buy the week's worth of groceries with planned meals in mind and we have some staples on-hand for baking and the like. 

My husband, on the other hand, feels on edge if he thinks there might not be ENOUGH food around.  Apparently in his household growing up, things were a bit on the lean side, so if you didn't hustle, you'd miss the one extra chicken leg, you know?  So he'll go out and buy a 65-gallon drum of Quaker Oats and two massive cartons of OJ, plus 25 razor cartridges in addition to the ten already under the sink, so that we don't run out, possibly ever.  (The same goes for portions; I like to start small and take seconds if needed; he hovers nervously over the stove to make sure I'm making enough food for a herd of small horses).   

It's all fine, really; it's not exactly marriage-threatening stuff. But if he starts stockpiling Raisin Bran, I'm putting my foot down.  How about y'all -- am I alone in this waste-not-want-not philosophy?  (I'm nuts, aren't I?  You all think I'm nuts!)

Blog Share Guest Post: Better Off Not Knowing

[As I mentioned earlier this week, we're switching things up today (you just never know the chicanery that will ensue around here, do you?).  Today's guest post was written by one of the participants in -R-'s Blog Share.  My anonymous post is on one of the sites that's linked below.  Check 'em all out and enjoy, homies! -- Lawyerish]

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I don't know what emotional abuse means, even though it supposedly happened to me.

It's not that I don't believe that emotional abuse exists.  I know that it does.  I believe wholeheartedly that it is possible for one person in a relationship, whether it's a romantic relationship, a parental relationship, or some other kind, to establish emotional dominance over the other person in that relationship.  Whether or not they do it on purpose.

There is a website focusing on the whole issue of emotional abuse that I have read over and over again.  It scares me a little bit because it has a slightly biased tone.  It has the tone of an advocate and not that of objective fact-sharing.  It implies in its very writing style that there are people who will not believe what it says.

But that doesn't change the fact that a lot of what it talks about applies.  To me.  Specifically: Denying.  Invalidation.  Minimizing.  Unpredictable Responses.  Verbal Assaults.

I used to think that everyone was like this.  That all girls have difficult relationships with their mothers.  That all children are afraid of their parents.  Not afraid in that you've done something wrong and you don't want to get in trouble.  And also not afraid in that you think you're going to be hurt, physically.  Never.

But afraid in that the first thing you do every time you see your mother is tentatively feel out for the type of mood she's in.  Afraid in that whenever she's upset, the whole household shuts down, draws inward, tiptoes until she's better.  Afraid in that you can never know what will set her off.  Afraid in that every time you see that she is angry again, you desperately wonder who caused the rage that time.  Who will be at the receiving end of the tirade.  And when you find out it isn't you, you feel an overwhelming sense of relief, even as your father or one of your siblings knows that they are about to run the gauntlet.  Again.

But even if this happened to me (and it did).  I wasn't unhappy.  I had a good childhood.  My parents were good parents.  Both of them.  They were.

I had flashes of recognition that something wasn't right, something was unhealthy, probably my mother wasn't supposed to make me that upset.  But I'm sensitive.  I knew that.  And not just because she told me so.  So maybe I was overreacting.  I took it worse than my siblings.  They each had their own coping strategy.  Mine couldn't be called a coping strategy, because it didn't help me cope.  It made everything worse.  React.  Rebel.  Protest.  Cause friction.  Rage against the machine.  Lash out.

But mostly I just didn't realize.  Didn't realize that spending your life in a state of cautious tension, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, always on edge, wasn't normal.  Didn't realize that not being able to express normal childhood emotions without a passionate, volatile response wasn't normal.  Didn't realize that being more consumed with my mother's feelings than with my own at an age when most children haven't yet fully developed their empathetic skills wasn't normal.

