Get Out!

I have decided that I want to get out and see more this summer; too many previous summer vacations have been filled with trips to Target and the grocery store and not enough time spent doing cool stuff. Sure, we go on family trips and see things then, but on an every day basis I rarely seem to get out and explore my hometown. I always get so caught up in the humdrum that I lose sight of all the cool possibilities. But not this summer, baby. 

Today I went to the U of M for the first in a series of free noontime concerts. The band was Romantica, who are awesome, but the weather was lousy. Pouring rain pushed the planned outdoor concert indoors, which meant I got to go inside Northrop Auditorium, a place I haven't been since the day I graduated - in 1991. 

It's a beautiful old cavern of a building. The lighting was dim, mostly the rainy light from outside streaming in the open doors, and the place smells a bit like a wet dog, but the acoustics are brilliant, and the band was just twangy enough. And then Jimmy John's started handing out free sandwiches and chocolate ice cream. Very cool, indeed. 

Now, Wouldn't That Be Sweet?

One of my favorite things about traveling is seeing the diversity not just of people but of lives that exists. 

There are just SO MANY possibilities.


Most places I've been have elicited some sort of what-would-my-life-be-like-if-I-lived-here? fantasy. Sometimes it's pretty vague and mild, but once in a while I go so far as to look at real estate listings on the interweb. 


It's totally free escapist fantasy fiction, and I let myself indulge in it a bit every now and then. 


I weigh the benefits of living in different Tokyo neighborhoods or ponder whether my Seattle home will be a slick downtown condo or a rustic home with a great view of Mt. Rainier. Then I go do the laundry or make dinner and generally get back to the business of living my real life. 


Still, it's good to dream.


My most recent foray into the fantasy world of my imaginary other possible life is the clearest and most tempting of all. I can see it in my mind in such happy detail, I've informed my husband that, if I should one day simply disappear, this is where I will be.


I will live on Amelia Island in northeastern Florida.  I will no longer be a teacher; instead, I will be waiting tables at the Happy Tomato Cafe. My days will be spent hanging out with the cool and congenial guys who run the place, serving up awesome BBQ sandwiches, and listening to classic indie rock on the radio. I'll put all my book-learnin' and pop culture knowledge to use in witty conversations with patrons - and will be utterly fulfilled by my days there. I will smile often, rarely fluster, and (possibly) get heavily into yoga. 


So, if your imaginary other possible life self is ever in town, stop in for a lemonade.
My treat.

Temptation

I'm sure you've seen them too.
Those super-soft, abundantly frosted sugar cookies they sell at grocery stores and gas stations.

They are disgusting.
Entirely artificial.
Practically plastic.
Loaded with lard.

And I am powerless against them.

My grocery store (I just shop there; I don't actually own one.) puts them right inside the front door, where you have to pause for a moment and pick out your cart. That's when they get you. When it seriously crosses your mind to grab a carton of them and eat them all while walking the aisles.

I theorize that more than once someone has consumed the whole package and gone through the check-out with an empty plastic container, sheepishly explaining themselves to the cashier. In my imagination, the cashier replies, "Happens all the time, Honey. All the time."

Through the power of chemistry, these cookies morph with the seasons. They're red, white, and blue for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, orange and black for Halloween, and an assortment of unnatural pastels when Easter approaches. They've got more colors than Sherwin-Williams.

Right now they are electric green.
With sprinkles.

Normally, I forge ahead, pushing past them on my way to the produce department. But today I needed to buy a treat for school, so into my cart they went.

I couldn't take my eyes off them.

They beckoned to me from behind the broccoli, and I could feel their presence nestled somewhere over by the peanut butter.

What is it about them that bewitches me so?

Is it their softness?
Their sprinkles?
Their unabashed artificiality?

They're the cookie equivalent of a bad boy, and part of me just wants to cast off my nutritionally-sensible upbringing, hop on the back of their motorcycle, hold on tight to their black leather jacket, and ride, baby, ride.

Ever since I got home, my thoughts just keep turning to the fact that they're here.

