Oxford Bound

I'm getting on a plane this afternoon and returning to my old stomping grounds. It feels like Christmas-- I don't know how I'm going to sleep on the plane!

In my absence, enjoy my posts from the first time I was in Oxford. I can't believe it's been almost two years. Here are some of my faves:

If America Conquered England

A Tale of Three Gingers

Overheard

Back in the UK

Valentine's Day

Weirdest

Merrily, Merrily

The Beginning of the End


Have a wonderful week!

Heads up.

I am on the cusp of two weeks of adventures, so please forgive the sporadic nature of this blog for the time being. I'll post when I can, but I can almost guarantee it won't be on Fridays, so check back early and often!

To make up for it, please enjoy this photograph. It's my favorite I've ever taken.

Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, 2008.

On Growing a Spine

In my job as a receptionist, my standard mode of operation can be summed up in the mantra You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. I have to make a lot of phone calls about things I don’t understand, and usually I can play dumb long enough that the person on the other end will give me more information than what I asked for.  Or if I have to ask a court clerk for a particularly annoying favor, I always say, “I’m so sorry… I’m new.” When I’m the one answering the phone, I try to be as helpful and overeager as possible. All in all, I have an awesome phone personality.

But there have been times that no amount of sweetness on my end can soothe the irate client or defendant on the other end. Once, a woman screamed at me for a while, and then said, “You have a nice day, bitch,” before slamming down the phone. I had sat there frozen, mouth hanging open, totally silent.

I’m not a confrontational person. I rarely get in fights. I’m never rude to waitresses or customer service representatives. I think I’m oversensitive to others’ feelings, and I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt—which doesn’t always end well.

But on Tuesday, I saw a whole new side of myself emerge.

I received a call from a man who said he’d been incorrectly served notice of a lawsuit, but that that the information on it wasn’t for him. He said, “I tried to tell the process server that, but she told me it was my problem and then she drove away. I swear, if I could get my hands around her neck, I’d strangle her.” I laughed uncomfortably and then in my pleasantest voice said, “Sir, all we need you to do is write us a letter—”

“No!” he interjected. “I’m not wasting any of my time because someone else screwed up! Why should I have to write a letter?!”

Still calm, I said, “Sir, we need to have it in writing so we can file it with the court and get the correct defendant served.”

He raised his voice to a full-blown yell, repeating his story about the woman showing up at his door and the fact that he’s the wrong person. “Sir!” I said, taken aback. “I’m trying to help you!”

He kept yelling about what a “stupid bitch” the process server was, and that he shouldn’t have to waste his time to fix this.

And that’s when I snapped.

I raised my voice’s volume to match his. I clenched my fist and extended my pointer finger, jabbing the air to italicize my words.

“LISTEN,” I said. “I AM THE RECEPTIONIST AT THE LAW OFFICE. I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PRIVATE PROCESS SERVER. SHE TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS NOW YOUR PROBLEM, SO I’M TELLING YOU HOW TO FIX THAT PROBLEM. YOU CAN LISTEN TO ME AND FIX THIS, OR DON’T, AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS WITH THE COURT. I DON’T CARE.”

“But I should have to do anything!” he said. “I don’t want to do what you’re telling me to do!”

“THEN I’M DONE TALKING TO YOU,” I replied. And I hung up the phone.

I don’t know who she was or where she came from, but she was calm and she was quick. She didn’t mumble or stutter. She stood up for herself. And when it was all over, she didn’t break into a cold sweat or need to repose on the couch to calm her shaking limbs and racing heart.

Instead, she googled the belligerent man and discovered that he was a former attorney who was now the president of a successful wealth management company. Maybe he can bully other people into giving him what he wants, but not this girl. Not this time.

Five Chick Flicks I Don't Hate

When I was a freshman in college, two of my best friends (one of them being my roommate) wouldn’t let me watch movies with them. One too many snide remarks got my privileges revoked, and any time I inquired after the title of their chosen film, they would tell me and then say, “You would hate it.”

Which was probably true. If I’m going to spend an hour and a half escaping from my world of womanly woes, I want to spend it watching a woman of Substance! Depth! Profundity! Who doesn’t need a man if she doesn’t want one! Who might be a little bit clumsy and socially awkward but doesn’t pander to her less sophisticated audience members with prat falls and wardrobe malfunctions!