If I was emotionally abused, it was mild.  I hesitate to use the abuse label at all.  Because a label, any label but especially a label with such a loaded, horrible meaning, is more than a name for an experience that is over now.  It can be an excuse, a justification, a veil.  A way to hide, a way to avoid.  It's not my fault, you see.  I was emotionally abused.  That's why I treat my loved ones like shit.  That's why I'm hypersensitive.  That's why I can't accept criticism.  That's why I procrastinate.  That's why you can't rely on me for anything.  That's why you can rely on me for everything.

So here's what I've decided.  There were problems with my relationship with my mother.  They were severe.  They were unbalanced.  They were beyond the scope of the chafing that can be expected as part of a normal relationship between a mother and a daughter.  But I don't care whether you call those problems emotional abuse or not.  I am the way I am.  The way I was raised was a part of that.  And the way she was raised by her own mother was a part of that too.

But if I ever have children, they will not be raised like that.  If there is a cycle, I will be the one to break it.  This is what I have decided.

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Other Blog Share Participants:

The Adventures of Shelagh
Alice's Wonderland
Alyndabear
And You Know What Else
Bright Yellow World
Daily Tannenbaum
Du Wax Loolu
Elise
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Face Down
Fretting the Small Stuff
For the Long Run
Galoot's Hoot Page
Granted Null
Grumpy Frump
Just Below 63
Lawyerish
Life After AC
Liz Land
Malfeasance
Mamma Ren
Muse On Vacation
Muze News
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Not What You Think It Is
One New Duck
Rankin Inlet: A Journey Northwards
Red Red Whine
Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills
The Reluctant Blogger
Sass Attack
Sauntering Soul
Sparkling Cipher
Stefanie Says
Three Carnations
Tracy Out Loud
Way Way Up

The Kringle Gods Have Smiled Upon Us

Hungry?   Got a hankering for something buttery, flaky and fruit-filled?  Well, I have happy pastry news for you! 

Mike, the office manager of the aforementioned Larsen's Bakery in Racine, WI, found my site by the Magic of the Internet and has kindly offered to give all of you lovely people a $4 discount at www.larsenskringle.com -- just enter BLOG04 at the checkout screen.  They ship, of course, and kringle freezes for up to four months, so you have no excuse for denying yourself any longer.  Go forth and get ye some pastry (and hurry, offer expires at the end of the month!). 

In other food news (my Sunday evening posts always seem to be food-oriented, don't they?), I have received a couple of recipe share emails, to which I have utterly failed to respond, so I am going to make my contribution here and now. 

I always think of this recipe as distinctly and exclusively Southern, although it's probably known all over the place.  I guess I categorized it that way in my head because I first learned of it in our church cookbook back home in Georgia.  The cookbook was entitled "Predestined to be Good" -- a little Calvinism with your dinner, you know -- and for some reason I always pronounced it in my head as "preh-deh-STYNED" instead of "pre-DES-tinned."  (Am dumb.) 

Anyway, whenever there was a big church luncheon and the youth group would cook, we'd make this; likewise, it made frequent appearances at ladies' teas (as did orange blossoms, another Southern favorite) and the like.  It's basic and sticks to your ribs, like any good comfort food, and it reheats well if you can manage to have leftovers (I find it hard not to scarf down the whole pan at once, but that's me). 

Poppy Seed Chicken

6-8 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 rolls Ritz crackers
6 Tablespoons melted butter
1 Tablespoon poppy seeds
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can cream of celery soup
1 cup sour cream

Cut the chicken into bite-sized chunks and saute in a little olive or vegetable oil (I season it with salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika first).  Crush up the Ritz crackers (I just mush them in their sleeves) and stir them together with the melted butter and poppy seeds in a medium bowl.  Stir the soups and the sour cream together in another medium bowl. 

Make a layer of cracker crumbs on  the bottom of a 9x13-inch baking pan using half of the crumb mixture.  Add the chicken.  Pour the soup mixture on top of the chicken.  Spread the remaining cracker crumbs on top.  Bake for one hour at 350.   

