Litmus

I am uncomfortable around people I can't read.

Be hot or cold, but please don't be lukewarm.

Love me or hate me, but please don't be quiet around me because your mother taught you to be quiet if you can't say something nice.

Laugh with me or tear me apart, but please don't...*shudder*...be polite.

I believe in manners. I believe in "thank you" notes. This isn't about etiquette.

It's about barriers and walls that I can't get through or over. If you don't let me in then I am of no use while wearing my strong suit of compatibility. I can relate to you. I can find common ground with you. You don't have to feel alone, you facade of stone.

I only know how to be real. I can't fake it, I have no poker face and I'm not interested in masquerades. If I have a smooth exterior I'm calm. If I'm furrowed I'm thinking about something. If I'm furrowed with tiny lips I'm probably mad. If you call before 8 there is no way I can clear my throat enough times to successfully fake that I'm a morning person. If you cook shrimp I won't eat it. If you present dark chocolate I will take all of it.

I can accept people who are acidic and basic. I just don't know what to do with you perfect neutrals.

Fledgling

I had to read "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin in AP English. I thought it was good. In fact, I think I told people for several years thereafter that it was one of my favorite books. You know, the book about the woman on a summer vacation that swims a lot? I re-read it two years ago. WHAT WAS I THINKING? It's about a woman who ignores her kids, has affairs, eats bon-bons and then commits suicide by swimming into the ocean after she realizes she's made a royal mess of her own life. How did I miss all that in high school? (It must run in the family since my own sister, after seeing "The Sound of Music" no less than thirty times growing up, called me after she was married and said, "Did you know that movie was about the Nazis?!!") So "The Awakening" is a crazy, nutso book, however, I did really enjoy this little snippet and have never forgotten it:

“Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. `The bird that would soar must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.'”

“Whither would you soar?”

“I'm not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend her.”

“I've heard she's partially demented,” said Arobin.

“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied.

I think about this every time I hug someone and their shoulder blades protrude. I think, "Yep. They're growing wings. Strong person. Lots in store for them." Stinking Edna Pontillier!

That same year of high school I also took statistics (only because I was afraid calculus would ruin my 4.0). Jake Giessman and Dave Clark, makers of supreme mix tapes, were also in my class. Somehow I borrowed one of the tapes they made for the other and it had Blues Traveler's "Fledgling" on Side B. I loved that song. I still do, even though John Popper gets a little crazy in the third verse. I love the lyrics. It's about a new and naturally weak baby bird that is afraid to raise his head and take on the world. Fledgling stops his crying, spreads his wings and falls out of the nest that has grown too small for him. Inches before death he flies and finds the freedom he was born for. Then he takes on the heavens and rules his minions up there. A heavenly flight is better than an earthly nest.

I continue to assimilate Blues Traveler and Kate Chopin. Isn't it obvious?

No more head down, no more crying and self-pity for This Fledgling. I feel like I'm on the edge of something great. I feel like my shoulder blades are ready for soaring. I've been in this nest ten years and it doesn't feel feathery and comfort zoney anymore. I believe I'm ready for a big jump. I know it because I feel it, and my heart never lies. Greg and I have a plan. It's taken ten years to figure out the plan, but I think that was actually part of the plan. I keep reminding myself that part of Fledgling's path is falling, falling, almost dying, more falling and fear...and then comes the photo finish. I can do this. I can do this. It will be worth it. I want minions, not a bigger nest.

Kiss Me, I'm Thai-rish

Twenty dollars' worth of pennies is heavy. I know because I cleaned the bank out Friday at closing time. I needed leprechaun gold.

RE still hasn't counted it, but the jar weighs 8.2 lbs and is only $12.50. I hid the other $7.50 in the bottom of the coat closet. Had I not been down to the wire I would have liked to have done something heinous like soak the pennies in toilet bowl cleaner until they shined like the top of the Chrysler Building. (Miss Hannigan!)

The luckiest thing about this lucky holiday was that I got to have dinner with three of my BYU "Crown Apartment Roommates" and their families. Well, that was the second luckiest thing. The first luckiest was that one of the roommates married a guy that can cook any Thai food you can dream of. (Crown Apartments: all the luxury $196/month could buy including bleach-stained tiger shag carpet, peeling vinyl kitchen floors, one shower that worked, one that took 45 minutes to drain and enough outlets for six hairdryers to run at the same time. It's all good because I never would have met my future husband unless I'd chosen to live in that filth hole.)

My stomach enjoyed stretching to maximum capacity with coconut soup, pineapple curry, basil chicken, beef salad, Thai apple salad, pomelo salad, sticky rice, stir fry, pad Thai, grilled beef and chicken skewers with the most SHAZAM peanut sauce mankind ever produced, egg rolls, spicy cucumber relish, spring rolls and chocolate chip cookie pie. (Last item not Thai. Enjoyed nonetheless.) Whenever I eat food like this I am appreciative of all the cultures in the world and what they can do with local ingredients. Thailand: way to make the most of what you've got...like barrels of rotting fish.  Industrious, yes. Miraculous, yes. Gross when I think about it or smell the fish sauce bottle too closely? Yes. But we all know fish sauce is what makes Thai food great.