I’m about to give you a list of five chick flicks I don’t hate. The following list is in no order and is by no means exclusive, and they might not even meet the snobby criteria I laid out above. I don’t hate them because I don’t hate them, okay?

You’ve Got Mail. I have a big-time crush on Tom Hanks, and I’d bet most women do. He’s so husbandly. He’s attractive, but not unattainably so. He’s funny without being annoying, and he’s just sensitive enough to bring you daisies when you have a cold, but not so sensitive that he can’t quote The Godfather when times are tough. Also, it’s a movie about books. And who doesn’t love Meg Ryan and her shadow-boxing behind the counter of her independent children’s book store?

Pride & Prejudice. Obviously. It’s my favorite love story. I like the Keira Knightley version for its length, beautiful cinematography, and soundtrack. But I love the BBC miniseries—it’s an indulgence. When I read the book, I have a mix of the two casts of minor characters in my head, but Elizabeth and Darcy are always Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. Speaking of—Mr. Darcy Takes A Bath.

The Princess Diaries. Abby and I watched this a couple of weeks ago. What girl doesn’t feel ugly and unnoticed in high school? What girl didn’t wish her grandmother was secretly the queen of a microstate after watching this? Who didn’t want a head-transplant-type makeover? Who didn’t wish she could utter Because you saw me when I was invisible when the boy of her dreams comes through at the last minute? Incidentally, this is still the only thing Anne Hathaway has done that hasn’t annoyed me.

Little Women. I’ve identified with Jo March since I read the book at age 7, and I will never, ever forgive Louisa May Alcott for keeping Jo and Laurie apart. Especially when Laurie looks like Christian Bale. After watching this for the first time as a little girl, I went through a stage of making newspapers for our family and pining after a secret-message-mailbox of my very own. This was also probably the first movie I saw in which someone really nice dies, so that was, and still is, quite a shock to my delicate system.

While You Were Sleeping. The perennial favorite. Sandra Bullock in her early days. She has bad bangs and wears frumpy sweaters. She is kind to the creepy son of her landlord. She dreams about seeing the world while she sits in her token booth at the train station. Okay, so she goes along with the untruth that she’s the fiancée of comatose Peter Gallagher, but when she’s so lonely and his family is so exuberant, can you really blame her? 

The First Sick Day

I reached another milestone in the land of independent adulthood this week: The First Sick Day. Sure, I’ve been ill since I graduated high school, but I never missed class because of it. I got a couple of sinus infections and one raging bout of bronchitis, but I got the flu while at home over a Christmas break and mono during finals week of my senior year, so I never had a sick day all through college.

But this past Monday, I woke up at 5:30 to get ready for the gym and while I was packing my bag, a dizzying wave of nausea hit me, and I puked. I rarely throw up, so I’m a huge wimp when it happens. I always cry, I always get shaky, I always feel really sorry for myself, and I always tuck myself back into bed after strategically placing a trash can next to it. This time, I also had to text my boss and say, “I puked. I’m going back to bed. I’ll be in later.” Being an hourly employee without health insurance, I cannot afford to miss work.

I woke up again around 9 and dragged myself to work, still feeling very sorry for myself. I don’t remember much of the day, other than wondering why I didn’t stay in bed. I went to bed on a mostly empty stomach, determined to feel better in the morning, even setting my alarm for 5:30 again.

On Tuesday I got up at 5:30, put on my workout clothes, and ate a cereal bar so I wouldn’t be working out on a totally empty stomach. Ten minutes later, as I voided my stomach of said cereal bar, I acknowledged in the self-punishing recesses of my brain that some day in the distant future I’ll be doing this every morning for, like, three months. The joys of womanhood.

Still in my workout clothes, I repeated the (crying, shaking, pitying) routine from Monday morning and went back to bed. At 8am, I learned one of the best lessons thus far since living on my own: if you can’t live with your mom, live with a nurse. When Jessica got home from the night shift, she responded to my SOS text message by coming in to check on me, then going to the store to buy me lots of chicken noodle soup and Sprite. Incidentally, the only comfort Lil Smoky offered was contingent on my possession of said soup. When I ate it she wasn’t interested in me any more.

As far as sick days go, this one was a pretty good one. I was too sick to get out of bed, but not sick enough to be consigned to the bathroom floor. I spent the morning watching episode after episode of Downton Abbey (which is why-didn’t-anyone-make-me-watch-this-sooner good), and then I slept the afternoon away. I completed my self-prescribed regimen of crackers, Sprite, and British accents by watching Pride & Prejudice and then going to sleep again. I was back at work on Wednesday, still a bit foggy but not pukey, and after a restful weekend (in which I may watch every episode of Downton Abbey again) I’m sure I’ll be completely back to normal.

