Rationalizing

This afternoon, on the phone, my sister said that she thought I was kind of a snob in high school.

She's probably right. I was skinny, underdeveloped, didn't take very good care of myself, wore unfashionable clothes, profoundly lonely, and tried to make up for it by showing off my superior intelligence. I don't remember being overtly mean to people on more than a couple of occasions, but by the time I had reached tenth grade, I'd developed a pretty prickly shell, which was the first thing people saw. Mostly from being teased for years and made to feel outcast by popular girls and unpopular boys alike. Unpopular wouldn't have even described me--I wasn't even on the social radar screen.

Yes, high school was not my high point.

Had she told me that just a few years ago, I would have reacted differently. I would have been defensive, and I would have tried to explain my behavior and find someone to blame for it.

But now I'm staring down the barrel of thirty, and I'm starting to feel differently. Twenty is when you blame your mother for everything that's wrong with you. Thirty is when you own up and assume the consequences for your own behavior. Thirty is when you stop caring about what happened in high school. Thirty is when you move on.

Looking at it this way, thirty can't come fast enough.

Ten Common Enough Things That I Have Never Done

1. My taxes
2. Mowed the lawn
3. Changed a tire
4. Smoked a cigarette
5. Been to a concert at a large venue with a big-name headliner
6. Seen 456 of Star Wars in their entirety
7. Gone spring breakin'
8. Sought legal advice
9. Owned a pet
10. Taken out a loan

And It's a Monday, Too

You know how, when you break a glass, you quickly vacuum up the shards? And how no matter how carefully and thoroughly you vacuum, you always miss a few? And how, inevitably, you locate those remaining shards by stepping on them?

Yes, my day started with me digging glass shards out of the bottom of my foot at 7:15 in the morning. It hasn't gotten better yet.

No One Ever Mentions the Drawbacks

Winter basket January 6
Originally uploaded by skorky64.

I've been eating mostly local organic vegetables and eggs since last June, supplemented with grocery store stuff only when needed. It's been a fun time of exploration and discovery, and I do feel somewhat healthier. Or at least more virtuous, in the "I eat more vegetables than you do" kind of way.

But there are drawbacks. Beyond the challenge of eating the season (mountains of the same food, all at once), I've found that one by one, the snacks and prepared food of my childhood are no longer as satisfying.

I've started to make my own popcorn in a saucepan, rather than microwave popcorn. (Although that's more to do with not having a microwave.) It tastes so much fresher, and I can put as little salt as I want on it. Campbell's tomato soup felt gluey in my mouth after I had my homemade version. Jell-O instant pudding is too sweet. I still eat Spaghetti-Os when I'm by myself, but they taste more and more metallic to me each time. It won't be long before I give them up completely.

But my last holdout was Velveeta. Yes, the "processed cheese food" appellation scares me, but it's so darn creamy and melty and smooth. Nothing else works on a grilled cheese sandwich quite like the cheese in the foil-wrapped brick.

Frenchy left yesterday for a week-long job elsewhere, and so grocery shoppers on Monday evening saw me rush to the cheese aisle like it was 1849 California. Gruyere, Cheddar, Velveeta, goat, anything I could lay my hands on. By the time I got home, I was starving, so I made myself one of my favorite snack/dinners: fried egg, slice of ham and Velveeta on a toasted English muffin.

But something was off. I can't explain it, but it just didn't taste right. I finally narrowed it down to the Velveeta. There was something wrong with it. Is it that I've gotten used to the taste of fresher foods, or that I've just grown up?

There should be a term for it: the slow loss of childhood pleasures, the realization that what you used to enjoy just isn't that desirable anymore. I've grown up and have replaced each item with a grown-up equivalent, but I still want the old taste. Or rather, the familiarity that the old taste gave me.

I'm too young for nostalgia.

The Less Commonly Seen Hispanic Southerner

Without flirtation (I think) and while cooking up my delicious pasta lunch lunch, the cafe chef referred to me repeatedly as "sweetheart."

Aw, I miss living in the South!

Am I Happy?

On the morning of what is to be, ultimately, three Thanksgiving meals (and none of them actually on Thanksgiving Day), I find it appropriate to ask myself if I'm truly happy.