I can't get them out of my mind.

They're downstairs right now.
In a bag.
On top of the bookcase.

Yes, as they say in the horror movies, the call is coming from inside the house.

I would go take a picture of them to post here, just in case you're having trouble picturing what I'm talking about, but, that would mean opening the box. And I think we both know what that would lead to.

So, for now, I have resigned myself to writing about them, hoping to exorcise a few sugar-laden demons so I can sleep well tonight.

Grant me strength in this my time of weakness.

It's September, and I Suck

Tonight, as I snarfed down the "stress meal" that is the Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger with a side of Frosty, I realized that I loathe September.

Not just this September, either.

I mean ALL Septembers are on my shit list.

The reason for my extreme ill-will towards this month is simple: It is the month in which I suck on a grand scale. And the source of all this sucking is none other than the beginning of a new school year.

Now, I've been through this MANY times, so you'd think I'd have it down. But I don't. So here I am again, trapped in a swirl of frustration and stress. I pondered the reasons why this time of year always hits me so hard and makes me, a usually calm person, feel so utterly overwhelmed.

And why is it that I seem to suck so hard at so many things right now, when I normally don't really suck that much at all?

It's because I've lost some things that I'd forgotten to appreciate - and I miss them dearly.

The Stuff I'm Mourning

• Knowing  my Students' Names  In the excitement of the end of the school year in June, I forget how nice it is to be in a room where we all know one another - names, pets, hidden talents, shared experiences. Developing those bonds with this year's batch of kids takes time, and right now it just feels like I spend my days in a room full of strangers.

• Puttering in the Kitchen  In the summer, I spent hours chopping fresh fruits and vegetables, trying new recipes, and putting together meals at a leisurely pace = usually while listening to music and singing along (occasionally dancing too - but less often and never with sharp utensils). Cooking was my quality relaxation time. Now it's about rushing to get something on the dinner table and packing my lunches in a zombie-like trance.

• Morning Walks  Nothing beats the AM constitutional for me. But there's no way in hell I'm getting up at 4 o'clock to take one. The evening walk pales by comparison - more traffic, hotter weather, and fewer ducks bobbing contentedly on the lake.

• Being an Awesome Mom  I know that the physically/emotionally burned-out days of September shall pass, but it bugs me to find myself wishing my daughter would fall asleep a bit earlier, stop continually following me all around the house, stop asking so many questions, etc. In the summer, I have so much more to give. And I do give it. To her.

•  Brain-Numbing Television  I haven't watched a "marathon" of anything in almost three weeks. No wonder I'm cranky.

• Blogging  I've had many blog-worthy moments but lacked the energy to put them to words.

At least September's only one of those thirty-day months.

Check It Out

Since I'll be going back to work next week and will have TONS of leisure time on my hands, I decided now was the best possible moment to start a new project/blog. Am I right or am I right?

It's focused on a topic I've touched upon here several times: food.

I'll still be keeping this blog rolling for all my non-food related observations and rants, but check the other one out too.

http://visiblevegetables.blogspot.com/

Today, I Confess ...

... as I heard the classroom door at my daughter's daycare close behind me at drop-off, I let out a little sigh of relief.

... I have read only one book this summer. It was a diet book. And I didn't finish it.

... I need an inordinate amount of "me time".

... when Ace of Bass comes on the radio, I turn it up and sing along. I know all the words.

... I knew there was dog pee on the carpeting, but I really wanted to check my email and eat lunch, so I did those things first and let it soak in a bit longer.

... I'm starting to think that buying beige carpeting was a bad idea.

... I'm better at forgiving the dog than I am at forgiving people.

... I am looking forward to going back to work - but not necessarily to seeing everyone.

... I'm pissed at Austin's mom for putting a chastising little note in my daughter's cubby, reminding us we need to RSVP for her son's birthday party, even if we're not coming. Like she's Emily Fucking Post. And like I've ever met her or could even pick her kid out of a line-up.

... I can be petty.

... I screen.

... I feel all giddy about how clean my teeth are after I use my Waterpik.

