The Inconvenienced Chef

There is an invisible line of competency when it comes to cooking.  Once you can saute onions, boil pasta, make a decent grilled cheese, brown taco meat, bake a Betty Crocker cake, scramble eggs, etc., you are pretty much across the line.  Then you move on to a few more complicated techniques and fancy ingredients, and BAM! you're a cook.  I've been a cook for a while.  I'm pretty competent.  I can't make all of my mom's ethnic dishes, largely because like GirlWednesday's experience, it's all "a little of this, a little of that", and impossible to pin down. But I can follow a well-written recipe like nobody's business, and I have experience with most usual dishes.

With this ability, it can be fun and indeed healthful to look up new recipes online, pour through cookbooks, and garner tips from friends to fix your very own breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. And yet, I hardly ever do.  And it's not just because I hate doing dishes.  It's a lot of work in general.  It doesn't always go as planned.  I hate hate hate the feeling of working hard on a meal and then not getting an exuberant reaction from my husband.  Often, the leftovers sit in the fridge while we elect to eat some form of prepared food or go out to eat.

Or, the food that I have in the fridge with which to cook has gone bad (or at the least, looks questionable).  And if I can muster the energy to cook, the added stress of going to the grocery store puts me over.  I guess the reality is I'm a bad planner when it comes to providing my family with meals.  It doesn't help that my family consists of two finicky adults.

It would probably help if I thought of cooking as more of a chore that needs to get done regardless of outside moods and activities.  Because if you wait until you are hungry to think about what you are going to eat, you are screwed- take it from me.  The irony is, I was much more eager to get into the kitchen when I had no clue what I was doing.  It seems like now that I am able to cook, I can't be bothered.  I keep thinking a nicer kitchen with cooler gadgets will get me there, or a child I'm more motivated to provide healthy nourishment for.  I don't know what it will be.  But as always, I am going to keep trying.  I don't think my quest to become a better housewife will ever end.  At least not until the divorce.  :-)

Grandma's Recipes

Cooking…something I love to do but I am not very good at! When I got married, my family knew this was a big concern of mine. I think a few months ago I had mentioned my grandma’s caramel recipe. Well, at my bridal shower she gifted me with a wonderful scrapbook of all her best tried-and-true recipes. I have gotten her permission to share a few of these with the loyal fans of our blog! Of course, my favorites tend to be the sweets!! Here you go:

Caramel Corn (not that hard but oh-so-good)
2 c. brown sugar
¼ c. light Karo Syrup
¼ c. water
1 stick butter
1 t. baking soda

In a deep pan, boil all ingredients to a soft ball. Add margarine. Add soda and stir with a wooden spoon. This will become very frothy. Pour immediately over popcorn. Covers 3-4 poppers full.

Clam Chowder
2 or 3 6 ½ oz. cans canned clams
1 c. finely chopped onion (1 small)
1 c. finely chopped celery (2-3) stalks
2 c. finely cubed potatoes (2-3 medium)

Drain juice from clams and pour with vegetables in sauce pan. Add enough water to barely cover. Salt and pepper. Simmer 15 minutes. Drain and then add clams.

Make a white sauce of:
¾ c. butter
¾ c. flour
1 ½ t. salt
1 qt. half & half

Melt butter. On very low heat add flour, salt and cream. Stir constantly until well mixed continually scraping bottom of pan so it doesn’t stick.
Drain vegetables and reserve juice to add if mixture is too thick for personal taste. Add vegetables to white sauce and a couple of bay leaves. Keep warm until ready to serve stirring occasionally.

Jan Hagels
(my favorite recipe!! Pronounced “Yawn Haw-gulls”. These are a GREAT treat to take to a party!)

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
3 eggs, separated (save the whites, throw two of the yolks away)
1 t. almond extract
2 cups flour
1 cup sliced almonds
2 T. sugar and ½ t. cinnamon combined

Beat butter and sugar until fluffy. Add one of the egg yolks and extract. Stir in flour. Turn onto ungreased jelly roll pan 15x10x1. Beat egg white until foamy white (I find I need 3 egg whites). This works better if you use a bowl and mixers that have been chilled in the freezer. Spread over dough. Add almonds and sugar and cinnamon mixture on top. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes (depending on your oven). Cool for 10 minutes and cut 8 lengthwise strips and then 12 diagonally. Cool a little longer in the pan before removing. Makes 6 dozen.

I hope you get a chance to try these recipes. I LOVE sharing recipes!

Two Teaspoons of Turtles

My father cooks.  (He is a cook).  He can also build things.  Like our house, and elaborate science projects and dollhouses and collapsible walls that turn his daughter's expensive 1-bedroom Manhattan apartment into an affordable 2-bedroom share.  He also is really great with fabric.  He can tell when a shirt has a hint of acrylic or polyester in it- just by putting his fingers near it.  And more useful- he can sew, do any alteration.  He made my mom's wedding dress.  Bought the silk and sowed it himself.

But most often my dad cooks.  He's been cooking his whole life, my whole life.  I remember bratty kids coming over for dinner when I was in elementary school.  I just wanted the kids to like me and I knew my father was going to make a big production- lots of pots and pans, his chicken-and-chorizo pie with my name spelled out on top in dough calligraphy... And then the whole family would sit down together for the big presentation.  

I suspected, though I never knew from first hand experience, that the cool kids didn't eat with their parents, that they probably ate pizza bagels (we never had those growing up) while sitting on the couch watching 90210 (a show I was never allowed to watch) and talking on the phone (no phone calls for me during the school week).  

And as I assumed, after hours-- of sauteing garlic, onions, chopped peppers, tasting, adding spices, tasting, and stirring a bubbling concoction-- a chunk of Asiago cheese was in the silver grater, a million pots and pans were in the sink, and my dad's brilliant homemade sauce was steaming in a glass bowl in the middle of the table, spaghetti in the other, garlic bread in the basket.  Oh it was all on display that night.  We sat down at the counter and the two kids who were visiting asked for ketchup to put on their pasta.  They "never ate red sauce."  My dad almost choked on his semolina angel hairs.

Another time we had to bring snacks to school- the last day of technology class (8th grade) and I asked my dad to make the popcorn he always made me (secret ingredient: sugar).  According to my dad, that's the way they made popcorn in Argentina.  Sweet.  I proudly brought in the popcorn in a giant Ziploc bag.  I thought for sure it would change the lives of every kid in that classroom.  Well nope, it didn't.  No one even ate it.  (Except me).  And my teacher held it up to some students during the "party," when he thought I wasn't looking: "What did she put in the popcorn? Is that sugar? Gross."   

When I was in junior high my mother told me that I'd better ask my father to teach me how to cook.  "He's not going to be around forever," she told me, "and his cooking secrets will die with him."  Well after I had a good long cry over my father's quickly impending death, I went to him with a notepad and pen and asked him to teach me how to make his family-famous dessert:  crepe suzette with dulce de lece.

When I got ready to write it all down- for posterity- I watched my father silently dump an indiscernible amount of flour into the mixing bowl. I said, "Dad what are you putting in? I have to write this down."  After a pause, he answered, "Two... teaspoons... of turtles." 

At first I thought this was hilarious, and so he kept it up. But then I looked down at my notebook and the page was full of "turtles" and "giraffes" and other nonsensical descriptions for food. So I begged him to be serious. But he just shrugged and said he didn't know how much of anything he put into his crepes.