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Apropos of nothing, I must also make a plug for this hand vac.  For a while, we had that Kone thing -- I think it's made by Dirt Devil -- and it was completely useless.  Instead of sucking things up, it would blow them around all over the floor, which, as you can imagine, is sort of not the purpose of a vaccuum.  Now we have the Black and Decker, which hoovered up about 85 pounds of Christmas tree needles after we took our tree down, and can easily pick up a full bowl's worth of cat food when it gets dumped on the floor (which happens more than I would like to discuss).   

I am nothing if not a font of domestic tips, apparently. 

On the agenda this week is a Blog Share, whereby this Wednesday my site will feature the writing of an anonymous poster, and I will have posted, unidentified, on someone else's blog.  This was orchestrated by -R-, and I am sure you will all be relieved to have a moment's reprieve from my usual material. 

Aside from that, I am hoping this week might maybe possibly bring some sign of our baby before I become totally unhinged, and that next week Obama will trounce Hillary once and for all in Texas and Ohio and we can all go home happy.   

A Watched Pot, Blah Blah

I have always been a very punctual person.  In my family, getting somewhere on time means getting there at least ten minutes early; we're the ones at the airport practically the day before the flight, at church while the choir is still milling about sans robes, at the movies before the previous showing has ended.   

I spent several years of my adult life in a relationship with someone who was chronically, pathologically late, and it nearly caused me a nervous breakdown.  I would be ready in my usual timeframe, with an hour or so to spare, just in case (New York City, after all, has about 9 million ways to make you late even if you leave eight hours ahead of time), while he would maybe, possibly consider getting up from studying/watching TV/staring into space about five minutes before we were supposed to be there.  It was maddening. We were constantly arriving places with apologetic smiles, him assuming he would charm his way back into the host's good graces, me trying not to perish from stress and embarrassment.  It just struck me as...so selfish on his part; he seemed to believe the world would remain on pause so long as we weren't there to deem the evening Ready to Begin.

Growing up, when I was a Very Serious Ballet Dancer, I occasionally had to carpool with another family. They were decidedly NOT punctual people, and they, too, were nearly the death of me.  I had a meticulous routine of stretching and sit-ups that HAD TO BE DONE before each and every class and rehearsal, and if I was not at the studio at least a half-hour early, my brain would malfunction and possibly melt out of my ear from THE PANIC, the sheer panic of it all.

On the days that I was at the behest of the Non-Punctual People, I would stand in our dining room, my hair cemented into a bun, my leotard and tights on under my warm-up clothes, my dance bag on my shoulder, and glare out the window at the road, WILLING their battered blue station wagon to appear at the top of the driveway.  Five minutes would pass, another precious five minutes of stretching lost. I'd count down from 30, telling myself that the car would be there by the time I got to zero.  I'd picture the car making its way to our house, turning the corner down the road; I just knew that, when my mental image car got to our driveway, so would they.

It was torture.

Five minutes before class time, I would be in agony, nearly doubled over with anxiety.  Five minutes wasn't even enough time to GET THERE.  WHERE WERE THEY?  I'd try calling their house, but no one would answer.  Just as I began to contemplate running the seven miles to class, the car would materialize and I would race outside and slide into the crumb-ridden backseat, choking back tears.  My classmate wouldn't even be dressed or have her hair done yet, and she was always cool as a cucumber.  It didn't even bother her to miss plies and tendus (CLEARLY SHE WAS QUITE MAD), let alone stretching beforehand. And then we would get to the studio and race upstairs and grab spots at the barre (sometimes MY SPECIAL SPOT was TAKEN, OMG), and I would feel like  dying because it was just ALL WRONG. 

Lately, I have been sitting in my office, feeling the passage of every minute of every day.  I have been glaring at my phone, WILLING it to ring.  I have been picturing our program director at her desk, imagining her picking up the phone and dialing my number, believing on some level that my phone would ring with The Call as a result of my mental powers.  It hasn't worked yet.  It's as though I'm still standing at that dining room window, hyperventilating because WHERE ARE THEY?  Where is our baby girl?  I need to get there, get her, get on with things, get my life started.

She appears to be not a punctual baby. We're going to have to work on that. At least I know this time, all the waiting will be for a reason. Being late, just this once, will be worth it.   

