Category Archives: Who I am

October 12, 2009 · 12:34 pm

Don’t Got Nuttin’.

Soooo, here we are, beginning of October. No, wait, we’re almost MID-October. If I were at my old job, I’d be harvesting articles for the newsletter! Man, it’s hard to change my mind from that job’s routine — it became such a big part of my life. When they let me go, it’s kind of like I got on a plane and went to another time zone and can’t reset the time on my watch.

(new subject)

When I was a teenager, I was bestest-estest friends with my cousin who lived in Washington state. I loved to go visit her, and we’d stay awake way too late during those visits and giggle like the little girls we were. She loved to play the organ and we would compose the silliest songs you ever did hear. They made no sense to anyone but us.

I had a crush on her neighbor boy, but she had an actual boyfriend! I worked with kids at the community center back home, she was a lifeguard! She was beautiful, just a little more brave than me and I adored her!

I got my ears pierced the first time on one of those visits with her. She shaved her legs for the first time on one of the visits. We would try out each others shower soaps and sniff each others arms. The kind of stuff that I suppose sisters would do together, but I never had a sister and she didn’t have a sister at that time.

One time when I went up there, she and her two brothers picked me up from the bus station in their pickup truck. We drove all the way back to their house in first or second gear, laughing all the way, because the transmission wasn’t working.

When we were separated (doesn’t that sound dramatic?), we would write each other the longest letters, pages and pages, going on and on about absolutely nothing. When I wrote my letters, it was all about how long can I make nothing but silly last?

That’s kind of where I am today. I got nuttin’ new to report and I’m just trying to make the silly last.

I guess I better get to the silly. I have a to-do list I have to get workin’ on…

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Filed under Who I am, Women Before Me

September 18, 2009 · 6:16 pm

A Kid in the Kitchen?

You would think that being nearly 40 years old I would know my way around food and the kitchen. Not so.

In my teenage years, I started avoiding food because, for the most part, it made me feel ill and, because of that, I hated to eat. I learned later, when I had surgery for endometriosis, that one of the side effects of that disease (depending on where it grows inside of a person) can be nausea and lack of appetite. So it was for me.

As an example of my food gauche, it wasn’t until 2004 or 2005 that I learned you could cut a banana in half and it would self-seal, and you could eat the other half the next day. I was so excited about that discovery! Another example: It wasn’t until this past year that I learned you could push those little tabs in on the side of the box for aluminum foil, saran wrap, wax paper, etc. and the roll wouldn’t fall out when you were pulling some out.

I know enough to get by, but I often feel as if I’m like a kid in the kitchen and I envy and feel a little insecure around you people who have kitchen savvy and think cooking is no big deal. Those of you who think up substitute ingredients at the drop of the hat and can whip up dinners in no time flat just off the top of your head boggle my mind. I want to watch you cook, you’re like a celebrity to me, but I feel like you’ll notice how lost I am in the kitchen. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing in there! Me, I’m like, “What’s for dinner… salad? Sure! I’ll just make it a REALLY big one and THAT can be my dinner! And DON’T WATCH ME MAKE IT!”

The other day I read an article in the October 2009 Men’s Journal, entitled How to cook like a Man. A little misleading in that there are a lot of men who are chefs but, hey, I didn’t write the article’s title — and, oh my, what a large title it is, eh?

It was followed by an article entitled, Kitchen Tool Commandments and in that article, it said you should have two knives — a 10″ chef’s knife and a paring (or boning) knife. Do I even want to know what a “boning” knife is?? *clears throat*.

I have a chef’s knife and a paring knife, and I’ve learned over the years that I also need a mixing spoon that can stand up to heat and thick ingredients, a metal pancake turner and a couple of spatulas. That little spatula in the picture is one of my favorites, it can get inside jars like nobody’s business!

Essential ingredients that I always try to have on hand include onions (you always need onions), rice (it’s a food staple), kidney beans (I love them), fresh veggies for salads and, since I’m not vegetarian, chicken or hamburger. To make it challenging, I don’t cook with dairy products, unless they’re raw (unpasteurized) — so that eliminates most “cream of…” soups and I don’t like spending more than 15-20 minutes prepping food, so the recipes I make have to be simple and quick.

My question to you is two-fold. What ingredients or spices are essential in your house and why? And what cooking utensil is essential for you? And a bonus question: What food or kitchen tip (like the banana cut in half thing) would you pass onto your child if you were teaching them how to cook?

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Filed under I'm Never too Old to Learn, Who I am

May 7, 2009 · 7:05 pm

Leftover Obsession.

(Note: Long post ahead, details are necessary… there is obsessiveness involved, after all.)

On Sunday, Tony and I decided to visit PF Chang’s to use the gift card I won a couple weeks ago. My delicacy of choice was their kung pao chicken. Nobody makes kung pao chicken like PF Chang’s. Tony ordered their sweet & sour pork dish. We were both exceedingly happy with our choices and all was right with the world.