My father may be many great things, but a great communicator is not one of them.  At the time, I thought he thwarted my efforts to learn his recipes because he didn't want someone else to become a better cook and take his place-- I mean, as far as we knew, we needed him in order to eat.  But that's a silly over-simplification from a young mind.  The truth is, I think, that my father has no recipes.  To this day he doesn't measure.  He doesn't read instructions from a book or a note card.  He feels his way through it.  He experiments.  When he finds something that tastes good, he remembers it.  It's rote.  After years and years of practice, and formal culinary training, he's just really good at eyeballing it.  

Growing up, I never thought it was out of the ordinary-- a little girl going into school telling the other kids that she had London Broil with chimichurri marinade with roasted potatoes and sauteed mushrooms for dinner the night before.    And I think that's pretty darn cool.  

I'll tell you one other thing- that nay saying technology teacher eats at least once a week at my dad's restaurant.  Gross.

  

Sunday Dinner

I hate Sundays. I hate the way that the work week tends to loom over the day, as if to say that even if it’s 70 degrees and sunny, it feels somewhat breezier and cool because I have to be back in the office first thing in the morning. I know it is a bit crazy; and I know I need to grow up and get over it, but for some reason, Sundays just depress me. It’s due in part to the fact that I usually put off a significant portion of my “to-do” list until Sunday evening, at which point all I want to do is watch bad television. Instead, I find myself bitterly washing dishes, folding laundry, paying bills, or filing my tax returns far too late into the evening hours.

There is one saving grace of Sunday evenings, however. There is one thing that helps me relax and enjoy those waning hours before bed time, and that is cooking Sunday dinner.

It’s a habit I developed in my first year of graduate school. At that point, I would cook a large meal on Sunday so that I could eat leftovers all week long. Spaghetti, Linguine and clam sauce, chicken casserole, tuna-noodle casserole, tacos. The recipes were pretty basic at that point, but the concept remained the same—spend an hour in the kitchen on Sunday and avoid cooking the rest of the week. Perfect.

My efforts became far more sophisticated when HusbandTuesday (HT) and I first moved in together. In part because I was trying to show him that I really was wife material, and in part because I was excited to no longer have to do mental math in downsizing recipes. Cooking for two is just so much more rewarding. My efforts also began in large part in an effort to absolve myself of the guilt I feel for feeding us frozen pasta, frozen stir-fry, frozen pizza, refrigerated pasta, or take-out throughout the week. Sunday is the one day of the week in which I can actually take more than 15-20 minutes to prepare a meal. It’s the one day in which I can wake up, decide—hey, I want to make chicken chili—and have the time to find the recipe, go buy ingredients, and still have plenty of time to relax before dinner time.

Although I do have to be honest—my cooking is still a work in progress. Unlike G’mony, I didn’t really grow up with any cooking aspirations. My attempts are usually pretty successful, but my repertoire remains somewhat narrow. My mom imparted the basics, and, as HT likes to say, all you need to do is be able to read the recipe. Check. But I’m starting out with baby steps, for certain. I’ve got baking and broiling fish down, and I can replicate my mother’s spaghetti sauce with a 10-15 percent margin of error. I make a mean hollandaise sauce for Eggs-Benedict, and I’ve finally stopped overcooking the asparagus. Lucky for me, HT doesn’t laugh when I buy black bean soup instead of black beans, but put it in the chili anyways; he’s willing to eat baked ziti for a week when I overestimate quantities for dinner parties and end up with an entire extra pan; and he’s as equally happy with chicken in white wine sauce as he is with marinated salmon steaks and twice-baked potatoes. No matter what the entrée, he’s always willing to open the wine, turn off the TV, and sit down and chat as long as we’d like. And even more importantly, he’s always willing to do the dishes.

Now if only I could find a recipe for an extra weekend day . . .

Love in the Time of Vegetarianism

I’m in love with a vegetarian, but luckily we don’t live in the same city, so meal planning isn’t an issue. We have three or four stand-by items that I make whenever we’re together, and those, combined with a dinner out (everybody wins!) can usually get us through any long weekend. But we used to live together. So this has been an issue for us before.

As you all must know by now, I’m Southern. With a capital S. I was raised that the way to man’s heart is through his stomach. I have grandmothers who’ve passed down recipes specifically designed to help me snare a man: meatloaf, lasagna, roast, chicken potpie, bbq spare ribs, etc. I know how to cook all of those things like I know the back of my hand, but that skill is not really coming in handy these days. These days I have the problem of not knowing how to cook tempeh. Or even what that even is. I don’t know a damn thing about soy, soy beans, soy milk, soy whatever. And I sure as hell don’t know how to snare a man with tofu. I really want to make meals that we can both enjoy, and that are the same meal. I don’t want to be chowing down on roasted leg of lamb and have only the capacity to make him a grilled cheese (I make lots of grilled cheeses, I’m getting better. Not too buttery and not too burnt). But at the same time, I’m not willing to sacrifice the animals (ha!) completely.

I’m sure this wasn’t the situation that either of my grandmothers ever predicted I’d be in when they were making me stand at the stove and take copious mental notes on how to get the crust just so on a homemade chicken potpie. It probably wasn’t what I was dreaming of either (I think I remembered thinking I’d be rich and have a maid to do all the cooking, so that’s not really helpful either). It doesn’t help that I’m not a huge fan of all things vegetable, although I do appreciate a good refried bean. Sadly. I’ve tried just taking meat out of some of my favorite dishes, but the lasagna and spaghetti aren’t the same, and one cannot even attempt to enjoy a pizza without pepperoni. So if any of you out there have yummy vegetarian recipes, send ‘em my way. I’m willing to try just about anything. I guess it could be worse, he could be vegan.

So in honor of my little vegetarian, I’m including some hand-me-down family recipes that are good for meat-eaters and non-meat-eaters alike. Mainly because they’re desserts!


GrammaMonday’s Chess Pie
(for those of you who have never had the pleasure of enjoying a chess pie, it’s like a lemon bar meets sugar cookie pie). Mmmmm.

Make pastry for 9” crust pie (or just buy one, but don’t tell her….)

4 eggs
1.5 cups of sugar
1/2 cup of butter
2 tbsp cream or milk
2 tbsp corn meal
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tsp vanilla
1/8 tsp salt

Heat oven to 325. Combine eggs, sugar and butter. Beat 5 minutes high speed on pink KitchenAid mixer. Blend in remaining ingredients. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake 1 hour until knife inserted about an inch from edges comes out clean.



Peanut Butter Pound Cake
(this is a great pound cake recipe and the flavor of the peanut butter is not overwhelming at all).

1 cup butter, softened
½ cup creamy peanut butter
2 cups sugar
1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
5 large eggs
3 cups all purpose flour
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
1 cup milk
1 tbsp vanilla extract

Icing
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
1/3 cup creamy peanut butter
¼ cup butter
Dash of salt
¼ cup evaporated milk


Beat 1 cup butter and ½ cup peanut butter at medium speed in aforementioned bright pink KitchenAid for 2 minutes until creamy. Gradually add 2 cups sugar and 1 cup brown sugar beating at medium speed for 5 to 7 minutes. Add eggs one at a time just until (AND THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PART – overbeating will make this cake or any pound cake DRY!) the yellow disappears.
Combine flour, baking powder, soda, and ½ tsp salt, stir well. Add flour mixture to butter mixture alternately with 1 cup milk, beginning and ending with flour. Mix at low speed until just blended after each addition. Stir in vanilla. Pour batter into greased and floured tube pan.
Bake at 350 for an hour and 35 minutes or until a wooden toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack for 10-15 minutes.
Beat powdered sugar, and next 3 ingredients at a low speed until well bended. Add evaporated milk and beat at a medium speed until smooth. Drizzle over cake.