... I hid Chutes & Ladders because I can't stand playing it.

... I can't put the apples and bananas in the fruit bowl unless I tear off those ugly stickers first. I turn the pears so their stickers don't show.

... I inflate my self-esteem by judging people in the supermarket based on what they have in their carts. I know that I am superior to anyone buying a Swanson's frozen dinner, and I roll my eyes at the Lean Cuisine people.

... when something stressful happens, my first instinct is to drive to the bakery and buy a cupcake.

... I am a praise junkie.

... I paid $2.99 to watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High on pay-per-view instead of finishing up the painting in the kitchen. Judge Reinhold rocks.

Findings

I've hit the point in the summer where the overwhelming desire to organize things takes over. Today's mission: sort through the mountains of paperwork scattered about the basement.

Here are a few of the things I found as I went through the piles:

• My daughter's Chinese passport. (She was SO tiny!)

• Car insurance coverage information and service appointment details for two cars I no longer own.

• The instructions showing how to put together the crib I set out at the end of the driveway with a FREE sign on it - yesterday.

• The itemized vet bills from my dog's treatment, death, and cremation last fall. :-(

• Our 1040's from 1998. (How long are you supposed to keep those?)

• A recipe for potato salad, written in my grandma's handwriting.

• Pay stubs from 2002. (I so don't want to be a pack rat, but I fear sometimes that I am becoming one. Maybe it's more about my laziness than a need to horde, though. Like that's healthier, right?)

• The receipt from that denim skirt I ordered from Land's End last summer. The one that never fit me and that I still have in its plastic bag in my closet. Can I return it after a whole year? Is there a statute of limitations on such things?

• An unused iTunes gift card I got for Christmas.

Japanese McDonald's Active Kids Milk Carton Puzzle

Check out the puzzle on the Ronald McDonald milk carton below.

It's meant for kids, so it's a pretty easy one to solve.

But isn't one of the answers a type of, ahem, activity you really wouldn't want to encourage your kids to participate in?

Three Guys

Guy #1:

As I was making my what seems like daily pilgrimage to Target, I spotted him.

I was on a busy street, and someone had put an old elliptical machine on the boulevard with a "FREE" sign on it. Guy #1 was a big man wearing a dress shirt and khakis; he was trying out the elliptical machine with an incredibly somber expression on his face.

Guy #2:

He was sighted while I was driving to retrieve a take-out order at the dumpy little Chinese place my mom likes.

He was bald, mustached, and wearing a black leather jacket. His motorcycle was annoyingly loud, but, poking out of his backpack was a bouquet - a dozen red roses packed in cellophane. Baby's breath and everything.

Guy #3:

I recently bought a new car - for all my driving around and seeing odd random things needs.

He was the guy from Volkswagen who called to give me the customer satisfaction survey. The first thing I noticed about him was that he appeared to be calling from the Indian Subcontinent (thick accent, two second delay after each of my answers). He introduced himself as "Danny Ocean".

What do these three guys have in common?

I don't actually know any of them, but they all made me smile.

Double Vision

First of all, I can't wait for Julie & Julia to come out.

Streep can do little or no wrong, and it looks like a clever little film.

When I look at the ads for it, though, I'm startled by how much Amy Adams looks like a younger, hotter version of Miranda Hobbes on Sex and the City.

The hair.

The eyes.

The pose (... as in the episode where Miranda admits she needs to go to the Betty Crocker Clinic after eating devil's food cake out of the trash).

Who's with me on this one?

Ode to Billie Joe

My students are always shocked to learn that I've heard of Green Day.

They are, after all, and extremely cool band, and I am, after all, an old person.

The notion of me, the middle-aged lady who nags them about when to use well and when to use good, having a working knowledge of this band is just too much for their little brains to handle.

"Seriously, I have been listening to them since before you were born, Whippersnapper."