I digress. Back to the roommates. I love them. I haven't seen one of them for over a decade. They are all strong and secure women. Secure people are generally more fun to hang out with than insecure people. I can't remember how I was when I lived with them, but I'm guessing I was selfish, immature and that I was still writing my initials on my food.  I have changed a lot in 15 years. I'm sure they have, too, but I remember them as perfect roommates. Suzette was the politically-charged writer that left grammatically correct phone messages in her noteworthy handwriting and removed eye make-up with Vaseline. Mary was the sweet, mellow biologist that never lost her temper or her grace, and Heather was My Other Half for two years of my single college life.

Heather and I roomed together on cheap mattresses that teetered on cinder blocks. She would play "Someone Like You" from Jekyll & Hyde for us to fall asleep to, she introduced me to Toffifay candy (it aggravated me to no end that she could suck on one for an hour and not just chew it), she would roundbrush my hair just like the professionals at Von Curtis before my dates, she hung Van Gogh's Irises on our wall, she ate Crisco on a spatula (don't judge her...it stems from her days as a cake decorator), she left me dozens of notes on my bed after she'd make it, she always let me borrow her Eddie Bauer sweater and I always loaned her my cream J. Crew tee, and...most of all...she introduced me to narcolepsy. I have never met someone as narcoleptic as Heather. (She said it has come in very handy as a mother of five with a husband who is deployed from time to time.) Heather is pure goodness wrapped in sun-kissed freckles, easy laughter and cheekbones.

What I am trying to say is that it was really nice to overload on sodium with women who were lifechangers for me. I'm lucky, and it's always nice to realize one is lucky on St. Patrick's Day.

Bettermilk

This is really how it went:

Me: Here is the Proof of Loss form you needed me to print. And a cookie for good measure.

Mary: Thanks. Sorry we don't have a printer right now. Floods are lame.

Me: Yes, floods are lame. By the way, I finally made buttermilk syrup.

Mary: We love buttermilk syrup! It's all we eat!

Me: I see why. It's something of a gastronomic revelation.

Mary: It's hard to go back to the old stuff after buttermilk syrup.

Me: Old stuff? Pure maple syrup?

Mary: No, Mrs. Butterworth.

Me:  Mrs. Butterworth belongs in prison. So does Aunt Jemima.

Mary: Yes, yes they do.

Me: Prison in the Log Cabin. That stuff is also revolting.

Buttermilk Syrup

1/2 c. white sugar

3/4 c. buttermilk

1/2 c. butter

2 T. honey

1 t. baking soda

2 t. vanilla

Stir everything in a saucepan except the vanilla. Bring to a boil, turn heat down, slow boil for 4-5 minutes. Remove from heat. Add vanilla. It will thicken slightly as it sits. Stores well in the fridge.

Please don't cringe at the thought of tangy milk in your syrup. This tastes like caramel and as long as your pair it with some tart berries you won't die of sugar shock. We serve ours on whole-wheat blueberry waffles with fresh strawberries on top. It's cheaper than "liquid gold" (pure maple syrup) and the leftovers are great for dipping apples in.

Counting

 

You never know what the day will bring.

I woke up with a long to-do list and ended up charging $1200 to the plumber, who, coincidentally, is the reigning Mr. Utah these last three years. (Imagine a fridge with a head.) Forget augers and power-jetting...we discussed the correct post-workout protein-to-carb ratio.

Hours later out on retail errands I was rendered unfunctionable by my waffling between pricey salon texturizing spray or cheap John Frieda spray. I chose the cheap stuff because we all know my hairs are as thin as they come and salon or not spray is not going to disguise them. Then I chose generic ranch dressing over namebrand. I saved myself $14.40 which ended up being 1.2% of today's plumbing bill. If I just do this 99 more times then today never happened. I couldn't write off the entire day to pipe issues so I sat down and sewed four fabric yo-yos (also called "rosettes") before I took my 8:20 p.m. shower.

Some days are like this.

I was weary of counting. Counting dollars. Counting calories. Counting minutes until pick-up from school. Counting flaws. Counting it all. I wanted to let loose.

PLAN A FOR LETTING LOOSE: Order everything on my Amazon wishlist, eat a Torpedo at Bruges Waffles & Frites, take a nap and a get a massage for three consecutive days until my stubborn scalenes and rhomboids SHUT UP.

This is no kind of attitude for success. 

I settled for PLAN B: a second-dose-in-four-days blueberry cheesecake custard at Culver's with an old friend. We spent one hour and 41 minutes eating our one scoop of custard, not that I'm counting. I realized when I arrived home full-bellied and full of laughing endorphins that with all this counting I forgot to count my blessings.