The Proust Questionnaire

Every month, Vanity Fair magazine gets a different celebrity to respond to the "Proust Questionnaire", found on the back page of each issue.  You can check out their collection at http://www.vanityfair.com/archives/features/proust.

Since I'll probably never be famous enough to appear in VF myself, I thought this week it would be fun to take a swing at it:

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

The ability to spend most of my time with loved ones and attempt to make the world a better place.

2. What is your greatest fear?

That I wouldn't be around for my friends and family, especially my husband and my mom.

3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

I can be incredibly apathetic and therefore lazy.  At times, I shouldn't be.

4. What is the trait you most deplore in others?

When people are judgmental and/or unkind.

5. Which living person do you most admire?

Maybe my mom.

6. What is your greatest extravagance?

Never-ending cups of gourmet coffee.

7. What is your current state of mind?

Marital bliss.

8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Avoiding gambling.

9. On what occasion do you lie?

To spare people's feelings.

10. What do you dislike most about your appearance?

My fat arms.

11. Which living person do you most despise?

Maybe Michael Moore.

12. What is the quality you most like in a man?

Kindness.

13. What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Kindness.

14. Which worlds or phrases do you most overuse?

Whatev, OMG

15. What or who is the greatest love of your life?

My mom, my husband, my dog-- not necessarily in that order

16. When and where were you happiest?

In graduate school.

17. Which talent would you most like to have?

I'm a good dancer, but I'd love to be a great one.

18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Nothing.

19. What do you consider your greatest achievement?

I married a wonderful man.

20. If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

I guess it would be interesting to come back as a man.

21. Where would you most like to live?

The Southeastern United States.

22. What is your most treasured possession?

My teddy bear.

23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Being single.

24. What is your favorite occupation?

I heart doctors.

25. What is your most marked characteristic?

I'm good with people.

26. What do you most value in your friends?

Their support and their ability to make me laugh.

27. Who are your favorite writers?

Tom Robbins.

28. Who is your favorite hero of fiction?

I don't know, maybe Brutus.

29. Which historical figure do you most identify with?

I don't know, maybe Benjamin Franklin.

30. Who are your heroes in real life?

My mom, my brother, Jennifer Garner, Sean Hannity

31. What are your favorite names?

Courtney, Henry, Morgan, Owen, Macy; I also like my name and my brother's name.

32. What is it that you most dislike?

People who unjustifiably think they are smarter and better than most others.

33. What is your greatest regret?

The way I treated a friend in 6th grade.

34. How would you like to die?

Peacefully, at a very old age, at the same time as my husband.

35. What is your motto?

Something along the lines of, you gotta be in it to win it.

Multi Level - Big Money? No. Big Scam? Yes.

I usually don’t do much complaining in these blogs. So, just as a heads up…this one is a big rant.

One thing that never ceases to amaze me is the regularity in which one of my friends, or someone I know, will approach me approximately once a year and ask me if I want to work underneath them for this “great new company” they just started working for. The pitch is always the same…they tell me how they recently started working for this great company that sells an amazing product such as: cell phone service, makeup, facial cream, candles, vitamin supplements, etc. They commonly say something to the effect of, “this is a really great opportunity for you to work for yourself and make a lot of money. All you have to do is pay $500 upfront to get the kit/product/etc. which will get you started. But even if you can’t work for me, you should still consider purchasing the product that we are selling. If you work for me and then you can get five people to work for you, you will easily make your money back.”

I think that the majority of people have seen some version of this pyramid scheme in the past but I cannot believe how many people I know who fall for it without even realizing what they are getting themselves into. I have a very difficult time believing that the people who get involved in these types of pyramid schemes don’t have a previous understanding of what they are getting themselves into. Based upon the previous statement I have come to two conclusions:

1 – The lure of riches and the possibility of working for oneself are so appealing that individuals are willing to act against their better judgment when presented with such an opportunity.

2 – Once the individuals are involved and they have put a lot of time and effort into trying to make money, they are unwilling to admit that they really have been conned and been caught up in a big scam.

These pyramid schemes (in sheep’s clothing) aka multi-level marketing, network marketing, referral outreach, etc outrage me beyond belief! The reason why I get so deeply upset is because the individuals who are running the entire operation usually make a very significant amount of money with the knowledge that the entrepreneurial dream of the “slaves” they are using to build their pyramid will never come to fruition. I’ve heard the saying ‘there is a sucker born every minute’ and for the most part, I do agree. However, there is still something fundamentally wrong with preying on people’s emotions, dreams, and desires in order to make money. The sad thing is that the majority of the people who join these programs usually don’t have the excess money necessary to get started in one of these companies. They will come up with the necessary $500-$1,000 it usually costs to join. On average only 1 out of every 10 people actually succeed in these types of companies. The people at the top know this is going to happen. They are making money because the people at the bottom pay this start-up fee (non-refundable) and then never succeed selling the product.

I almost wish I could take all these types of individuals in large, empty swimming pools and then pour large suitcases of cash on top of them, and then inform them that they could not leave. Maybe this would make their choice a little more obvious. Ok, that is an extreme statement. But the way I feel is that essentially these individuals have the opportunity to rot now with a fortune OR they can get out of the pool and leave the money behind in search for a deeper meaning in life. They may have built wealth for themselves, but at what cost? How many people’s dreams have you had to crush and capitalize on in order to get there?

I have not gotten involved in any type of organization like this but I know many of my friends and family members who have. The turnout is never good. They may be successful for a short period of time, but eventually the pyramid begins to crumble and people get hurt in the process.

A Call to Arms

An old friend once posited, upon my return from studying abroad in Florence, Italy: 

"Ever notice how Italians dress really well, but they wear the same things every day?"

I concur.  Italians have impeccable style.  From the old men in their felt hats and leather-collared jackets, walking up the hilly streets of Florence, to the posh, red-lipstick women in Milan-- these people look good.  They look interesting and refined.  They look crisp yet antiqued.  Their fabrics seem richer, hues- deeper, textures- more touchable.  

Though I lived in a suburb of Florence, and though I lived in an apartment with real-life Italian neighbors, I didn't know any natives well enough to realize whether or not they wore the same things.  But it is pretty clear from just a stroll down the street, that Italians make a beautiful picture.

In my Italian language class at the University of Florence, our teacher read to us a list of things that Italians commonly believe to be American characteristics.  Among them:  all Americans walk around with guns, Americans are fat, and Americans are bad dressers.

Admittedly, I went to Italy with a suitcase full of Gap jeans and t-shirts.  But while I was there I stocked up on some of the nicest pieces I've ever owned-- sun dresses, a white linen suit, flowery blouses, an a-line khaki skirt, a wool shawl-- clothes I still have and wear to this day (my trip was in 2001).  Before I returned home, I filled the dumpster outside my apartment on Via Pompeo Neri, with all the Gap clothes I'd brought.

I look around a lot.  I like to watch people- even if it's just for the few minutes it takes me to walk to the subway.  One of the reasons I love New York City is because of all the different styles that people dare to traipse in.  