Anyhow, a few years ago I saw one of those Behind the Music shows about Green Day, and a comment that Billie Joe Armstrong made just kind of stuck with me. He was talking about "Good Riddance" and how people were so surprised to hear the quiet little acoustic song that could coming from Green Day. Everyone thought they knew what to expect from them: fast, loud, and irreverent. Then they went and hit us with "Good Riddance". I believe gobsmacked is the term the British use to describe our collective reaction to it.

While explaining the process of writing the song and choosing to release it as a single, Billie Joe said that putting out that song at that time was "... the most punk rock thing we could do." It was shocking. It upset the status quo. It flew in the face of the conventional wisdom that says keep doing what's been making you money all along.

I've been thinking about Green Day and this comment a lot lately.

You see, I'm remodeling my kitchen.

I have always been one to pride myself on my lack of fear when it comes to color. There are rooms in my house painted dark brown, lime green, and Caribbean blue. Up until a couple weeks ago, my kitchen featured terra cotta walls and bright red cabinets. I love the drama of these bold hues and enjoy seeing the look of shock on color-shy people's faces when they first experience my home.

But I wanted a change.

I'd been leafing through Dwell magazine, watching snippets of the design shows on TV, etc. and came to an unexpected conclusion: I was craving beige.

So the red cabinets came down, replaced by sleek, sedate ones.

And the terra cotta paint disappeared under two coats of primer and two coats of what Valspar calls Honeymilk. (It reminds me of a freshly opened carton of vanilla ice cream. Yum.)

I love it.

It's clean.

It's modern.

And it's the most punk rock thing I could do.

My Fortune

We went out for dinner at our favorite mom & pop Thai hole-in-the-wall last night. The food's always fresh and yummy, and the couple who own it are incredibly sweet and funny. It feels more like going to someone's house to dinner than eating at a restaurant.

I'm one of those people who tends to find a favorite dish (Pad Priew Wan, in this particular case) and stick with it, but I decided to peruse the menu a bit, expand my horizons, etc. I saw something on new on the menu - a salad with sliced steak on it - that looked interesting. Noting that the menu read "also available with chicken", and also noting that I prefer chicken to beef, I ordered it that way.

About five minutes after we placed our orders, "Mom" came out from the kitchen with a copy of the menu in her hand. She asked if I'd ordered this (pointing at the menu), and I said yes (smiling). Then she said, "But you wanted with chicken?!" I nodded and pointed at the line in the menu where it said "also available with chicken". She gave me a highly-dubious yet polite smile and went back to the kitchen.

This was a bad sign.

I knew it.

But I chose to ignore it.

Anyhow, she brought out our food a bit later, and I found my plate stacked with a salad that was topped with slices of chicken. How bad could it be, right?

It had an oddly pungent quality to it, almost as if it had parmesan cheese on it. Even though I have a helluva cold, it only took me a couple bites to figure out the problem: the salad was drenched in liquid with a LOT of fish sauce in it. Maybe beef could support this intense flavor, but that chicken just wasn't doing the job. Not by a long shot.

If you are unfamiliar with fish sauce, it's basically fermented sardine juice. When I cook with it at home, I use it sparingly and wash my hands after touching the bottle. That stuff lingers.

Fish sauce adds a nice salty flavor when used correctly, but this meal was far from correct. It was like eating a plate full of yeast infection. Extreme nasal congestion was the only thing that got me through enough of that plate to not leave an insulting portion sitting there untouched.

When the fortune cookies showed up, here's what mine said:

You constantly struggle for self improvement - and it shows.

What shows?

The improvement?

Or that I'm struggling?

Assorted Goods

I had some solo time at the grocery store today, which is for me, as you may recall, equivalent to a week at Canyon Ranch. During this fabulous, indulgent time, I had a chance to linger over the produce, smell the flowers, and notice a bunch of goofball stuff worthy of comment.

1. The staff at "my" store has new name tags. Cute, clever ones. Under each person's name, they have a little personalized statement about themselves/food. From these tags I learned that Wendi, my cashier, likes Mexican food, and Jake, who inquired as to my feelings RE: paper vs. plastic, likes steak. (Confession: When I saw that Jake likes steak, I had a sudden urge to yell, "Rhyme time! Rhyme time!" - a sure sign that I've had a lot of quality toddler time this week.)