But that’s not to say that I still don’t miss my mommy when my tumbly is rumbly.

Countdowns

For the past few years, countdowns have freaked me out. During my junior year, I didn’t want to think about my departure from Oxford zooming ever nearer. And during my senior year, I didn’t want to think about getting thrust into the cold, harsh world with merely a liberal arts diploma in hand. I wanted the sad and boring days to end themselves, and the blissful days to stretch on forever.

But since June, my life has been all about countdowns. All during the workday I focus on the dwindling hours until 5:00. On Monday evening, I think, Just do that four more times. Then there were the countdowns to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which brought longer respites from work, dirty laundry, and feeding myself.

This week-- my first full week back since before Christmas-- was chock full of unexpected turns of events. I turned in a fellowship application (you’ll know when I know), landed my first paid writing gig (freelance ad copy for a small company), and finally got a position as a volunteer ESL tutor (after completing the training in October). If those weren’t big enough causes for excitement, I finally acted with some (planned) spontaneity and made some plans.

Last week I was chatting with Abbie, one of my best friends from the Oxford days. We started reminiscing and wishing I could come visit, and I started to casually look into plane tickets. By Monday, I’d secured the funds and my boss’s blessing, and I booked my ticket for the first week of March. I’m going back to Oxford in 48 days.

In the midst of that process, my dad gently told me that my sister was feeling quite neglected. I had made vague promises to visit her at Baylor, but hadn’t done any research into plane tickets. When my dad told me her feelings were hurt, my heart dropped into my stomach. Being the self-centered girl that I am, I hadn’t even considered that my enthusiasm for going to England would communicate to my sister that I didn’t care to come see her. On Monday, before purchasing my ticket to England, I bought a plane ticket to Texas. I’m going to infiltrate my sister’s college life in 42 days.

The day after booking the tickets, I had a sudden, panicky feeling that I’d book my trip to England on the day I was supposed to see The Avett Brothers in Wichita with my right-hand man. I whipped out my planner and rifled through it, tearing a page in the process. The concert is in 58 days.

Have you noticed how close together these countdowns are? All three of those trips are happening inside a 17-day span. Just writing down my itineraries made me almost dizzy with joy.

It’s as the Roman philosopher Seneca said: “Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.”

As for me, the anticipation of traveling, of seeing new and familiar things, of reuniting with beloved faces, has already brought renewed vigor to my days.

The Shelf

I’ve told you this before, but I love books. And I don’t mean “love” in the same way I love burritos or fluffy socks. Books are my lifeblood. One of the few passions in my life that has never grown cold.

I’ve rejected purchasing a shirt because it was twenty dollars, only to turn around, walk into Barnes & Noble, and drop twenty dollars on books. I’ve never regretted buying a book.

The other day I uttered these words: “I’m never going to buy my kids toys. But they can have all the books they want.” I wasn’t completely joking.

Once, I actually got a little weepy in a bookstore as I browsed the shelves, overwhelmed by a desire to read everything at once, and a sorrow that even when I die, I’ll have missed something.

You get the idea.

I’ve been toying with the idea of setting a reading goal for 2012. Initially, I thought I’d set reading a certain number of books as a goal, and then race to it as fast as my Amazon Prime membership could carry me. But then, the other night I walked into my room and was met by the spines of all my books looking up at me. I suddenly noticed all the books that I had purchased and that have been loaned to me that I’ve never read, but prominently display on my shelves. Why don’t you like us? they asked. Please, give us a chance! Guilt-ridden, I counted them and arranged them as best as I could on a singular shelf on one bookcase.                                                                           

So here it is: The Year of The Shelf. This year, I’m going to make it through as many of these thirty-six titles as I can. Mathematically speaking, I could do it by reading three a month, but as the pictures demonstrate, some are much lengthier than others. My hope is that there are enough shorter ones to even out the tomes.

What do you think of The Shelf? Have you read any of these? Where do you think I should start? I’ll post my progress throughout the year, in addition to the regularly scheduled Friday 500 programming.