On Cat Hair and Manufactured Holidays

If you have pets, I must exhort you to buy a Furminator.  That bad boy RULES.  Our cat has normal, short, Dumpster-cat hair, but he seems to walk around emitting a constant series of low-grade explosions, leaving fur on every surface in his wake.  While the Furminator may not have eliminated his shedding altogether (the only thing that could, I suspect, is to Nair him, once and for all; problematically, I used Nair back in 7th grade, and I have never quite gotten the face-melting stench of it out of my nostrils, so that option is out), there is a noticeably thinner veneer of black hair in our apartment.  The cat is not a big fan of the tool, I will warn you, so there have been Furminator-related wounds to my wrists and hands, but they have been well worth the bloodshed.  I think the cat is also about 3 pounds lighter (though he's wee to begin with, at a mere 9 lbs), and he is definitely softer/shinier.  I thought the price was absurd for a freaking PET BRUSH, but no -- the Furminator is every bit as kickass as its name suggests.

How was your Valentine's Day?  Mine was quite nice, for a Hallmark holiday and all.  In addition to the play last weekend, I received some new books, including Nigella Express, which I love already because it's pretty and colorful and her writing is so witty.  Of course, I had to laugh when my husband gave it to me, because it's so "Happy Valentine's Day, dear...NOW GO MAKE MY DINNER, WOMAN!"  That night, I made us some superdelicious spaghetti carbonara (also a Nigella recipe), which we sucked down in about 1.5 seconds, and on Saturday, to round out the festivities, we went out for Indian food. 

Unrelated to Valentine's Day, yet somehow relevant, last night I tried my first Nigella Express recipe of burgers and fast pan fries.  I won't call it a kitchen disaster, exactly, but things did not turn out exactly right.  I think it started going downhill when I realized I didn't have enough vegetable oil for the fries, so I mixed the little bit I had with some olive oil, and then when the potatoes started to char, I panicked and added a big lump of butter to the pan (I feared that the olive oil flavor would mess up the fry-ness of them).  I also didn't put enough moist ingredients in the ground beef (I think I used a little more than the recipe called for and realized it TOO LATE), and the meat itself was too lean to be right for a fat, juicy burger (damn you, 97% fat free sirloin).  So I ended up with a smoky kitchen, slightly charred potatoes, and heading-toward-sawdusty burgers.  Yum. 

The weekend was not entirely lost, however, as I managed to get out and see some friends, including Kathy, another Dillon mom, and her almost unfairly adorable son, Adam.  I went out to visit them on Saturday, and I can assure you, that is one EXTREMELY cute little boy.  Kathy's had him home since late last summer, and they are doing swimmingly.  He's quite the charmer, and although I think he was uncertain about me at first, before I left I crouched down and he RAN across the room to give me a hug and a kiss.  After I collected my melted heart from the floor, I almost shoved him in my purse and brought him home with me, possibly to hold ransom until I get my referral.  (WHERE ARE YOU, BABY GIRL?)  I am just now realizing that I hauled my camera out there and promptly forgot about it and did not take a SINGLE picture.  Grph.

Finally, I had President's Day "off", which is to say that my workplace was closed, but I have been sitting here at home with my butt pasted to our desk chair ALL THE LIVELONG DAY, doing work.  I'm also feeling a touch flu-like, so it has been all the more enjoyable.  So if you don't mind, I think I'll spatula my rear end off said chair and move it to the couch until it's time for dinner (maple-buttermilk chicken and roasted butternut squash with pecans and blue cheese, since I apparently feel compelled to tell you about every meal I prepare).  I hope you had a great weekend!      

Mmmmm...Bacon

On Sunday morning, I woke up and had an inexplicable, yet uncontrollable, urge to make pancakes.  I haven't made pancakes in...well, I can't even remember when I last made them, but it was definitely before we got married, and possibly was as long ago as college.  But there it was, a need that could not be denied. 