The tags add a nice, human touch to an otherwise impersonal service economy-based relationship. As an English teacher, I do take umbrage at the decision to use all lowercase letters, choosing a whim of aesthetic flow over correct writing. Examples below -

[ wendi - i like mexican food ]

[ brandon - i make super cheeseburgers ]

I wonder what kind of limitations were placed on their freedom to share via name tag, though.

Was

[ jessica - i eat my feelings ]

rejected by someone in corporate?

Would

[ timmy - i pick my nose while unpacking the tomatoes]

pass muster with the front office?

And what of

[ josh - i drink to make the pain go away ] ?

Probably not, eh?

2. New product alert! The "Helper" people have come up with new one: Asian Helper. Seriously.

Cue up the "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" song and think about the four basic categories of things the four-fingered glove "helps":

Hamburger

Chicken

Tuna

Asian

Anyone else out there screaming, "Asian is not a kind of meat!" right now?

3. Since I've had the cold/flu thing going on this week and keep repeating, "It's not H1N1. It's not H1N1," over and over to myself, I needed to pick up a little something from aisle #8 to take the edge off.

What I remember about Vick's Formula 44 from my childhood was drinking it down, getting all bug-eyed, and whispering, "That stuff burns, Grandma," once I caught my breath. (I love that I survived a childhood light on seat belt laws and heavy on giving alcoholic cold remedies to children. And Jarts! Jarts rocked!)

The ever-savvy folks at Vick's have followed the soda pop trend of highly-specialized versions of one product (Coke, Diet Coke, Caffeine Free Diet Coke, Diet Coke with Lime, etc.) and have come out with their own Custom Care line of products. So, now you can purchase Vick's Formula 44: Chesty Cough if that's what you need.

I didn't buy it, though.

My cough's more buxom than chesty.

Let the Good Times Roll

I have been on summer vacation for about fifteen minutes.

In that time I have:

• taken 1,000 mg of Tylenol,

• eaten a slice of cold pizza,

• said, "I don't have to go back to work for three months," aloud, and

• parked myself in front of the America's Next Top Model marathon.

So far, so good.

Gonna Make You Sweat

One of the joys of shopping at the Asian market is that, along with getting to eat some of the most AMAZING soup in the world at their deli, I get to revel in the bluntness of foreign food nomenclature. 

Since I don't speak an Asian language, I don't know if the tell-it-like-it-is attitude of the food names is a cultural difference or just a sign of the awkwardness of translating into English. Either way, I love that I can find a beverage that has the word sweat it its name...

Pocari Sweat

It's the Japanese equivalent of Gatorade, without all the euphemistic babble. Gatorade is basically the chemical clone of sweat - with food coloring added. I have to respect the Japanese for just putting it out there so bluntly, pretty much saying: When it's hot, you sweat. Drink sweat to replace the sweat you've been sweating. It's delicious. Enjoy. No "Is it in you?" for them. 

Speaking of Gatorade, I covered a week of summer school for Holly (of gall bladder fame) a couple summers ago. One of the boys came in toting a big bottle of dark-purple/borderline-black Gatorade. I'd never seen that kind before, so I asked, "What flavor is that?"

He glanced at the label and replied, "Lance Armstrong." 

"So, does that mean it tastes like Lance Armstrong?"

"I guess so." 

Apparently, Lance Armstrong's sweat is aubergine in color.

I have no idea what it tastes like, though.

Nor any desire to find out.

Nine is a Lot of Inches

I started dabbling in this self-improvement thing a few months ago.

The Campaign for Visible Vegetables has integrated itself quite nicely into our lives, the amount of miles the hubby and I have been hiking continues to grow, and fast food darkens our doorstep with far less frequency. 

Here's the problem, though: I see no change in my body.