[left to right and top to bottom]

Les Miserables, Victor Hugo

North and South, Elizabeth Gaskell

The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis

Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh

Same Kind of Different As Me, Ron Hall and Denver Moore

Habits of the Mind, James Sire

Just Courage, Gary Haugen

The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

Giant, Edna Ferber

The Living, Annie Dillard

Diplomacy, Henry Kissinger

Paris 1919, Margaret MacMillan

The World is Flat, Thomas L. Friedman

A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson

The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis

A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving

The Count of Monte Christo, Alexandre Dumas

These is my Words, Nancy E. Turner

Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Native Son, Richard Wright

The Faith, Chuck Colson

Nervous Conditions, Tsitsi Dangarembga

The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey

Persuasion, Jane Austen

For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway

Light in August, William Faulkner

A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry

The Inklings, Humphrey Carpenter

Rebel Angels, Libba Bray

“A Problem from Hell”: America and the Age of Genocide, Samantha Power

The River of Doubt, Candice Millard

In the Garden of Beasts, Erik Larson

My Lucky Life in and out of Show Business, Dick Van Dyke

The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C.S. Lewis, Alan Jacobs

From Homer to Harry Potter: A Handbook on Myth and Fantasy, Matthew Dickerson & David O’Hara

2011: The Year in Photos

2011 started with shooting gingerbread
houses with a shotgun.

January: It snowed. A lot.

February: Got the coolest bruise ever when
I fell up (yes, up) the stairs.

March: Choir trip to Nashville
meant awesome photo ops,

See?

April: We got our Oxbridge medals and
pretended to know what freedom would feel like.

April: Started dating this guy.
Accidental matching ensued.

May: WE DID IT.
Also note how swollen my face is.
Mononucleosis.

May: Wittle sister gwaduated.

June: Heather got married!

July: Second best meal of the year
at the infamous Cyclone Corral.

So. Hot. All. Summer.

September: Moved into this cute little Kansas residence.

September: Lil Smoky came to live with us.

October: We ran.

December: Spent hours wrapping presents.

December: My right hand man is now
a 2nd Lieutenant in the United
States Marine Corps.

Closed out 2011 with this view from the back deck.

For the first time, I haven't the slightest clue what the coming year will bring. I do know, though, that the pictures will be way better, because they'll all be taken with this puppy.

Bring it on, 2012.

Dear Friends, Family, and Others...

Before there was Facebook’s NewsFeed, there were annual Christmas letters.

Once a year, it becomes socially acceptable for families to bombard hundreds of people across America with veritable tomes of their carefully spun triumphs and tragedies, successes and scandals.

I love them.

After years of poring over every one that comes to our mailbox, I’ve become somewhat of a connoisseur.  I’m working on the mathematical formula that determines the ratio of number of kids to length of letter.  It’s not what you’d think—early studies conclude that the more kids in the family, the more likely the writer-parent gives up on drafting an update and instead sends out photo cards sometime in mid-January.

I love these photos, too.  Since I was born, we’ve lived in five different states, and we still keep in touch with people from all of them.  For a period of about three years, my sister and I waited impatiently for the photo card to arrive from a certain family of attractive sons.  These were pre-Facebook days, so we had to wait a full year before we could see the progression of handsomeness in each of them.  We were never disappointed.

Which is a major reason why I feel a certain sense of veto power when it comes time to choose the family picture that will accompany our humble, succinct, and hilarious letter.  I don’t want to disappoint a fan with a photo that suggests I’ve developed a double chin or put on eighty pounds, all because of a poorly-chosen angle.  It’s vain—I don’t deny it—but that’s one of the main characteristics of a Christmas letter.

One of the most useful functions of a Christmas letter is that it serves as the common folks’ press conference.  It’s a chance to set the record straight, to let others know they know that others know their business, to State an Official Account and Proclaim an Official Opinion. Some parents allude to their child’s “rough patch” or “troubled times” without delving into any personal detail.  Others take a no-nonsense approach: Johnny got arrested for selling drugs. He’s doing time. We still love him.

One year, though, one family took their paper press conference to new extremes of discomfort. They told of the phone call they received from a crying son and his hysterical girlfriend, who confessed to having succumbed to the temptations of the flesh and engaging in premarital intercourse the night before.  And sure enough, a few weeks later the girlfriend discovered she was pregnant.  The letter explained that the wedding would be in a few months, and the baby would be arriving a few months after that.