But lately, I've been noticing New Yorkers are looking... drab.  And maybe it's all in my head, but I'm thinking it has everything to do with the economy.  

I'm noticing lots of fading dye jobs-- lots of roots coming in.  Lots of old, ill-fitting old winter coats and mis-matched hats and gloves.  I'm noticing more than the usual two purses per woman- now I'm noticing many women with four!  And they're all ratty- lunch bags and plastic bags and pleather purses with the stitching coming undone...

I'm not judging others.  I've been feeling drab lately too.  I feel kinda bummed that a new jacket, new boots, scarf are not in my near future.  I can see the disappointment wearing on my appearance. I've got tired eyes, and disheveled hair-- I carry 18 Tupperwares to work every day, so that's two extra bags right there.

Look, the economy's rotten, the forecast is rotten, and right now the future looks foggy and dim.  But I'm writing on this fine Wednesday to say, to suggest, that we as Americans use this downturn as an opportunity to improve our moods and possibly sunny our horizons, and in the process, change global perception of American fashion.

We should not do what all those quick fashion segments on the Today show tell us we can cheaply do and should do to "still look great, even during a bad economy"- go to Target and buy trends for pennies.  Do not do this.  Do not go to Kohls and buy the Vera Wang line of acrylic blend blouses (even though I think Vera is a great designer, and a great woman). 

     

With our moods plummeting, now is not the time to buy clothes that will unravel or pill or stretch after just a few washes.  Now is not the time to buy vinyl pumps.  Now isn't the time for fly-by-night trends that are easily gotten and easily forgotten.  

Now is the time to dig into our deep, American closets and find the splurges from years past-- find and wear the purchases we made when we weren't sad or scared.  

We should wear a great dress to work, wear wide-leg slacks to go shopping, wear a ruffle blouse to walk the dog.  What are you saving those things for?  Don't hide your love away!  You should do things to feel great when times are tough.  Just like our pioneer women heritage- we are a strong breed!  What would our forefathers have wanted us to do?? Think of it as an act of patriotism- our civic duty!  We should rise to the occasion!  Do you think Coco Chanel would have worn sneakers and jeans to work during the war, during poverty, during her heartbreaks?  No!!  She didn't!  She made fashionable, cutting edge hats by hand and wore them!  OK, Coco's not an American example, but still.  She's great inspiration.

So we dig up our good china, and we should take care of it.  Hand wash and dry clean and line dry.  

And if we are to replenish our wardrobe, we should look for things that are 100%.  One hundred percent cotton, wool, linen, silk.  Look for quality fabrics- nothing see-through unless it's meant to be layered; no plastic woven into the seems.  We should look for things made by artisans, preferably not on an assembly line, preferably made by hand, "fatto a mano," as the Italians say.  With attention to detail and craft.

And yes, this will cost more, but that's OK because we're simplifying.  We won't need a walk-in closet with revolving drawers and multiple racks.  That's not normal by global standards.  That's old-America.  This is new, shedding-our-bad-habits America.  Change!  Hope!  Remember?  

And it's OK to wear things more than once.  If it really is good quality, and if we really do care for it, it'll last our wear and tear.

So join me in this calling.  No more hiding behind the ephemeral razzle dazzle of pastel plastic jewelry.  We are shedding our made-in-China skins.  We are new America.

 

  

    

  

  

   

It had to be you

I am writing this entry in advance this week because HusbandTuesday, yes, that's right, and I will be departing on Monday for our honeymoon. With that in mind, I will keep this week's blog short, sweet, and to the point.

Husband Tuesday and I were married this past weekend, and I have to say, honestly, that things went just about as well as they possibly could have. Sure, the weather was kind of cold, and sure, we forgot a couple of pictures and had a couple relatives that no-showed at the last minute. But even sitting here, replaying the day in my mind. there are very few things I would change. And, because mommaTuesday is a reader of this blog, I must give her a heartfelt shout out for EVERYTHING she did to make the day possible. And that goes far, far beyond just cutting the check.

I wish more of my friends were regular readers of this blog, because all I can really say this evening as I sit here packing my bags is how truly grateful both HusbandTuesday and I are for the deep bonds of friendship we have forged over the years, and the truly spectacular network of friends and family that we found ourselves surrounded by yesterday afternoon and evening. I could not have asked for a more touching, intimate, and personal evening with loved ones, and I cannot wait to watch our married lives blossom and grow in with the nurturing love and support of such a fine network of friends.

Spring Forward

I don’t know how the rest of you feel about the Fed’s decision to move up the spring forward date (perhaps, maybe, the thought “what *don’t* they have control over, anymore??” comes to mind…), but I LOVE it. I’ve never really care much for spring forward before, not that I’ve ever had a passionate opinion on the subject. In my mind it’s known only as the Sunday where I lose an hour of my day. And there’s not much I hate more than losing any part of a weekend (cold oatmeal and all-day wedgies are the only things that come to mind right off the bat). But this year, I’ve had a new experience. I love spring. And I loved springing forward earlier.

I wouldn’t say that spring is my favorite season (that honor is held by summer and followed closely by fall), but it is my most-looked-forward-to season. I don’t know if I technically have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but for the last 10 years or so, I’ve had a really hard time with winter. Once the holidays are over about the only thing I can find the energy to do is shower (mmmm, warm….) and watch TV (which does not require all that much extra energy). FOR THREE MONTHS. I barely do anything: enough laundry to get by, enough cleaning so that my mother won’t freak when she comes to visit, and enough socializing so that my friends don’t forget that I exist. But with the earlier spring forward this year coinciding with a weekend of 70 degree weather here, I immediately felt my spirits lift in such a way I haven’t felt (so immediately) before. And it didn’t take spending a week at the beach (although that did help put me in the mood).

That first Sunday I found myself already moving ahead with implementing my warm weather routine. Subconsciously suppertime changed from 6 to 8:30, I had the energy to do the dishes (wow!), I called people I hadn’t talked to since October, planned enough things to occupy myself until the end of the summer, and took up running. Yep, you heard me. All it took was for it to be light one extra hour in the evening, and I took up a new sport. I have no idea what’s come over me, but I’ve run all but about 3 days since then. I love SPRING me. She’s happier, has more energy, isn’t so rushed, and still manages to get to bed by 10.

I will offer this one piece of advice for those of you who are embracing your new spring selves: don’t skip lunch, go for a 4 mile run, then drink a margarita while you wait on supper. That’s the number one way to guarantee you’ll burn whatever you’re cooking, give up, and fall asleep on the couch. Before 8.

We Can Work It Out

It's easy to fight with your boyfriend or husband. It's someone you care a lot about and are intimate with, so getting upset to the point of initiating an argument is something that will probably happen on a semi-regular basis, assuming you both are relatively normal human beings. It's not that you don't love each other. Often, passionate love can lead to passionate anger, hurt or disappointment. It is only natural that one would feel the need to express it. And God knows, I do.

The same is true with your family. I would hope that most of us have had a few knock-down, drag-outs with our parents and siblings. Again, I am no stranger to that behavior. And yet, getting into an argument with a good friend is completely different.