I think, in part, the inspiration came simply from the buttermilk we had sitting in our fridge -- I hate to waste leftover food or lingering ingredients, and we had some left from the INSANELY DELICIOUS Nigella Lawson chicken nuggets I'd made the night before.  (Cut up some boneless, skinless chicken breasts, marinate them in buttermilk for a day or so, then roll them around in Ritz cracker crumbs, and cook them in 1/2 cup of oil for 2-3 minutes a side.  OH MY GOD.) 

So the buttermilk was burning a hole in our fridge, and I went in my sweats to the grocery store around the corner to get some blueberries and some real maple syrup, and then I busted out the Joy of Cooking -- that's right, I skipped the Aunt Jemima and did it all from scratch, baby, 1950s housewife style.  And, OH MAN, was it worth the effort (minimal, really, although there was sifting involved, which always leaves my kitchen coated in a film of flour).  Those were some fantastic pancakes.  The only thing missing was a big slab of bacon.  Must not forget the bacon next time. 

Pancakes always put me in a nostalgic mood; growing up, my dad made them for us pretty much every Saturday morning (sometimes it was French toast or waffles, but mostly it was pancakes, and always with bacon), and we'd sit around the kitchen table, syrup pooled on our plates, the newspaper strewn about, our slippered feet tucked under us in our chairs.  There wasn't much conversation and nothing eventful ever happened, but the ritual of it, the comfortable dependability of those breakfasts, makes it one of my strongest memories of my childhood. 

On a tangential note, my mom is going to send me her ebelskiver pan so that I can carry on my Danish heritage by making little round quasi-pancake thingies with jam or applesauce in them (served with a sprinkle of powdered sugar).  And, speaking of Danish foods, if you're ever in the mood for some extremely tasty pastry, mosey on over to Larson's Bakery in Racine, Wisconsin (the sort of capital of the Danish-American population) and get you some kringle (they ship anywhere!).  Pretty much any flavor will do, but I am partial to apple, cheese, apricot or cherry.  We used to go through truckloads of kringle at our family reunions -- you'd think we'd all be about 900 pounds from all the pastry and dough and whatnot, but we're an oddly lanky lot.  I guess we can thank the Danes for passing down their delicious sweets along with their long legs and robust metabolic rates.

So I've just written a whole post about pancakes and Danish breakfast foods.  Maybe one of these days I'll have something of interest to discuss (such as, oh, I don't know, A BABY), but for now you'll have to put up with such meaningless treatises.  I got about a minute of sleep last night because the dog was sick, so I'm lucky at this point to be able to string together a coherent sentence at all. 

(Also, Obama is KICKING BUTT, people!  YES WE CAN.  WOOOOOOOO!)   

Do You Creflo?

Do you all have Creflo A. Dollar where you live?  A month or two ago, I saw an ad on the subway for a book by Creflo A. Dollar; it was one of those inspirational books about taking control of your life, your goals and your career.  The name was so awesome it stuck with me (I asked my husband if we could maybe name the baby Creflo; he said no, but I am thinking that's just because this one is a girl -- next time, we'll go for a boy and I'll bring it up again), and a week or so after that I was flipping through the info guide on the TiVo and saw that, lo and behold, Creflo A. Dollar has some kind of program on the Prayer Channel.  I haven't endeavored to find out more about him, because I kind of want to let my imagination fill out the details of someone with that fantastic of a name. 

Last night, we were playing Scrabble -- actually, Super Scrabble, because that's just what the cool people do on a Saturday night -- and I was waiting for my turn.  (By the way, does anyone else out there play games with a Long Turn Taker?  I was prepared for this in my husband because my dad is the same way; it's best when settling in with them for a round of Trivial Pursuit or similar to have a novel nearby or perhaps the Sunday Times crossword -- you'll have some down time while waiting for them to make a move, is all I'm saying). 

Anyway, I was looking over the board, plotting my next brilliant use of three I's, two U's, an N and a V, and I realized that the board had perfectly arranged itself, with "DOLLAR" going slap down the middle and the F in "FIB" placed just so above it, such that someone with a fortuitious selection of tiles could form the words "CREFLO DOLLAR."

