One of my superpowers has two parts. First, it’s finding street parking in the city. Second, and, this is the really impressive part, is getting my car into the tiniest of spaces.
I am really that good.
I am so good that I people on the sidewalk stop and watch me and applaud. I am so good that truckers pause and shake their heads before they see me adroitly place my car, at which point they nod approvingly as one pro to another. I am so good that when I did a u-turn to fluently slip into a spot across the street, an offended police officer gave a low whistle before he upbraided me for an illegal traffic move. No ticket, either.
I might do a little bit of bumper tapping, and occasionally I have to reset, but, in the end, it’s me next to the curb in a tight spot.
I will never forget when this superpower was granted to me. Ann K., my boss at the arcade, saw me struggling to get my car next to the curb. I was going nose in.
“No, honey.” (She called everyone honey.) “You can’t get in like that. Let me tell you how my uncle told me.” In a few seconds she passed on the power. She never showed me. She simply told me. I don’t know if there was a green spark or subtle neon glow that marked the powerup. Maybe. Regardless, I’ve been parking like a boss ever since.
There are, of course, physical limitations. Like you can’t put your car in a spot smaller than your vehicle. You CAN, however, put your car in a spot that LOOKS smaller. Knowing the difference is part of the superpower.
It’s really all mechanics, you say. And I say, no. It’s the power of trust. It’s believing that when you apply the mechanics your car will fit into the spot. And it does.
My parents didn’t go to my Sib’s wedding. Mom boycotted and Dad wasn’t crossing her pickett line.
I’ve always given Dad a bit of a pass on this, holding Mom more accountable in this ugliness. Because it’s ugly when parents don’t show to a child’s wedding.
The entire scenario had many missteps that played themselves out in the worst ways possible. A secret romance, an inability to tell the secret, and a toxic build up of resentment and expectations and disappointment. I’m not quite sure that there was ever an actual invitation. But everyone knew.
I was assigned the making of the meatballs. I had finals that week and the following week. My Sib asked for a couple hundred of my “famous” meatballs. Really not famous other than it was one of the things I could cook. It was literally the least I could do, so since not much was asked, I made the meatballs.
I was a broke student. I didn’t have any dress clothes that weren’t a costume. I borrowed my friend’s dress. It was a simple heavy cotton t-shirt fabric with a boat neck and green and pink and yellow stripes. It was as dressy as we could find. It wasn’t my best look. (I never returned the dress. I never wore it again, either. It hung in my closet for years.) I did have some pretty shoes, though.
My boyfriend and I drove the VW Superbeetle into town. I think we went right to the church. We helped a little with the set up. Warming up the meatballs. Setting out some favors. Not much. My Sibs, the one who was getting married and the one that lived at home with her and the parents who were not scheduled to attend, and the bridesmaids did most of the lift.
This is my memory and my story, and I know that I don’t have many of the details. I was busy and self-absorbed and living away. The main story is not mine.
Others can likely remember with more clarity and more particulars and much more flavor. Others experienced their own feelings–their own sadness and incredible joy. But I mostly remember two things.
We sat in the front row, on the bride’s side of the church. It wasn’t our church. I’m not sure it was the groom’s church, but it was a church. I sat in the row with my Other Sib and our respective boyfriends. Nobody else from our family attended. Not one of my father’s eight siblings or their families. Not one of my mother’s six siblings or their families.
My Other Sib and I were pretty sure that Dad would come. We were definite that Mom would remain absent. But Dad wouldn’t let his daughter down. We waited in our seats and our Sib appeared at the back of the church. She had a pretty ring of flowers, a crown, in the curls of her hair. Still no Dad.
She was on the arm of some short old man that we had never seen before. He was spry enough. I guess this stranger was going to give my Sib away. It really should be Dad. I exchanged glances with the Other Sib who was having the same thought.
I guess there had been music the entire time, but I didn’t notice until this weird little guy was walking my Sib down the aisle. I looked beyond them to the door of the church. This is the time when the man who belongs there walks in and takes her arm and does his job and there are tears of joy and relief that all is well.
Instead I was standing there like Princess Buttercup in the Princess Bride. When she believes that she was married and her true love did not come and save her.
CUT TO: BUTTERCUP standing there. Dazed.
BUTTERCUP: “He didn’t come.”
He let my Sib down. He let us all down. He was supposed to come and save our hearts from breaking. Instead they felt trampled, even as my Sib was saying her vows. He didn’t come. There was no Hallmark moment.
But it was still a wedding. A time for dancing and drinking and meatball eating. There was a lot of food in addition to my two-hundred homemade meatballs. There was garter throwing and bouquet tossing (this was the beginning of my streak of 5 catches). And at the end of the night, we helped clean up.