I remember gingerly lifting the letter with the tips of my thumb and forefinger and setting it down as far from myself as I could reach.  In the past I’d been delightedly shocked at the length of some families’ letters, or cynically mesmerized by the tedious month-by-month timeline others’ felt sure would enrapture the multitudes. But to this day, that letter stands out as the first and only time I’ve ever felt horror and embarrassment as the predominant emotions after reading a Christmas Card Breaking News Update.

'Tis the Season

“You always hear that people are nicer at this time of year,” my friend said to me last night. “But I swear, I’ve dealt with more crazies since Thanksgiving than I have since I started in July.” She’s an Executive Team Lead at Target, a store named after what my friend must become when a customer is feeling particularly rageful.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve noticed not only that people in public aren’t nicer now than any other time of year, but also that I’m more annoyed with this behavior than I usually I am. I’m sure this stems from the naughty-or-nice-list paranoia engrained in us at a young age. In July, though, I usually forget that the jerk who cut me off in traffic will inevitably get coal in his stocking.

I’m not exempt from this Scrooge-like behavior, either.  On my lunch break earlier this week I went to the Plaza to buy a Christmas present for my sister.  My car speakers were pumping Julie Andrews’ Christmas album, but that didn’t counteract the road rage I felt when two cars blocked the entire street while waiting for other shoppers to get in their cars, rid their hands of bags, dig their keys out of their massive purses, start the car, tune the radio, adjust the temperature controls, and slowly creep backwards out of their spaces.  While Julie’s dulcet tones proclaimed the birth of the long-awaited Savior, I sighed heavily, threw my hands up in the air, and looked around wildly to see if there was a way around these cars. I’m trying to make Christmas merry, and you. are. ruining. it.

That night, I was at the grocery store. I was tired and frustrated and at the end of my Christmas spirit for the day when a young mom with three boisterous kids cut me off with an overflowing cart in a narrow aisle.  She realized it immediately and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Such self-awareness motivated me to mumble, “It’s okay,” while giving her the pursed-lip-smile reserved for encounters such as this.

Later, I was trying to locate the shortest check-out line I heard someone yelp, “Oh, no! No no no!” It was the same lady, having just rung up all her groceries and realizing she didn’t have her wallet.  But she wasn’t saying “no” to the cashier—she was saying it to the older woman behind her.  “I just live down the street!” the young mom was exclaiming. “Really, it’s okay!”  The older lady shook her head and held her hand out in front of her, stopping the mom’s protestations.  “It’s okay,” she said. “Please, let me.”  I quickly figured out that this older lady was offering to pay for this family’s full cart of groceries, just so the mom wouldn’t have to go all the way home and all the way back with three little kids in tow.

I was so taken aback just witnessing this stranger’s generosity that tears sprang to my eyes. It takes a great deal of attention and intention to look outside of our own gift lists, party calendars, and baking schedules. This woman’s kindness will remain in my memory for years to come, and maybe because of her I can find some graciousness and generosity to replace the road rage.

Artwork by Colorado artist Dan Fraley

The Thing About Music

I know. It’s Tuesday. But you know, I was giving thanks with my family, then I was stranded in the Denver airport on Sunday night, and then I was so sleepy last night that I didn’t even eat. Today I wanted to write about the people that annoy me at the gym or the people that annoy me on the phone at work, but I got too annoyed thinking about it and didn’t want to annoy others by writing about it.

Recently, someone asked me, “Do you like music?” I replied, “Doesn’t everyone?” I was sure music held universal appeal, that only specific preferences varied.  Then I heard of someone’s uncle, who doesn’t “get” music.  Doesn’t care about it.  Doesn’t choose to play it for personal enjoyment.  This baffled me, and I wanted to write this long-winded opus on the importance music has in my life, on how even in my darkest days Concert Choir was always a sunny ray of hope, on the reasons why I was named after a hymnal and my dog was named after a country music star.  But I knew that I’d get carried away and start bragging on the number of songs in my iTunes, but forgetting to mention the percentage of them that I’ve never listened to.  Somehow I’d find myself arguing on the side of Pitchfork for Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’s perfect score, but disagreeing with just about every other rating they’ve given and berating them for being such a pretentious gang of garrulous band geeks.  Before I knew it, I’d find myself making claims that I can in no way substantiate about the most underrated bands or the best lyricist of our generation.

And so, as I type this, I’m pulling up iTunes. In this Friday 500 exclusive, I shall bare my ears’ and my soul’s true preferences.