You do love your girlfriends. You feel really close to them and share intimate details with them. I know I have some friends that I cannot live without. They are really the people who help me get through the days. They listen to me, make me laugh, and provide a shoulder to cry on. But when a close friend disappoints you to the point where it's really bothering you, it's nearly impossible to express it. I guess it's because we want to believe that those relationships are perfect. We can't stand to have that fight or argument, make each other cry, and risk real damage the way we are willing to with our partners and families. Maybe it's also because we are not legally bound to our friends. We know if things get really messed up between us, that really could be it, and then who would be there to get us through our lives?

Although I will say this. Friendships are rarely perfect, but I'm finding that as I get older, I'm not cultivating friendships with people who I'm not as compatible with any more. I find the people who I let in and maintain those relationships with are folks who, consciously or not, I have chosen very carefully. If someone lets me down and I know that there's not much substance between us, I'm realistic about it, about moving on without that person in my life. I love the friends I have, and I'm confident that there won't be any emotional disasters that completely burn bridges-- the kind of drama I have dealt with many times when I was younger.

I've often heard people talk about getting better as you get older; really relishing the wisdom that comes with age. I'm starting to get that. Certainly, I don't have it all figured out. But I feel smarter about who I choose to let in and trust. I have true friends that I can count on, and I won't risk losing them. I hope that if we do face obstacles, we are able to get through them. That the love we have for each other can overcome all of the mini-dramas we face. I don't know what I'd do without them.

Responsibility

I received a phone call from my 12 year old brother a few weekends ago. He was all excited and eager to tell me what his big idea/project was for this spring….he was going to raise pigs! Pigs?! Where the heck did he get this hair-brained idea?? He told me that one of his buddies raised two pigs last year and that one of the pigs was big enough that he could show it at the fair. The pig won a blue ribbon award and he was able to sell the pig for $800! BroThursday was stoked! He said he was going to do this and he was going to use the money he earned to buy a camcorder. I still couldn’t believe what he was saying…pigs?! I mean, my parents have a few acres of land but we definitely don’t live on a farm. The biggest pet we have ever had was a Jack Russell Terrier – and that is just a small dog! But, somehow my brother had talked my dad into helping him build a small pen in the furthest corner of the backyard – about a 4-5 minute walk from our house. My dad helped him buy the pigs for about $50 each and got him a few weeks worth of feed. BroThursday was pumped and excited to raise these pigs and earn some money for himself. I get a phone call from my Dad about a week later… “Surprise, surprise. BroThursday has already lost interest in the pigs.” After about a week of getting up at 6:00 am to feed them (apparently he complained about having to carry the 45-pound feed pellet bags from the garage to the pen each morning) he said he was done with the pigs! He didn’t care about the money anymore…this was too much work. Unfortunately for BroThursday, he wasn’t going to get off the hook that easy. He had committed to these pigs and my Dad was going to require him to keep that commitment. He had a decision to make. He could give up the pigs, but if he did, he also had to give up his spare time with his friends. BroThursday complained and tried to argue but eventually caved in. He’s been getting up religiously at 6:00 each morning to feed these pigs (who are gaining 5 pounds a day!). From what I understand there has been a lot of grumbling and complaining, but he gets it done. I am sure when it comes time to show these pigs at the fair he won’t be grumbling when he gets a nice payday off these things.

Another funny story. My 13-year old brother (let’s call him BroThursday2 – not to be confused with the BroThursday above) was so excited because he made the “A” basketball team at school. Our small town is centered around sports so this was a huge deal for him. He went to every practice, gave 110%, and continued to work on his skills at home. A few months ago a bunch of his buddies had invited him to go snowboarding with them. BroThursday2’s coach had gotten wind of this and told him not to go. However, BroThursday2, a typical 13-year old boy, decided to go anyways. He was on the slope, fell the wrong way, and broke his left collarbone. His coach was livid that he had gone against the coach’s advice. DadThursday sat down with BroThursday2 and explained to him that when you make a commitment to a team, an organization or any other group, that it is your duty and responsibility to uphold that commitment. He told BroThursday2 that he was still going to be required to show up at every single practice and every single game and sit on the bench to watch the rest of his teammates. He needed to prove to his teammates and his coach that he was still dedicated to the group he had worked so hard to join. My brother religiously went to every practice and every game.

My reason for sharing these stories is this. I am sure we all have stories similar to the ones above. I know I could go on and on (well there are ten of us so we probably have more stories than most families!) :) But as I was listening to my brothers complain and groan about how mean and strict my parents are, I realized how grateful I am to my parents that they taught us a huge level of responsibility and commitment at a young age. I was the worst. I complained and thought my parents were the meanest, strictest parents on the block. However, in hindsight, I now understand the reasoning for their behaviors and appreciate the sense of personal pride and responsibility it taught me. In conclusion, my parents were hard on us at times, and still are. However, I appreciate that level of dedication they taught us and hope that I can show that level of commitment to the loved ones around me.

Mother May I Sleep With Danger

Murder, mayhem and the modern woman.  

Even though she almost always falls for the suspiciously perfect boyfriend, knows nothing of his past and yet moves in with him, though eventually catches on to his obsessive outbursts... or feels like she's being watched or followed... or thinks she's being framed for the violent crimes happening around her, even though she's woken at night by the sound of someone breaking her kitchen window... Even though she's having nightmares of having her face burned by the long-haired hit man... or she's feeling weak and thinks the nanny is slipping something into the teacups she keeps bringing to her bedside-- despite all of these things, this woman still finds romance, still has a great career, still has one final, drawn-out death match in the steaming boiler room or in the dark parking garage, and blow after blow, crushes the stalker neighbor, or the jealous friend, or the woman who thinks she's the real daughter of her father--  she always survives and dammit, she always looks great.

I'm talking about the Lifetime Original Movie woman. I've never seen her sweat.  I've never seen caught in-between careers, or unsure of her passions. I've never seen her without makeup. Oh, and she solves crimes and kicks butt.  

She's everything I've always wanted to be.

Don't roll your eyes, Mr. Boyfriend.  Lifetime Original Movies make my lazy Sundays even lazier and juicier and frankly, better.  And sometimes- OK, a lot of the time- all I can think of at the end of a hectic day at work, or a bad hair day, or the long Sunday after too much sleeplessness-- is a bag of corn chips and a so-bad-it's-good, made-for-TV movie.

I love the varying tones- how some of these movies are dark and of bad quality, while some are perky and colorful and silly.  I love how you can almost never identify the city in which the movie takes place, and how the supporting characters all have Canadian accents.  I love-- I LOVE-- the titles (see title of this post. All I can say is, I wish I'd come up with it myself):  Blind Trust, Passion's Web, Abducted: Fugitive for Love.  I want to be a fugitive for love.  What does that even mean?

I love the bad music and the bad dialogue and the way these women lead awesomely clean, neat lives- with manicures and walk-in closets-- all minus the toil (we see her leaving the gym with her towel and little gym outfit, but do we ever actually see her working out?).  

I love how some of them are based on true stories (the one about the first victim of identity theft- the young, beautiful woman with the cute husband, who lost everything because some crazy drug fiend woman wanted her life- that was a good one) and some are so far-fetched, you actually start to wonder if maybe it could happen to you (the one where the obsessed paralegal puts shards of glass in the new wife's pasta alfredo).      

I love how the movies take us from gangster underworld to remote log cabin in the mountains all in one story.  We go from generic fancy Italian restaurant to deserted gas station.  And there's always a big house with lots of scary places through which a very bad, but determined, person could enter and set off the alarm.  

And I love how the bad guy is a terrible marksman and the heroine always gets one, seemingly karma-inspired bull's eye.