Okay, there are SOME changes, like I can hike farther now than I could a few months back - and even jogged a few steps the other day. But I mean the measurable changes just aren't happening. My weight has fluctuated up and down in the same three-pound range since late-March. My clothes still fit about the same. My dreams of putting in the effort and seeing dramatic and rewarding results have been dashed. 

Fed up with the scale, I recently saw a couple mentions of waist size as an indication of fatitude vs. slimliness and realized that I had NO idea what my waist measurement is. Eager for a new means of telling myself that I'm totally not fat, I grabbed the tape measure. 

Bad choice. 

According to Real Age, my waist is about three and a half inches bigger than the big end of "ideal". 

That's not THAT much, right?

But is that the waist measurement statistic I grab on to? 

Of course not.

I decide instead to fixate on the fact that my waist is NINE INCHES bigger than the girl's on Make Me a Supermodel. Now, I appreciate that I am twenty years older than this girl and that I am never going to be a supermodel, but, still, the horror of NINE INCHES burrows into my brain and stays there. 

Nine inches is a lot of inches, yes? 

Now I'm like a dog with a bone with this whole waist measurement thing ...

On Real Age they have a waist loss tracker, so I get in there and enter my data. 

It asks for my goal. 

Um, my goal's not to feel like I tub-o-lard. 

How does that translate into numbers? 

I thought about it for a couple seconds and decided to shoot for the big end of "ideal" since I do have what is politely called a large frame (meaning I have shoulders like a linebacker).

Then it asks for the date by which I will reach this ideal (though still on the big side) state.

Great. 

Again, I'm in unfamiliar territory. 

The site tells me that half an inch every two weeks is reasonable. (Can't they just say an inch per month? Or 1.3 cm per fortnight?) I decide that three inches by summer's end should be do-able, so that's what I type in. 

So, now I have a new number to strive for. 

Another benchmark to reach. 

Great.

My real goal for myself, though, is to self-improve in the way that makes me no longer feel compelled to compare myself to supermodel wannabes. 

To reach that elusive goal of not caring about what the scale and the tape measure say.

To just appreciate the strength of my legs. 

My lungs. 

My heart. 

Now THAT would be some improvement. 

But, until then ...

Random Roadside Signs

I am so grateful to the person who invented those make-your-own sign kits for stores and restaurants, as I find them endlessly entertaining ...

I have this fantastic mental image of Holly trying

 to suck a cheese curd through a straw.

Do you suppose the Milk Gal looks like the St. Pauli Girl, 

except she's carrying two jugs of milk?

(And WTF happened to the price of gas?!)

I view the world through the lens of

Free to Be You and Me,

so my ethnic pejorative knee-jerk reaction is flaring up.

I hear the sandwich's a tasty one, though. 

If I were the manager, the sign would say:

We're Bringin' Mexi Back!

Smokin'

I was doing my leisurely stroll through the grocery store tonight when I saw him. 

He was by the smoked meats. 

He was wearing an "I (heart) Hot Moms" t-shirt. 

Ugh.

How clever.

Then I noticed that he was shopping with a rather plump woman.

He was not, as I had presumed, single.

He was deeply enough into a relationship with an actual woman to be picking out smoked meats with her at the grocery store on a Friday night.

My mind quickly fired off a barrage of judgmental thoughts, stated Jeopardy! style, in the form of questions:

Does his wife/mother-of-his-children take his idiotic shirt as some sort of compliment?! 

Why would any self-respecting woman be caught dead with a guy like that?

What sort of message is he sending to his children?!

Then I realized that the woman he was shopping with was, in fact, his mother.

I retracted my initial ugh, replaced it with an eww, and promptly left the meat department.

Workin' 5 - 9

I've read in numerous sources that we should eat five to nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day, but, honestly, unless I get all Reagan-administration about it and start counting ketchup (which I DO eat pretty much every day) as a vegetable, I'm having a helluva time getting past five.

I Heart Heinz.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Last week I ...

went hiking three times, 

did not eat ice cream after dinner (but I wanted to),

ate fruit with breakfast every morning,

and only had one BAD meal (pizza, two slices) 

... and gained one pound.

?!?!?!