The first glance at the list of my Top 25 Most Played songs reveals to me that almost all of these songs wouldn’t be on the list in the first place if it weren’t for my weird penchant for putting songs on repeat.  Sometimes, no other song will fit my groove (see #19, “O Children” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds).  Sometimes, I’m trying to up my street cred by learning all the words (see #10, “All of the Lights” by Kanye West).  Sometimes it’s because I was studying for hours and didn’t realize the repeat button was on (see #21, “Dawn”—the first track on the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack).  Or sometimes it’s because I was studying and was very aware that the repeat button was on because I need to drown out the music in the Union and receive an uplifting message at the same time (see #2, “Don't Let Me Fall” by B.o.B.).  And sometimes it’s because I made a playlist of only four songs and played it every time I showered for six months (see #3-6).

But as far as I can remember, I’ve never put #1 (“I Feel It All” by Feist) on repeat.  It’s my happy song. The one I play when I’ve had a victorious day, or when I want to pretend my life has a soundtrack.  I must say—I’m pleased, and somewhat relieved, to discover that my happy song’s playcounts far surpass those of my weird-repeat-phase songs.

Half a Year as an Adult

As of this past Monday, I’ve been a college graduate for six months.  I’ve learned some surprising things since then. Here’s a sampling.

1.  Everything in my life is now my fault.  If I don’t have clean pants to wear to work, it’s because I didn’t do laundry.  If I have eaten nothing but beans and rice for three days, it’s because I didn’t go to the grocery store.  If I can barely see my face in the mirror, it’s because I haven’t replaced burnt-out light bulbs in my bathroom.  There are no work orders, no cafeterias, and no offices that will allow dirty and/or wrinkly pants.

2.  I should never live alone.  I have come to embrace my introverted self in the past couple of years, and I’m finding that it’s easy to disappear into my own world in the evenings, even when I live with three other girls and two dogs.  If I didn’t have them to interact with, there would be a strong chance of my semi-misanthropic behavior completely consuming my days.

3.  This is the first time in my life my friends aren’t readily available.  While it may sound contradictory to #2, I hate not being around them on a daily basis.  Seeing each other takes intention and planning—no more spontaneous dropping in or trips to Wal-Mart.  What’s hard, though, is realizing that this is the norm for adult life.  I haven’t made the adjustment well.

4.  Words are still the love of my life.  I haven’t been without a book since I graduated, although I haven’t had as much time to read as I used to fantasize about (see #1).  Last night I met with a friend who’s working on writing a book, and just going over her work with her left me giddy.  Times like that, coupled with the mind-numbing job I have now, strengthen my confidence in the fact that some day I will make money by writing.

5.  The new love of my life may very well be cooking, especially for other people.  When my right-hand man and I get a weekend together, we try to have at least one cooking adventure.  We’ve made some delicious things together, which motivates me to keep trying new things when we’re apart.  Some of our proudest achievements include a whole roast chicken, a hummus pizza, and chicken tikka masala.

6.  I’ve gotten to the point in life where I have to do math to remember my age.  And that number still confuses me some days.

7.  I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever be a morning person.  Ever.  I have tried for months to make this happen, but all it’s doing is turning me into a no-time-of-day person.  Early to bed and early to rise may be making me healthy, but it sure isn’t making me wealthy or wise.  Just cranky.

8.  Discipline is good for me, and I’m not as bad at it as I previously thought.  I’ve been to the gym nearly every weekday morning for over three months.  I went to a volunteer training session at the local community college.  I went to an eight-week class at my church.  I’ve written this blog every single week.  I’ve cleaned my room and bathroom, washed my sheets and towels, vacuumed my carpet and car more than once since moving in.

9.  I’m certainly not where I thought I’d be, and I still have no idea where I’m going.  Here’s to hoping the next six months bring more surprises and greater adventures.

Posole

For the first time ever, I'm responsible for feeding myself on a daily basis. I find therapy in preparing a meal, and victory when the first bite reveals itself to be exactly what I wanted it to be. It's like in Julie & Julia, when Julie is making a chocolate pie and says, "I love that after a day when nothing is sure-- and when I say 'nothing' I mean nothing-- you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate, and sugar to milk, it will get thick. It's such a comfort."

And in the fall, few things are more comforting than soup. One of our family's signature dishes is a Mexican stew called posole. After I left for college, cold weather always brought a hankering for Dad's posole, and I always requested it on visits home. I always assumed it was a complicated recipe, because we're the only family I've ever met who a) knows what it is b) eats it.