Of course, I couldn't keep this to myself, so I pointed it out, and we readily agreed that the first person to spell "CREFLO DOLLAR" would get a triple word score on it -- as well as, of course, the lasting joy of having accomplished such a Scrabble coup.  (No room for the middle initial, sadly, but still!) 

We spent the next few turns hoarding L's and O's and squinching up our faces in suspense as we picked new letters.  I was a C away -- I had RE-LO -- when my husband, having poker-faced it through my turn, triumphantly placed down the missing letters.  He won a whole mess of points, and ultimately the game, and is generally the king of Scrabble, at least until the next time.  But I doubt Creflo will make another appearance on our board, so it won't be quite as exciting.  

In case anyone has ever harbored any illusion that big city lawyer types do anything remotely glamorous with their Saturday evenings, I hope that I have cleared that up once and for all.  To complete the Portrait of a High-Powered Saturday Evening, afterward we watched some DVDs of "The Brady Bunch."

Today (Sunday), we went to a matinee of "Come Back, Little Sheba," a play by William Inge starring S. Epatha Merkerson, of "Law & Order" fame.  It was stunning, just devastating and real in so many ways.  S. Epatha (or S.?  Or Epatha?) was phenomenal as a Midwestern housewife in a tired marriage with a haunting past, trying to make the best of things. The whole thing just ripped you up in so many ways, even as it managed to have moments of great humor and light.  The sets were wonderful, too -- I love sets and costumes, and I love the details of sets especially:  the worn rug, the frayed doily on the back of the couch, the box of Quaker Oats on top of the fridge. 

I love the theater generally, so much more than the movies, and before I come off as a total snob I should note that the plays I love are very simple, without fancy, hifalutin' dialogue or obscure themes.  They're slices of life, sketches of people so human you just want to go up on the stage and hug them all and pat their arm until they know it will all be ok. 

I feel like so much in film is cheating, in a way, and in the theater no one gets away with faking it -- not the actors, the director, the lighting designer.  You know?  And Hollywood has cheapened so much; for every fantastic movie that sets you afire, there are twelve or more multi-bajillion dollar crapfests like "Fools Gold" out there. I feel so lucky to be able to go to this sort of thing, to hop on the subway, go a few stops to the theater district, and afterward come out a little changed, at least momentarily more thoughtful, anyhow.  We walked home in snow that blew sideways through the streets, while the avenues stayed totally dry. 

Not Giving Up Wine, Either

Have you ever gotten someone's voicemail that cut you off too early with "If you are finished with your message, press 1 (etc)", in the vein of that horrid and oft-imitated answering machine scene in "Swingers"?  I was on a call today in which we were trying to dial in a third person, and the third person's voicemail gave about five seconds of message-time before that robotic woman's voice cut in.  So the other person on the call (thank GOD it was not me) kept trying to leave a message but she started over each time the thing cut her off, so even though she accelerated each time, she never could quite fit it all in and she had to press 4 to get more time about fifty times, and I was sitting there just trying not to die laughing.   

I guess you had to be there.  My job does not offer many moments of humor, so I have to take what I can get. 

Meanwhile, I have to say for the frillionth time that I am getting extremely sick of my clothes.  I think we need more than four seasons.  We need like ten, so I can rotate my wardrobe more often -- often enough that I don't stand in my post-shower towel, dripping wet and gazing into my closet and wanting to DIE.  I haven't done an exact count or anything, but I feel like I have about a quarter as many outfits as I really need.  By the time a season has been with us for two or three months, I have worn everything TO DEATH.  Especially because I really only have two wardrobes -- there's fall/winter and spring/summer, and just a few select items that are limited to the transitional seasons. 