By all rational accounts, I should be insanely happy. I enjoy good health, as do those around me, I have a good family and a few good friends, a steady job, money in the bank, a wealth of entertainment at my fingertips. I don't own a TV. I have a lovely new life partner, and we've made good steps to building a sustaibale lifestyle in the past few weeks. There's no one dropping bombs on me, curtailing my freedoms in any significant way, taking my home away. I've lost money in the stock market, just like everyone else, but at least I have some savings, and the mentality to save.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs says that humans have five basic levels of need. Each level is dependent on the one below it; you cannot reach for a higher level of need without achieving the one below. You can temporarily regress and place a higher importance on health, for example (say you suddenly get sick), but you don't necessarily have to work back through all the levels to get back to where you were.

It's interesting to look around you and try to figure out where people are. (It's even more interesting to determine what level they lack, but that's mean-spirited.) My father-in-law recently started writing novels and is now published. Could we say that he has attained the fifth level of creative output? Does my growing knitting habit represent a channel of creativity? Am I really the happiest when I'm sewing something?

Around this time of year, it's worth taking a look at this pyramid. I could always have more friends, more security, more confidence, more spontaneity, but overall I'm doing pretty well. Here's to remembering that.

Vade retro

As heartened as I am by Barack Obama's victory, as much as I believe this is the first election in a while in which people voted for a candidate rather than against his opponent, as disappointed as I was when I finally made up my mind that McCain was no longer the moderate ethical voice in the Republican Party, mostly what I feel today is relief.

Relief that the hokey woman in the lipstick, heels and designer suits is going back into obscurity where she belongs.

I can handle someone who believes in an abstract story of creation. I don't judge a person for having a regional accent or for using earthy language. I have felt myself the mind-blank when put on the spot.

But to ridicule solid, promising scientific research on fruit flies and bears? Research that can potentially lead to breakthroughs, not to mention contribute to the worldwide body of knowledge? That is unforgivable, short-sighted and warped.

Good riddance.

Liesl's Magnificat

Yesterday was luscious. We had almost written the whole weekend off, what with Saturday's rain and slop and wet. Saturday was a non-day. A day to clean the kitchen, a day to finish up that project that's been sticking its tongue out at you from the floor of the hall. A day that we simply endured together, sleeping and eating and sleeping some more. A day for drinking raspberry tea. Not a bad day, just a prosaic day.

But, oh, Sunday, sweet Sunday, the autumn day of my dreams. The rain brought in warmer air, for one precious Indian summery day. The sun woke us up, nudging us into the day earlier than usual, so that we could taste and savor the sweetness of the bluest sky and hear the crispness of the leaves.

We wandered through Central Park, the only proper destination for such a day. We shared the gray-beige rocks of Turtle Pond with other couples and watched the men row their ladies in green rowboats. Impromptu kisses beneath the goldening leaves may or may not have been shared. We talked of cabbages and kings, of wedding plans and future things. Shared one slice of pizza between the two of us, a sip of coffee, and a free chocolate. Played in the leaves and the stuffed animals. Walked and talked and walked and talked down the sidewalks of the city.

Sublime and pure, the sun warmed our hearts and the leaves opened our souls to each other. It was, in short, the consummate fall afternoon, the prototype of autumn, the mold from which all fall days should be cast.

And the best part of the day was sharing it with you.

Rain

So, this has been a day. I arrived at my office building to find that the elevator was out, and I'd have to walk up the eight flights of stairs to get to work - again. The stairs were wet, with water dripping down my neck as I climbed. It actually got worse as I got farther up.

If only that were the worst of it.

When I finally got to my floor, it was raining. Inside the building. Yes, raining. Like, dangit, I forgot my umbrella. Like, I want to stay in bed and watch a movie. Like, good day for ducks. Inside the building.

It appears there was a false fire alarm on the 10th floor, or a pipe leak, or something, that didn't get checked over the weekend. It's 3:30 right now, and they tell me water is still running on the 9th and 10th floors. My specific office isn't affected, fortunately.