But this last weekend my right-hand man was coming to visit, and I wanted to cook to impress, so I asked my dad for his recipe. He said he'd never used a recipe, so he made a batch and wrote everything down for me. Turns out, it's pretty much a foolproof meal. And now, I'm going to share it with you. Make this the next time you feel like you'll never be warm again. It'll warm you up, fill you up, and clear your sinuses out. All measurements are estimates, so tailor them to your needs and wants.

The Cast of Characters

-Boneless pork chops (I bought 1.3 pounds)

-2-3 cups of vegetable stock or chicken broth

-2 16 oz. cans of red chili or enchilada sauce

-1 big can of white hominy (mine was some weird size like 29 oz)

-One large onion

-Spices: cumin, oregano, salt

-Minced garlic (not pictured)

Step one: chop the onion.

Fun fact: I only cry while chopping onions when I'm not wearing contacts. I like to think they act as little plastic shields.

Step two: cut pork into bite-sized pieces.

Raw meat always makes me feel weird. I could never be a cannibal.

Step three: drizzle some oil into a large soup pot. Cook onions with a heaping tablespoon of minced garlic. Giggle with satisfaction when your creation starts smelling magical.

Step four: add pork chop chunks (say that five times) and cook thoroughly.

Step five: pour in can of hominy, with juices.

If I had a British twin sister, her name would be Hominy.

Step six: pour in enough broth to cover the contents of the pot by about half an inch.

It should be this color.

Step seven: add spices to taste. I used a full teaspoon of cumin and about a teaspoon

and a half of oregano.

Look closely and you can see my awesome apron.

DON'T DO THIS. Leaving the lid on prevents extra water from evaporating. You want it not-too-runny and not-too-thick. If the latter happens, add boiling water a cup at a time.

Do this.

Step eight: bring to a boil and then immediately turn it down to a simmer. It can simmer while you finish make guac or shredding cheese or pulling some rolls out of the oven, but don't let it go much longer than 45 minutes, or the hominy will fall apart. I can't imagine hominy crumbles to be that appetizing.

Serve it up. I'd guess my pot could have served 4-6 people. That hunk in my bowl is part of a roll. I like sopping my soup. Sue me.

Typically, I also like grated cheese in mine. It gets all melty and stringy and happy.

I also made these Buttery Cloverleaf Rolls from How Sweet Eats, my favorite food blog. Mine weren't as pretty, but they were just as delicious.

Leftovers keep really well. I know because I just had some for dinner, and tomorrow I'll have some for lunch. And my heart and my lips will tingle with joy once more.

Fright Night.

Short of sitting upright, I awoke in the middle of the night in the same fashion as every movie character victimized by a nightmare has woken up. I gasped for breath, eyes wide, trying to find comfort in the reality of my room. My ears strained to confirm the silence around me. But wait—there was a sound. It sounded like slow, sneaking footsteps on gravel—the gravel that surrounded our window wells out back. While we had neighbors, our house was remote compared to the tight security of a suburb. We were about to brutally robbed, tortured, and murdered, and no one would know for days. Then I remembered that Mom and Meagan were out of town, and tears sprang to my eyes as I imagined them coming home from their trip and being welcomed by the grisly scene. I had no choice but to wake up Dad. I knew he had a gun—I just prayed he could get to it and load it in time.

I counted to three and leapt from my bed, tiptoeing as quickly as I could without making a lot of noise. My parents’ bedroom was on the other side of the house, meaning I’d have to cross in front of the windows where the thieves were operating. I braced myself, waiting for a gunshot or the sound of broken glass, but I still only heard the crunch crunch crrrruuuuuncccchhhhh of the gravel under their feet. I made it into the bedroom and loudly whispered Dad! while shaking his shoulders. When disturbed, my dad always wakes with a start. “What? What?! What is it?” he said.

I burst into tears. “I think there’s someone outside and I heard people walking on gravel and I’m so scared and what are we going to do and will you go check and can you take your gun?”

“What?” he said, cocking his head in confusion. In this interest of full disclosure, this was not the first time my middle-of-the-night frights had interrupted my parents’ slumber. I took a deep breath and described the noise I had heard outside of the window. He got out of bed and followed me to the back doors. Sure enough, crunch crunch crrrruuuuuuuncccccchhhhh. But after a minute, the sound seemed to move, and we followed it to our left, pausing every two feet or so to reevaluate. After a few steps, the crunching was louder than ever. Surely only the wall was separating us from our inevitable attackers.