Maybe it's time to hit the J Crew final sale (AGAIN) to gather up any (probably ill-fitting and/or oddly colored) cable-knit sweaters and tweedy pants that I haven't already purchased.  Of course, at this point I'm desperately tired of wintry clothing, and I want to buy swingy dresses and flirty tops, but NO.  I got an Anthropologie catalog today and wanted to weep for all the sashes and royal blues and eyelet lace.  And it hasn't even been that cold this year; I'm just tortured by the need not to have to dress for the cold. 

Incidentally (I think I am required to use that word at least once in every post), if it's possible, my clothes have been fitting even worse than usual lately, for no apparent reason.  I'm a wee bit PMS-y right now, and I swear even my arms are bloated.  ARMS SHOULD NOT BLOAT.  I put on an old standby argyle sweater this morning, and I had to rip it off immediately because my upper arms looked and felt like stuffed sausages.  In wool.  Scratchy AND sausage-y.  Not good. 

For Lent, I'm giving up my customary mid-afternoon snack from the vending machine at work.  And I'm vowing to exercise/run at least four times a week (which is to say, I guess, I'm giving up the not-doing-anything approach to fitness).  I thought about foregoing chocolate or desserts in general, or maybe diet soda, but I figure I'm in an emotionally fragile enough state thanks to the forever-ongoing baby wait that the world does not need me walking around without brownies and Diet Mountain Dew in my system. 

As it is, after work I was on the subway platform and I was assaulted by at least three different people's OVERPOWERING colognes and perfumes (Why so much?  WHY?  Why must people BATHE in nose-searing, paint-peeling fragrance?), even as a busker sat on the ground nearby and played the most ear-splitting "music" I've ever been exposed to.  It was this electric guitar thing, and he was playing this tuneless wail of "WwwwwoooOOOOOAAAAHHhhhWwwwwoooOOOOOOAAAAAhhhh" non-stop, just this same warbling moan for the thousand years or so it took for the train to arrive.  I was very close to throwing his instrument onto the tracks and then finding a fire hose to wash down the overly scented commuters all around me.  And this is me in a good mood! 

On that note, have a great weekend, everyone!   

Not Necessarily the News

I woke up this morning feeling like the air crackled with possibility.  I had this sense that this could be the week, our week, the week of the referral.  I came into work amid a swirling snow flurry and read about all of your extremely awesome and highly specific phobias (and I am thrilled to know I am not alone in my own bizarre aversion to clusters/holes). 

Then I hurried to Sundry's blog to see what was up with her scheduled c-section, and got to spend the day eagerly refreshing my browser in anticipation of the first photos of her new son. 

And then, early this evening, I saw a post on our agency's message boards that the family ahead of us on the waiting list had FINALLY received a referral of their baby girl. 

Which means...WE'RE NEXT! 

Woo hoo!  We're number ONE.  We've been on the waiting list for ten whole months (today was the anniversary), so it's good to be moving on up again.  Of course, some families have spent like three months at the top of the waiting list, so who knows...  It could be this week, this month, next month...you get the idea.  But we're next! 

At the same time, my family is going through some Stuff.  My Grammie (mom's mom) is in the hospital, trying to regain strength after a lung infection, and my Granddad's wife (dad's side) is also in shaky health after a long (and mostly triumphant) battle with cancer and a stroke.  I would love more than anything for both of them to see our daughter.  So whatever good vibes/prayers/loving kindness you want to send out into the Universe for them, for us, please feel free.

Meanwhile, I am going to be on the EDGE OF MY SEAT for the results of Super Tuesday.  I've never been much into politics, but I am SO INTO this election.  I want Obama to win the nomination, I really, really do.  I get the same feeling about him that I get when I read about RFK -- that sense that someone finally GETS it, knows what we need, knows how to heal the wounds borne of nasty politics and Machavellian machinations and divisive partisanship, and knows how to lead this great nation in a new, positive direction.  I believe that now is the time for his visionary, collaborative, compassionate leadership. 

So...OBAMA '08! 

It's going to be a nail-biter, for sure.      