The director's office was a soggy mess. His computer no longer works. His chairs squished when you sat down on them. When you lifted up a corner of a ceiling tile to see where the water was coming from, a fountain gushed out the other corner. We emptied out his office entirely, moving 60 years and a PhD's worth of books. We strategically placed recycle bins to catch the drops. We rescued his diplomas and family pictures and knicknacks. We set up fans to dry his important documents into crinkly, crispy pages. We set up a temporary office for him in another room. We called the crew to bring carpet fans. We thought we were done.

And then...we opened the storage closets next to his office. The ones that hold ten years' worth of paper archives, in cardboard boxes. Which were now wet archives, in wet cardboard boxes. I took a puddle of dirty cardboard water to the face when emptying those shelves.

So now we have archives, Christmas decorations, electronics, chair cushions and all kinds of documents strewn around every possible surface, drying. Fortunately they tell me the floors are made of concrete, so there's no risk of those collapsing. The ceilings, that's another story. I'm keeping my ears peeled for the crash.

Talk about a flashback to Odo-Ban!

The Frozen North

It occurred to me that Canada might be feeling a little left out of this presidential election.

"Hey, we're next to Alaska, too!"

Ypres

Browsing NYTimes.com this morning, I found this gem of a sentence:

Heretofore, my chief anxiety about traveling to France had always been that, at some point during my trip, I would be called upon to pronounce the name of the town Ypres.

You can read the rest of the article here. Let's just say that from the very first sentence, the article grabs you. (Caveat: You have to speak boarding school French to fully understand the article; the author resorts to peppering phrases en français throughout the text, to give it more of a je ne sais quoi.)

Rethinking The Desire To Live In Northern France

You know it's going to be a long day when you arrive at work and have to squeegee yourself off. Rain rain go away, at least for the twenty minutes while I walk from home to subway and subway to work. Seriously, I am wet to the upper thigh.

But yet, I still can't bring myself to buy the silly rubber boots all the girls here wear. While certainly more functional than Crocs, they're equally funny-looking. Bets are on for how long I'll hold out.

The Countdown

Well, it's coming down to the wire, folks. Two days until my birthday. Two days until the last year of a 2 as the first digit. I gave up long ago on pretending that I was still carefree, but still...thirty's in sight, just lurking down the bend, waiting to jump on me and smother me with its finality.

And so now it's time for the list. I've attempted this once before but didn't get very far. At the time, I thought I had all the time in the world to think of more things. Go look at that list. I'll wait. Do dee doo de doo.

Wow, I've accomplished, partially accomplished, or will accomplish the first four items! But for realsies, it's my turn to make my own list. No fair listing things I've already done.

1. Put up as many of my CSA fruit and vegetables as possible for the winter.


2. Succeed in making borscht this time.


3. Make as many of my own work clothes as I can.


4. Stay gracious and try not to snap at my mom when she forces her wedding ideas on me.


5. Take a photography class, or work on my photography skills.


6. Find another dance class I like, and attend regularly.


7. Go to a country I haven't been to and where I don't speak the language.


8. Talk to strangers.


9. Put 6k into my retirement fund. Hey, I never said the things had to be interesting!


10. Attend a European soccer game.


11. Really blow a student's mind with my insightful and probing questions on intercultural awareness, leading them to requestion all they ever thought they knew about the world (aka, do my job).


12. Figure out what to do about the "I want a registry!" "But we don't have any space for stuff." "But I WANT one!" dilemma.


13. Spend a weekend with Frenchy and a borrowed under-one, just to see if we can hack it.


14. Think up a really watertight excuse for when we can't hack it.


15. Read Jude the Obscure.


16. Have more than one professional massage.


17. Take advantage of the free gallery talks at the Met.


18. Learn to stop on rollerblades.


19. Visit some New York wineries.


20. Invite the couple that lives below us up for dinner or coffee.

How to make me melt into a tiny little puddle

The other night we got word that a deacon who happens to be a cousin of a friend agreed to marry us in France, pending an in-person meeting beforehand. This was good news; besides the fact that we've found an officiant, we also only have to go through one day of pre-wedding counseling rather than the six months that American priests make you do. Welcome to France, where they're desperate for Catholics.

Nevertheless, Frenchy looked alarmed. "Pre-wedding counseling? What are they going to ask?"