Immediately upon receipt of my food, I removed the red peppers and mixed in the brown rice, and divided the dish in half. A bit like surgery, only at the dinner table. I ate half of it and requested a box for the other half. Our server carried out a little stand, took our leftovers and boxed them right there at the table. When we departed, we took our leftovers and went to the movies.

Monday night, things disintegrated a bit. I didn’t have the best of days at work, so I was a little stressed when I got home. A salad and kung pao chicken sounded just about right to me to make things a little better in my world.

Tony grabbed the bag of leftovers out of the fridge and, by weight, determined that his sweet & sour pork was in the lighter box. While I created our salads, complete with avocados and onions, he went about devouring his leftovers with gusto.

A bit later, when I opened my box of leftovers, I was puzzled to see white rice. I asked Tony if there had been another box in the bag. The answer to that was “no.” There were only those two boxes. The one he had emptied and the one I was staring at.

I may have, at that point, thrown a fit of frustration. The fit of frustration may have involved throwing the avocado seed that was left on the counter from when I created the salad. I may have thrown that seed at the trash can with a little more force than necessary to discard it. That seed may have narrowly missed my husband who had opened the trash can to gently discard something. To top it off, the seed may have ricocheted off the trash can (because of the speed at which it was thrown in my alleged fit of frustration) and bounced merrily across the floor. Bounce, bounce, bounce, it went, mocking my kung pao chicken loss.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated an avocado seed more.

I considered just letting it go… the kung pao chicken, I mean, not the avocado seed. That avocado seed was dead to me. Dead! The rational part of my brain (I know, I’m as surprised as you are that there was a rational part left) noted that it was just leftovers and it was a genuine mistake by our server. It’s not like he intentionally decided to add a sucky ending to my sucky day. So, it should have been no big deal. Except I really, really wanted those leftovers. I had been looking forward to them all day.

Tony suggested I call the restaurant, and for a moment I thought that was a good idea. Except, after that moment, I then realized that calling them would accomplish nothing except to let them know that some crazy woman in Orange County was without her leftovers.

And that’s how it came to be that at 8:55 PM on Monday night, I told Tony that I’d be back in an hour, or maybe longer. Because I wasn’t leaving that place without my kung pao chicken.

The drive there was 15 minutes and I needed every second of that, and the time it took to walk from the parking structure to the restaurant, to make myself into a presentable, rational looking person. Because I figured “reasonable” was an adjective that I was giving up in my pursuit of leftover kung pao chicken.

The manager listened attentively to my brief explanation, which was evidenced by the fact that he was completing my sentences. The end of the conversation went something like this, “Man, I’ve had a crappy day and the only thing I wanted for dinner was…” He grinned and said, “Kung pao chicken.” “Yeah…” I said. “Thing is, the disappointment was like… well, expecting kung pao chicken and ending up with white rice.” “Which wasn’t even part of your order.” He noted. “Yeah, I’d ordered brown rice.” I said.

He kindly offered to give me an order of kung pao chicken with brown rice, complimentary. Which was exactly what I wanted. And that’s how it happened that at 10 PM on Monday night, I was back home, removing the red peppers, mixing in the brown rice, dividing the dish in half, and then eating my freshly cooked kung pao chicken.

The thing was, I had gone armed with digital photos, receipts, ticket stubs, and even the box of white rice and I needed none of that. He took me at my word. Or maybe he was just scared of the 6′ tall crazy woman confronting him. Whatever. I’ll just say, it’s customer service such as that which I find impressive in a world where people just don’t seem to care anymore. He listened, he validated, and he resolved.

And I had more leftover kung pao chicken… and all was right with the world, once again.

Don’t you love a story with a happy ending?

9 Comments

Filed under Best Husband, Entertainment can be Expensive, I ♥ My Miata, Weird is Fun, Who I am

January 28, 2009 · 10:58 pm

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Filed under Health/Endo, Mermaid Envy, Money Hump Building, Weird is Fun, Who I am

January 23, 2009 · 7:42 am

Mom’s Mom.

The house was silent, the way she liked it these days. She really didn’t mind the sound of conversing among live people, but she held a grudge against that television, the one that stood silently, now, in the living room. It had taken her family away from her when it was invented, with its ability to laugh-on-command and numb the brain.

The dishes were stacked in the rack, dripping their way to dryness. Soon, she’d put them away in the cabinets. A silent army ready to host food again for her husband, maybe her daughter and her daughter’s kids. It’d be nice to have supper at the dinner table, some conversation and clinking of silverware to bring the kitchen to life.