And I 

love

Delta Burke.  

I love her pant suits.  I love how she conveys desperation and revenge so well.  I can see it in her eyes... and her one, cocked eyebrow.

I love the lessons learned from these movies: don't be a stripper, don't keep a box in your closet with secret letters, don't fall in love with your dying neighbor's husband, don't fall in love with your stepson; always carry a giant metal object (giant crowbar, giant shard of broken mirror) in the trunk of your car, in addition to the gun, which you will inevitably have to hand over once the bad guy has you right where he wants you; always check your shower for hidden cameras; always have a security guard outside your hospital room; if you're pregnant and you meet a creepy woman in the grocery parking lot, do not go back to her house with her- she's only going to cut you open and steal your baby and pretend it's hers.  If you meet a dreamy guy (a plumber, or a lumberjack, or an ad exec) and you share a night of passion with him (perhaps too soon after meeting him?), he will probably become obsessed with you and make you turn the cans of soup in the same direction so all the labels face forward; or he'll wind up being really perfect until you discover that he killed your husband, your dog and your best friend and your mother and your old boss from the life you had before you moved to the new town.

Gosh, all this drama is exhausting.  But it's all in a days' work.  Modern Lifetime TV movie woman always moves on- she packs up the last cardboard box into her hatchback, looks up to the sky for a moment, pulls her fabulous wrap sweater even tighter around her, smiles knowingly and then drives down the once seemingly quiet, tree-lined street to yet another new town, where she'll undoubtedly find romance and start all over again.  Hopefully she won't be haunted by the past two hours of her life that were filled with unimaginable violence, torture, lies, poison, suspicious glares in the beauty salon, flying accusations, confrontations, dead relatives, dead pets, brushes with unwavering detectives who think they have it all figured out...  Because clearly, those two hours of sheer hell are enough for any woman's lifetime.   

  

Green Beer

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! I used to really love St. Patrick’s Day. Some of my fondest memories from graduate school involve drinking miller highlife with green food coloring, or mojitos, or margaritas, or any other green alcoholic beverage we could come up with, and watching the Men’s NCAA Basketball Tournament. I spent the entire day camped in front of the television, laughing and enjoying the company of friends. In college, as in graduate school, St. Patrick’s Day tended to fall during our two-week-long spring break. Though my college celebrations involved slightly less food coloring, there was, nevertheless, plenty to celebrate about not having to go to class for two weeks straight. Yes, St. Patrick’s Day was a reminder that I was young, carefree, and able to go on a day-long bender without any real repercussions—after all, I had Irish ancestry—that gave me an excuse, right?

Oh to turn back the clock to those days. In my mind, unless it falls on a Friday or Saturday, St. Patrick’s Day is one of those holidays that loses it’s charm upon graduation. Rather than a festive occasion heralded in with green beer and leprechaun decorations, St. Patrick’s day to the working adult means having to stand in front of your closet and decide whether to be cheesy and wear a green twin-set to the office, or to ignore the day entirely but for enjoying a green-frosted sugar cookie from the plate someone left in the kitchen.

As I sat down to come up with a topic for this week’s “free” blog, I couldn’t help but chuckle at just how many holidays lose a bit of their charm when forced to work. It got me thinking—when was the last time you attended a Columbus Day parade? Did you dress up in costume on Halloween? Or did you pass out Valentines to co-workers, or have an easter-egg hunt in the office supply closet? Nope. None of that.

Maybe it’s a sign that my newly-minted professional self still hasn’t quite adjusted. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so distracted this week that I wanted any excuse possible to have a day off to celebrate. Regardless of the reason, St. Patrick’s Day seems under-appreciated and under-celebrated this year. And I find it depressing. Sure, I could try to be really adventurous and suggest that the office adopt a green-high-life happy hour policy to ring in the day, but something tells me such a proposal wouldn’t be particularly welcomed in my white-collar job. I guess I’ll just have to adopt a policy of only really celebrating St. Patrick’s Day every seven years or so. Or maybe I’ll just buy a six pack of Guinness on my way home an enjoy a single stout and some bangers and mash. Cheers!

Dear South Carolina

Dear South Carolina –

You suck. You’re my neighbor to the south, and in theory we should be buddies, but the more I get to know you, the more I really don’t want people to associate us. Unfortunately we both have “Carolina in our names.” I had the honor of living in your greatest city for three months a few years ago, and it was downright wonderful. Beautiful palms trees, stylish old houses, miles and miles of shopping, and some of the best food this side of the Mississippi. One of my favorite home furnishings stores is there (Nancy Koltes), as is one of my favorite restaurants (Basil), and my favorite park (JI), but that isn’t enough to make up for all the terribleness that you, and your capital city, display. And to think I spend a good part of 2008 trying to find a job in your uber-conservative, crazy state. Thank you Lord Jesus for unanswered prayers (right Garth?!).

My general displeasure has been building up for awhile, but it came to a head last week when I read the following article on the WP website: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/03/11/AR2009031104388.html

Read it. It probably won’t cause you to seethe like it did me, but still…..

While I’m not entirely sure the stimulus plan is going to have a discernible effect on the economy, I think not taking the money is the worst idea. Governor Sanford isn’t going to have too much luck playing hardball with the new President, and the only people who are going to get hurt in his political power play are the good people of South Carolina. The teachers, police officers, fast food workers, and apartment leasing agents are the ones who will suffer. Someone needs to tell him it’s too early to start running for President.

Do you all remember seeing the little girl sitting with Michelle Obama at the State of the Union address? The one who wrote the inspiring letter to the President asking him to include money in the stimulus plan for school improvements? She goes to a school in South Carolina that has a condemned auditorium, a gymnasium that leaks, and a campus full of trailers. Well if her governor has his way, her school still won’t get a dime.
http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/03/13/school.stimulus/index.html

The ordeal going on south of here also has a few heartwarming stories. Like that of Cheryl Davis, the caseworker who gave over a thousand dollars in her own money to a lady in need. It also makes those of us a little further north feel good about what we’re doing here. We received our first stimulus check last week and its going to go to remodeling our health center, putting people to work like carpenters, architects, and plumbers in the meantime, but will also put doctors, nurses, and CNAs to work in the long-term. And if you pay close attention to the NYT article, there’s a part that’s especially close to my heart. It tells the story of the woman who borrowed a car to go to the Department of Social Services to wait two and a half hours to try to get an appointment to see a Food Stamp worker. Well I happen to know someone who works at the Department of Social Services in North Carolina and the day the article came out, the wait time to see, no appointment needed, one of their Food Stamp workers was 9.46 minutes.

So to those of you who live down below……come on up!

Why Have Kids?

I want to have children. I see myself having three or four, but I will be happy with whatever God chooses to bless us with. I guess I want to have kids because I was raised to be super family-oriented, I was constantly told family was the most important thing, and my mom lived for us kids. She gave up her career to have us, and spent all of her time doting on us. She cooked every meal, practically ran a taxi service driving me and my friends around, and like GirlWednesday's mom and I'm sure many other moms out there, worried relentlessly. I saw her a super mom, and that is always what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I also love children in general, and spending a lot of time with children is something I think will be highly enjoyable. I know it's really hard work. I'm usually not a fan of hard work, because I rarely think it's satisfying or that everyone gets the credit they deserve. But I think when you take care of a child, you see your efforts pay off as the child becomes a more happy, healthy and well-adjusted individual. So bring on the diapers, the strollers, the Sesame Street, the meltdowns, the PTA meetings, the bake sales, the soccer games, the insolence, the piano recitales, the science fairs. . . I'm all about it.