I explained that usually the priest asks you if you've given consideration to many of the issues that may potentially cause friction: children, finances, difference in beliefs, and in our case, what country we're going to live in. He looked somewhat relieved.

"I thought that he was going to ask what I did to deserve a girl like you. Because really, somebody's got to notice, sooner or later."

Autumn

The first crisps of autumn are in the air.

I wake up in the morning, shivering from the open window.

I wonder if my eight-year-old out-at-the-elbows French suede jacket will last another season.

I ditch my pinks and purples for oranges and browns. I polish my knee-high boots to be presentable for one more season.

I start to reconsider if fall is really my favorite season in New York, because it really represents the long decline towards winter.

I think of summer camp in Michigan while I walk to work (3 miles a day, I counted!) The air had a similar tang to it when the morning bell woke us up in our open cabins, a crunch that burned off after an hour and a bowl of oatmeal.

I crave oatmeal.

I count the weeks until my CSA will be over. I think about signing up for the winter share. I don't have to think very hard. Sign me up!

I remind myself that colder weather means fewer visitors to our small apartment.

I gear myself up for the parents' visit in November.

I search for recipes to preserve and store the fruits of the summer sunshine. Peach preserves this week--no eating them out of hand.

I savor the warmth as I pull sticky sweaty hairs off my neck. Why did I pledge not to cut my hair until the weddings? It's getting the chop in August.

Autumn is coming, folks.

The Global Workforce

I went to a Mexican restaurant today for lunch, that was staffed and cheffed entirely by Asians of indeterminate variety.

That just seems wrong.

Transitions

I need a break.

I've only been working for three weeks and I need a break. There, I admitted it.

It's harder than I had thought to transition from over three months of unemployedness to working full time, waking up at quarter to silly o'clock, and making sure there are enough lefotvers to eat the next day for lunch.

Keeping yourself on task, not checking your hotmail. Trying not to clock-watch. Putting makeup on every day. Remembering to bring a wrap in case the office is too cold. The list goes on.

Did I mention the 6:45 am wakeup?

But really, it's not the work that is burning me out. Work is the escape. It's the home. Specifically, it's the people at home. We have recently doubled the population of our one-bedroom apartment to four people. The Frenchy's sister and her boyfriend are here for a vist.

A two-week visit.

Did I mention the small apartment? And the two weeks?

While they are both delightful and lovely, it's a bit of an adjustment to skitter out of bed at the first clang of the alarm in order not to disturb their peaceful morning lie-in, to tiptoe to the bathroom and shower as quietly as possible, to go about my normal working life while they merrily vacation. And it's not just the morning that reveals the disjunction. For the past two weeks, we have eaten out or gone to a bar every single night. Every night. That's a lot of money, and a lot of calories. And a lot of very late-night returns.

I want to enjoy spending time with them, to learn how to shift from girlfriend to in-law, to practice my French without feeling burned out. I looked forward to their arrival, I begged her to visit because I want to get to know her better, and now that they're here I'm furtively checking how many days until they leave. I want them here with me, just not quite so close to me. I want to be a good hostess, but I also with they would hang up their towels. I like talking to them, but speaking constant French tires me out.

The irony of it all is that I have brought leftover sweet-sour chicken for lunch today.

Vegetable basket 16 July

Vegetable basket 16 July
Originally uploaded by skorky64.

Ahh, this week's theme is "oblong."

I'm beginning to think that my CSA harvest vegetables according to a theme, rather than what's ripe. This can be the only explanation.

And a few of the cherries somehow got purloined before the photo was taken. Don't know how that happened!

Vegetable basket 2 July

Well, this must be the red and yellow week at the CSA. It also features flowers from Frenchy, yellow lilies.

This batch became a zucchini stir fry, blueberry muffins and pancakes, swiss chard quiche, beet risotto, and a whole bunch of other things I can't remember but were supremely tasty.

Vegetable basket 2 July

Mobile, Portable or Cell

Typical Reaction to the Revelation That I Do Not Own a Cell Phone, By Year

I had one when I was in France from 2002-2003, but I only got one here in 2006. I believe this fits me squarely in the rubric outlined above.