The woman sighed and mindlessly continued moving her fingernail over the grout on the counter top. She did a lot of things the slow way these days. Hand washing dishes, cleaning grout with her fingernails. Gave her time to think. There was a time when she would have given anything to have time to just think. She supposed she could spray some of that bleach cleaner on and wipe it off and that would clean the grout in two seconds. Grout she hadn’t wanted. She hadn’t wanted this house at all so far from her family, with its close proximity to the dirt road out front. Seemed as if she was forever dusting everything and it never stayed clean. If one car drove by five minutes after she was done dusting, which it always did, the dirt would fly up and permeate through the cracks and there it was again. Dusty, dusty house.

Marriage was like that, though. She’d done things just because her husband had wanted to. He was a smart man, a good man. She just wished he’d ask her opinion and listen when she gave it. But he never asked and never listened when she gave it anyway. Made her wonder sometimes why she bothered. Married for over 50 years and he still did his own thing, thinking it was best for her without asking. Stubborn, bull-headed German. She shook her head and muttered to herself.

It was coming up on her birthday, she wondered if he’d remember. Probably not. He never did. She remembered his and everyone else’s, always mailing birthday cards with a little note. Hardly anyone remembered hers. Sometimes, though she’d get a note in reply, sometimes even in Swedish, the language of her parents. It was reason enough to keep on remembering.

She’d given her body for her children, six of them, with the last two being twins at 40, no less. Took it out of a person, growing life inside you, expelling them into the world and then raising them. Her back was hunched now, her hips fragile. Osteoporosis does that to a person.

Brought the first genuine smile to her lips in days to see the shock on her granddaughter’s face the other day when, in a skirt, she’d climbed over the barbed wire fence in the back yard, did it oh, so carefully, but showed her that grandma could still do that tomboy stuff of her youth. Just on a smaller scale these days.

The door knob rattled and the backdoor opened and there in the kitchen appeared that granddaughter, tall, straight and slim. Her eyes lifted from the dirty grout in hope, thinking perhaps her granddaughter was coming in to sit down and talk for a bit. Nope, the young girl slipped silently past, heading to the bathroom. Would it kill the girl to acknowledge her grandma instead of walking by like she’s invisible? Teenagers these days. Her eyes lowered back to her fingernail moving over the grout, thinking that someday that girl might understand what a little time given would mean to someone.

The stories the old woman had to tell, such fascinating stories. How it was unheard of back in 1930’s for a woman to drive, but she had learned how. How her mother had swept a dirt floor and the irony of that, sweeping a dirt floor to get the dirt out. The stories of her courtship with her husband, that sparkle in his blue eyes and the glint of the sun in his hair the color of which echoed the sun. How handsome he was. Oh, how they had enjoyed their ridiculous banter with each other back then. Probably made no sense to anyone else, but sometimes that’s how love is. Lordy, how he’d made her laugh back then. His motorcycle and how she rode on the back of it. Their first child, a little girl and the joy she brought. How starting a family had made them feel like they had crossed an invisible fence into adulthood. How children are a marker of how time passes you by all too quickly. What a hard worker her husband was and how he always seemed to buy the right piece of farmland at just the right time for their needs. Their second child, third and fourth child. How the time, it just seemed to accelerate and blur. The children growing, going through school.

The ups and downs of hormonal changes, the feelings of being alone in the middle of chaos. He’d somehow given up making her laugh and instead devoted that effort to his friends in town. Then having the twins, such a surprise at the end. Her regrets that she had no time to spend with each child, to see their accomplishments and kiss their boo-boos. There was just too much to be done. How no one had seemed to understand how a person could get depressed and overwhelmed, and then feel guilty for feeling that way. How could one feel depressed and overwhelmed when you have so many blessings?

She’d had to go away for awhile to get better, she hadn’t wanted to. In fact, she didn’t remember much about that time, except feeling resentful toward her husband for making her feel like she was inadequate and immature. He sure could’ve handled that transition a lot better than he did. But intuiting things about feelings and emotions just wasn’t part of him. Understanding things he’d never experienced himself, such as depression, loneliness and being overwhelmed, well, those are things you were expected to snap out of. Maybe someday, she hoped, someone would understand her. Maybe someday people would realize she hadn’t “gotten better”, she’d just gotten better at swallowing the pill of bitterness.

In early 1987, my grandma and I had gone to Sprouse Reitz, a variety store similar to Woolworth’s but on a smaller scale. We had shopped together, she had bought a new dress, I don’t even remember the price anymore, but I don’t think it was very much money. It was special, though, because it was such a rarity for her to buy herself something, and even moreso because we had chosen it together.

She passed away in 1987 after a long struggle with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. I’ve often wondered if what she died of was symbolic of the life she lived.

She was buried in the dress from the five & dime store. I insisted on it, actually, in my 16 year old wisdom, because even though the dress had cost maybe $20, she had bought it because she thought it was so pretty. Plus, it was the newest dress in her closet.

I’ve thought about her over the past few years. I wish I could tell her that I now understand her, at least in some ways.