Pausing Between Mouthfuls

It's been a good day for stuffing my face.  We went to Chinatown to have Vietnamese for lunch in celebration of Tet, which comes along this Thursday, taking us into the Year of the Rat.  I feel like the Rat is going to be good to us, in spite of the many horrid connotations I have with rats as a city-dweller (I've only seen them, mercifully, on the subway platform and sometimes -- eep! -- on sidewalks, skittering along like furtive cats...occasionally larger than cats {shudder}). 

Anyway, there's no way to acknowledge the Lunar New Year like shoving banh cuon (rice crepes filled with ground pork) and bun thit nuong (grilled pork over rice vermicelli) down your gaping maw, washing it down with Vietnamese iced coffee.   After a stroll through the Chinatown flower market (lamer than expected), we went home to put together a massive spread of gloopy foods for the Super Bowl (for, ah, just the two of us, because we are extra-cool).  I jump at any excuse to eat snacks for dinner, especially if such snacks include pigs-in-a-blanket.  And chips, many chips.  {burp}

So, it doesn't get much more random than this, but the other day I read Swistle's post about her, how shall we say, unusual phobia of large things underwater, and it inspired me to confess a similarly quirky fear of my own.  In fact, I don't even know if it is aptly called a phobia, per se -- it's more like a highly specific revulsion.  You know when something makes your hair stand on end just to think about it, and if you see it, you kind of feel like you might have to take a sledgehammer to your own head just to get the image out?  Do you know what I mean?

I've always referred to it as something that "makes me feel gross."  I can't even describe the sensation I get from it, except that I feel kind of crawly and liquid inside and out when I see this...this THING that I am about to identify.  And if I were forced to look at it too long, I might pass out or simply lay down and expire, my throat having closed up from the SHEER GROSSNESS of it all.

Ok, so here it is (taking deep breaths):  I hate clusters of small, round things.  Or of holes.  Like a honeycomb {bile rising in throat}.  Or (BLARGH) those pictures of viruses they had in your high school biology textbook?  All those spheres lumped together?  AAAAAAH.  Or the seeds inside a pepper.  Or, OMG, I remember seeing this picture in the Guinness Book of World Records when I was a kid of this guy who smoked like 158 cigarettes AT ONE TIME, and they were just this...CLUSTER OF ROUND THINGS sticking out of his mouth, and the image, it still haunts me.  OH WAIT.  I just remembered in 9th grade bio when we dissected a fish, mine...mine was carrying eggs, and when I cut it open there was just this GIANT MASS of round things in there and I almost dove out the nearest window.  Someone pass the bleach, I need it for my brain. 

I had no idea this was, like, a Thing (and I wouldn't have even known what to call it; every once in a while, I just point at something and say to my husband, "That makes me feel gross", and then I hope he doesn't divorce me on the spot for Undisclosed Weirdness), until a few months ago, when I saw a reference to "cluster-phobes" on some website, and when I Googled it, I found that there are other people out there with this affliction, oh my hell. 

Some of the people on the Unusual Phobias website even make reference to this UTTERLY HORRIFYING thing I saw years ago on the Discovery Channel, this film of this frog that...that...well, it gave birth to tadpoles OUT OF ITS BACK, and these circular welts burbled up in its flesh and then popped out into little balls, not unlike Gizmo after he'd been splashed with water in "Gremlins."  I recall crying out and hurriedly changing the channel, but again, the image is burned in my brain, lurking to startle and nauseate me at the slightest provocation.  Just writing about it makes me need to have a lie-down, oh MAN, it was so sick. 

And to think, I've been suffering in silence all these years, but in fact there are people out there who are just as messed up as I am.  Where in the world do you suppose this sort of idiosyncrasy comes from?  I can't remember a time that I didn't feel this way, but I can't think of any specific thing that might have triggered it.  I wasn't, like, plunged head-first into a wasp's nest as a child or anything.  The brain works in mysterious ways, I guess, but this trait is especially useless and is in no way endearing.  It's just...weird.   

So...uh...having confessed this, of course I now need to know what YOUR secret phobias are.  Help a sister out, now.  Don't leave me hanging out here in my weirdness!