On the other hand, I can see the so-called "argument" against children. They are really, really expensive. You spend the first quarter of your life getting things set up for yourself only to sacrifice many things you worked hard for. Importantly, you may feel pressured to have them because that's "what you do" at a certain point-- not a good reason.

I think my reasons for having children make sense. But they raise some crucial opposing points. Do I want to have children to entertain myself? To have something to do? To show them off to other people? Because that's what yuppies do? Because I want someone to take care of me when I'm older? Because I want to have someone around who has to love me in case my husband is gone?

Well, no. Of course not! I want to make the world a better place, and I think bringing more people in the world who are good and ethical and productive is the best way to achieve that. It's that simple. But I think a lot of people are not sufficiently thoughtful about why they are making such a remarkable decision. We are talking about bringing a new person into the world here. This is serious stuff. I wonder if many couples decide to get pregnant because it seems like the next logical step. On the other hand, when women say they feel ready to have a baby, that they really want to get pregnant, maybe it is a maternal calling, not just a societal influence. The biological clock might be this great thing that calls attention to our primitive desires in an otherwise noisy world. So who's to say that instinct isn't good enough evidence that procreating is the right thing to do?

Now I want to move onto something much more controversial. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for what I'm about to say-- but I just don't get mothers who choose to work. To be clear, I am NOT talking about women who need to work to contribute to the family (and of course, this does not just mean the truly poor-- almost every family seems to need two incomes to survive- especially these days). My mother worked at times during my childhood and she made it all work and I completely respect that. What I don't get is women who have children, take the few months maternity leave following the birth, and then put their children in daycare and work full-time, when working is comparable to the cost of daycare. If you do not want to spend a lot of time with your children, especially when they are very young and I think, need you, then why have them? Why have them and then miss their first words and first steps? It seems a little delusional to believe that those milestones only happen after 6 PM or on weekends. I know I sound really judgmental, but I would love for someone to be able to explain this to me. Because caring for your baby seems like something that would be so fulfilling, and to miss it just seems sad. And if you would rather be at work, maybe motherhood is not for you?

Then again, I'm not a mom. I don't know what it's like firsthand. Maybe baby daycare works for some families, and those kids turn out wonderfully happy and confident and feel loved by and close to their parents. I hope they do. And I know that all moms, working or not, love their kids. And isn't that really all that matters.

Future Family...

My future family. I have always wondered what that would look like. Growing up in a big family the first question you always get asked is, “Do you want to have a big family yourself?” I usually responded by saying, “Good question – it’s too hard to tell right now but probably not.”

Similar to GWednesday, I was basically a second mom to most of my siblings growing up. There are ten of us and there is no way that my mom could have been at all of their events, driven them to all of their extra curriculars and helped all of them with their homework. That is where I stepped in. In fact, my sister gave a speech at my wedding and even made the comment in her speech that I have always been a motherly role to all of the other kids. And I love this. Of course as a teenager there were the times I complained when I had to babysit instead of hang out with my friends. I occasionally got annoyed when I had to fix my sisters’ hair. But in hindsight (at risk of sounding cheesy) I wouldn’t trade the memories and bonds that were created all those years for anything.

Because of these past experiences I have always wondered what it would be like for me when I actually had my own family. Would the love I had for my own children feel the same as the love for my brothers and sisters? I am sure it will be stronger but that is the closest feeling I know to compare to.

And then the question of when? Did I want to spend a long time with my husband before we had kids? Did I want to travel and settle down before I start a family? Did I want to be one of the old moms or the young moms in Kindergarten? If I did start young, was it going to be hard for me to balance a career and children? Would I be able to commit to both 100%? If not, and I chose being a mom full-time would I feel satisfied? Would it jeopardize my chances of being able to enter the workforce later on? These are all questions I am sure most people ponder at some point and I am sure most people, as I have, form varied opinions on a lot of the questions. However, with these questions/fears/concerns I never doubted that I would be a good mother. And, once I met my husband I always knew he would be a wonderful father as well.

So, the time comes to break the news….we will be having a third addition to our family in September! The last few months have been a varied rollercoaster of emotions: from excitement to fear to nervousness to doubt and back to pure joy. Things will definitely be changing over the next few months: new job, new house, new city to live in, new baby…but we are excited for the adventure and change to come! I’m sure I will have future blogs to write about this so I will leave this blog at this point. We are excited for all the changes that are going to happen. With the changing atmosphere comes growth, mistakes, adventure, and trials. I can’t wait for this journey that we are embarking upon…

Brother with Two Mothers

When I was 11 years old something happened that, to say it "changed my life" is too broad for me to expect you to believe.  So I will try to say it more specifically: what happened when I was 11 changed every morning, afternoon, evening, every breakfast and late-night snack; what happened gave me pause when I filled out a college application, and when I had to make a decision at the McDonald's drive-thru window; what happened changed the way I watched the news, the way I regarded people on the street, the way I considered- for the first time- what I would be willing to do for someone else's well being, it changed my understanding of trust and innocence; it changed the way I would see every man for the rest of my life-- it changed every second of every day of the rest of my life.  When I was 11 years old my brother was born.

When I was two years old, my sister was born.  The time leading up to that event, I wanted a little sister the way- just a few short years later- I wanted a puppy.  And I really wanted a puppy.  But I had begged my parents for a little sister.  I wanted a little sister, a partner in crime, someone to really eat the fake meals I whipped up, with the rubber food in my play kitchen; someone to hide in the coat closet with me and jump out and try to startle my mother. 

I wanted to have an actual, living breathing person at the tea parties- not just my 8,000 dolls who sat stiffly in their chairs.  And I got one.  I got a lifetime pal.  

But when my sister was born, I was too young to be conscious of all the glaring, profound subtleties of having a brand new human being enter the world so close to me.  I wasn't capable of taking note of milestones, or if I had- remembering them.  Plus, we were peers.  But at 11, I could feel the palpable difference between child and newborn, and what it means to be responsible for someone else who can't be responsible for himself.

With the scary way our "health" teachers talked about pregnancy, I always assumed that raising a kid was akin to some form of modern slavery, set in a poorly-lit apartment in a bad part of town.  I also assumed it meant never having even an hour a month with which to get one's roots dyed.  Always having to wear long jeans that buttoned a comfortable 8 inches above the bellybutton, and always needing a giant stroller that never folds up in a useful way.  Not to mention, everyone knows diapers are so expensive, you'll be using food stamps to buy them in no time.  (All based on what I heard in class, saw at the mall, Monday night made-for-TV movies, and my vivid 6th grade imagination).  

Being a parent is so hard.  It is.  Like it was for my own mother, who made motherhood seem...  frantic, by her constant state of worry...  Worry, and the byproduct of it: exhaustion.