After one more step, Dad bumped into Shania's crate. She looked up at us with those sweet brown eyes, and we realized that the crunching sound seemed to be coming from a spot much lower than we had originally thought. I squatted in front of Shania, and I heard it again. Crunch crunch crrrrrruuuuuunnnnnnchhhhh. It wasn’t coming from outside. It wasn’t coming from the soles of serial killers’ combat boots. It was coming from inside my dog.

“Is that her stomach growling?” Dad asked.

I continued to stare at my dog and tried to make sense of these new clues.

Crunch crrrrruuuuunnnnnchhhh.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”

Dad sighed. “Did you remember to feed her today?”

My face flushed as the final pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I forgot.”

“Well, give her some food and go back to bed,” he said as he walked back to his room.

I was fourteen years old.

[As a way to thank my indefatigable readers, I'm going to start doing giveaways every now and then.]

YOU COULD WIN a $10 Amazon gift card! Just post a comment that answers this question:

What are you afraid of?

One (1) winner will be chosen at random on Tuesday at 8pm. One entry per person. Make sure your comment identifies you in some way-- email address, website, name, SSN... I'll contact you and we'll figure out the best way to get you your prize! --M
edit: Caitlin W. is the lucky winner! Not so lucky for the whole kidney stone thing, but lucky nonetheless.

On Courage.

I sat on the wrought iron bench at the corner of Westport Road and Broadway, and I opened my book to read. I hadn’t made it through the first paragraph of the new chapter before I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a man approaching me. I glanced up and gave him the closed-mouthed smile reserved only for strangers whose eye contact you can’t avoid.

He was of Middle Eastern descent, I would guess, and squat, with his black hair combed straight back. He was dressed all in black, not in the goth way, but in the trying-and-failing-to-be-mysterious kind of way. He sported transition lenses, but the cloudy sky couldn’t convince them to transition one way or the other. And it’s worth mentioning that he was at least 30 years old.

He stopped in front of me. “Do you like poetry?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, hoping the open book on my lap communicated that he was currently interrupting my literary pursuit.

“Would you like to hear a poem?”

“Okay.”

He began reciting in the style of slam poetry; it ended with “Touch. This. Word. [pause] Freedom.” He was now sitting on the bench next to mine, and he reclined, taking a sip from his coffee and looking pleased with himself.

“Did you write that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “What’d you think? Am I right to be cocky about that one?”

It wasn’t a good poem, and I don’t particularly care for slam poetry, but I didn’t say so.

“I’m Josh,” he said, proffering his hand.

I shook it. “Melody.”

“Melody,” he repeated. “That’s a pretty name.”

“I didn’t pick it out,” I told him.

He asked what I did, and I told him and returned the question. “I’m a web developer,” he told me. “I’m also a DJ. But I haven’t DJ’d in, like, two months, so I think I’m really trying to fill that creative void.” I nodded sympathetically and he began rooting around in the inside pocket of his coat. “Here,” he said, handing me a CD labeled AMAZE in Sharpie. “This is my demo. You can have it.” I thanked him, slipped it in my bag, and started to wonder where the cameras were hidden.

“So do you have big Halloween plans?” he asked.

“No. It’s been a long couple of weeks,” I said. “I’m looking forward to a quiet weekend.”

There was a pause, and I could see the wheels behind his indecisive transition lenses start turning.

“I’m going to a poetry reading on Sunday,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Do you like poetry readings?”

“I’ve never been to one,” I replied. Where was all this inconvenient honesty coming from?

Another contemplative pause. Then he gestured with his coffee cup and asked, “Would you be willing to take a chance on a random stranger?”

“I have a boyfriend,” I said, in a tone I hoped was confident and unapologetic. I mentally noted that this was the first time in my life I could use that sentence to say “no” and I wouldn’t be lying.

“You have a boyfriend?” he said, and I nodded. “Of course you do,” he said, sighing dejectedly. “That’s probably why I sat down to talk to you in the first place.”

“Thanks for the poem, though,” I said. He smiled sadly and bid me good day.

Oh, no, I haven’t listened to the CD yet.

[edit: I've listened to all of 1:12 of the 59:23 of the CD. Even that was a stretch.]