But as an attentive and sensitive tween, the rhythm I developed for caring for this new sibling seemed to erase my scary notions and I slipped into the role of protector.  I learned to anticipate when my baby brother was going to spontaneously nose dive from the couch for a toy on the floor, I learned to catch him with one arm.  I could anticipate when he was about to reach between the bars at the zoo; when he was contemplating a grab for the vase, high up on the table.  I saw when he oh-so-quickly snuck between everyone's legs, into the open refrigerator, and took a swig of rubbing alcohol- and leapt for him before he could drink more.  I could almost smell when he was about to throw a tantrum, straighten his legs and arms and lock his joints so no one could move him away from the playground.  And when he sliced his foot on the old chair's exposed upholstery staple, while playing a game of hide and seek-- and he let out one of those silent but piercing, tearful, incredulous, pained wails-- I grabbed him, wrapped his foot and carried him to the car in a matter of seconds. 

I was also there for every Christmas pageant, show-and-tell, science fair, art fair, jazz band concert, field trip, and yes, even parent-teacher meetings. 

And the new responsibility had broader effects.

Having a little brother with an 11-year age gap, has given me certain perspective on men.  I can't help it.  I see them, when I peer at most any of them, as a smaller, younger version of themselves.  Sometimes the image hits me within minutes:  little league, video games, doting mother, quiet father, missing front tooth, bowl haircut.  Or sometimes it's more subtle and takes time-- but the little boy almost always shows himself- even if for just a moment.

And I cannot walk down the street like a normal person (first of all, dogs.  Must pull over and scratch belly)- because of children.  Endearing children with mismatched socks or riding with training wheels or talking to oneself cause me to stop whatever I'm doing to strike up nonsensical conversation.  Sometimes the child is intolerable and I dole out my death stare and the child pipes down.  All children are inherently good, and even though death stare mostly works, I have been yelled at by a mother for it.  But I digress...

Watching the news.  Susan Smith.  I was 15 when that story broke and I cried for 2 weeks straight. 

Nothing seemed quite the same after I became a quasi-mother.  Especially since we found out my brother was going to pre-school and telling everyone that I was his "real" mother, and he knew this because he "remembered being in my belly."  That launched all kinds of loaded stares from teachers and parents.  But I assure you, he was mistaken.  He also thought "moms pooped babies out of their butts," so how credible was he, really?

And so, 17 years later, I'm thinking that raising a kid gets much more difficult as he gets older-- it would seem the opposite, since when they're younger they need extra care-- but I think it's for that very reason that it gets more heart-breaking, and therefore arduous.  He now needs less care.  We know we're supposed to let him go, be on his own, and yet even more is expected of him from the world- won't he need us?

And the problem is, I still see the little boy in my now 17-year-old brother and I see him getting ready to go off on his own.  I see him eager to explore the world outside our small town, but also apprehensive about it.  He'd have to leave the place where someone (almost) always caught him when he fell...

I know, I know, that's how life works.  

Anyway, I tell you all of this to say, I am physically exhausted from 17 years of worry-- about whether or not my baby brother will fall down the basement stairs (again), whether he'll get kidnapped by a pedophile, whether or not he's still disappointed he didn't make Little League MVP when he was 8, whether he swallowed his pet worm (named, "Mildew") when he swallowed that handful of dirt, whether he'll choke on a chicken McNugget, whether he'll make Principal's Honor Roll- not just plain ole' Honor Roll, whether he'll get in the "right" school, or meet the "right" girl, whether he'll be a healthy man, and is successful at what he sets out to do, and that he's happy, ultimately, I hope that he is happy...  

And so I'm not sure I could willingly sign up for this again.  If I have kids, I'll be starting over and frankly, that thought just makes me sleepy. 

But maybe I could raise a family that way... tired?  Maybe, with my own children, with my future family, I'll be like "yeah sure go ahead, eat some dirt."  Maybe that's why some moms are like that- their Worry Jar is tapped out- so worn it's got holes- no way to retain the new worries.  She knows everything is going to be fine, whether or not the kid 

actually 

ate

a mud pie.

T-minus 11. . .

This week’s topic is particularly fitting. The soon-to-be-Husband-Tuesday will become the actual HusbandTuesday in less than two weeks. For the past eleven months, our lives have been driven by the countless details that go in to planning a wedding. I have a spreadsheet with flower details, ceremony timelines, photography timelines, reception timelines, menu choices, rehearsal dinner guest lists, wedding guest lists, vendor information, registry checklists, thank you note records. The number of tabs on that sheet is inversely proportional to the actual usefulness of the document. But it’s the one thing that I have clung to in planning for the day (and was a strong recommendation by GirlFriday).

We spent the weekend finalizing all the last-minute details. MomTuesday, DaddyTuesday and I picked up my wedding dress on Saturday morning, soon-to-be-Husband-Tuesday and I had a last minute meeting with a videographer who we hired in the final days because his Grandmother can no longer make the journey to middle-America for our wedding; we wrapped wedding party gifts; we alphabetized placecards; We applied for our marriage license yesterday morning bright and early; MomTuesday is finalizing details with the remaining vendors this week; we’re basically ready.

While there are still details to attend to (like remembering to pick up the actual marriage license. . . ) these next two weeks are a welcomed relief—because as the planning comes to an end, we can finally look forward to the important part of marriage—becoming our own family.

I’m not talking about popping out children right away. Heaven knows that’s not in the cards for either of us right now. It’s so far off our radar at the moment, it’s actually kinda funny. We’re looking forward to the phase of life my parents fondly refer to as “B.C.”—before children. We’re hoping to travel, buy a home, allow us both to find more direction in our careers, and settle in to our adult lives together a bit more before taking any serious step towards making this a family of three. But it’s something we’ve started chatting about in the last few years, and it’s something we know we will talk about more as the years as Mr.andMrs.Tuesday slip swiftly by.

Planning a wedding with your parents teaches you a lot about family. For example, no matter how hard you try to plan, or how many lists you make, one of you will inevitably think of something you’d forgotten right around the time you thought you’d crossed everything off the list. Expect this. Breathe deeply. Remember why you love them, try not to yell, and apologize if and when you do. Further, planning a wedding makes you realize that children don’t always understand the crazy, unconditional way in which parents love them. They may act like their folks are hyper-emotional or even dorky; but if they shy away or treat you like you’re stupid, it may just be that parent and child deal with the same emotion in very different ways.

Finally, planning a wedding makes you realize just how deep and loyal the bonds of family run. Whether it be an uncle from across the country, a sibling attempting a trip from the pacific coast, or a cousin playing chauffer to your mutual grandparent, the sacrifices that I have watched our families make over the past eleven months remind me of how fortunate we both are to be surrounded by such love. And it makes me hopeful of what our life can become following in that example.

Magic 8-Ball Says: Outlook Good

I really have absolutely no idea what to say this week on the topic of my future family. I have no idea where they are, what they will look like, and who they will consist of. I don’t even like to guess because then it just presupposes that I know what I want. Which I don’t. I’m not sold on kids, hell, I’m not even completely sold on a husband. I’m also not going to marry someone just so I can have kids. If I never find the right person (doubtful!) then I’ll make the decision on kids later. Alone. And if I have a husband who has an ex-wife and kids and we all live together, that might just be okay too. And it’s even better if I can get DaddyMonday to move in. The more the merrier.

It’s all hard to know when you’re, ahem, 27, and unmarried. I really don’t know what life has to throw at me, but I do know that it will be a houseful of ice cream and movies and doggies and sugary cereal. And also a house where everyone does their chores before any of the aforementioned rewards (unless doggies are chores and rewards, which they *totally* are) and where everyone looks out for those who are less fortunate (4 legs and 2) and where weekends are for getting outside or getting out of town! Other than that, it’s all a crapshoot, and that’s what makes life so exciting!