The Other Sib’s boyfriend was the D.J. for the night. One guest was especially stewed and didn’t want the evening to end. She kept requesting one song again and again in her drunken slur.
I had a boss once who didn’t like food. He had the palette of a 4-year-old.
He’d eat spaghetti with 70s-style Ragu™ sauce that was most likely corn starch, corn syrup solids and red dye no. 2 and yellow dye no. 6. No meat product. No mushrooms. No chunks of anything. Nothing but a red-ish orange coating on well cooked starch.
He’d eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, too. Always creamy peanut butter. Always grape jelly, since preserves or jams had an unpleasant texture–which for him was any texture. It was important to him to be healthy, so he spread the peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread, soft wheat bread. He was proud of himself when he tried quiche. He liked it. We’d joke and call it egg pie. He called himself sophisticated.
The guy took no pleasure out of food. He ate to live.
I was thinking about the relationships we have to food. His relationship would be considered a good one by many. Food had no power over him. It was not imbued with a special meaning. It gave him no reward. It wasn’t a treat. It was fuel.
I sent Baby Bear some chocolates with a request to be his Valentine. I sent it as a gift. I sent it because I love him. I sent some common chocolate and some better chocolate.
The common chocolate is good. It’s a quick hit of sweet and crunch. The chocolate wraps around a cookie wafer. The combination is good. You might hold the candy between your fingers as you bite it, and if you’re slow, it leaves some residue that you lick off. It can incite a smile.
The better chocolate is richer and darker. It has some sweet. It has some layers of bitter, too, like cherry coffee beans. When you bite it there is a satisfying snap. If you let it sit on your tongue it begins to break down. It becomes thick and creamy and swirly. There is a richness, a mouthfeel that helps you remember it after it melts away.
When you share the chocolate with someone–especially the better chocolate–you look at each other and say, “mmmmmm.” You might slightly close your eyes as you savor it.
I love food. I raised my kids to love food. And we love it together. We reward ourselves with a good dinner or maybe even ice cream. It wasn’t so much used as a bribe, but we would use circumstance as a justification to take pleasure in the taste and experience of food. A good report card was an excuse for Momma’s Fried Chicken. And a birthday was a reason to make paella for a table full of his friends. It’s making it sometimes. Or buying it sometimes [this one was REALLY good].
It’s definitely not about volume, but it is about consuming and enjoying. Both at the same time. In some books this is not a healthy relationship with food.
I smell the onions and garlic in a tomatoey sweet homemade sauce. It’s chunky and spicy and full of good fats and hot Italian sausage. The Spouse is making it. We will sit down and eat it. He made it for me. It makes me feel loved. We are living to eat.
I was shocked to hear that Justice Scalia passed away. I think we were all shocked.
Although I have not been a fan of his work from the bench of our highest court, my first reaction was a sense of loss.
I knew that he and the Notorious RBG were notoriously friends. In reading people’s memories of him, I learned that he and another ideological foe, Justice Elena Kagan, were hunting buddies. Scalia even recommended her to an Obama confidant–saying, “I hope he sends us someone smart,” before naming Kagan as one who met that criteria. I guess he wanted a worthy opponent.
Witty, gregarious, and fun are words that are most associated with him by colleagues and friends or various leanings–left and right, D and R.
I learned about Justice Scalia’s death on Twitter which almost immediately brought me the second shock. The Senate Majority Leader ran breathlessly to a mic within an hour to let the world know that our sitting President should not even THINK about nominating someone to fill that seat on the bench.
Oh, just stop.
Then there was the line of people disagreeing with McConnell from the Senate chambers bringing politics to the fore before anyone had a chance to pay their respects. Turning the Justice into a political football.
Please. Please just stop.
Others started piling on saying mean things–really mean. And I all could think about was that I could NOT agree with any of them. At all. Because no matter how much I disagreed with Scalia, no matter how wrong I believed his skewed intellectual gymnastics on more than one decision or dissent, he always seemed to me to be very much human.
They say he changed the Court, that he was the first to really take control of the arguments and ask challenging questions. He was a New Yorker. He was a first generation Italian-American. He was smart. He was confident. He was brash. He pushed his ideas but could obviously listen to others and agree to disagree. Without being disagreeable. I love this.
I’m not saying he’s a saint or that he should be revered. I’m just saying he might have been wrong, but he wasn’t bad. Just look close around him.
RIP, Justice Nino. Peace to your family and friends.
But sometimes it’s just skirting of rules. Is that a cheat?
I always objected to that skim. The boys knew it was not going to fly. The times someone tries to get away on an absolute narrow reading of the ruling–nope. Not happening.
I always say that we do the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law in our house. People know right from wrong. Parsing means you’re trying to get away with something.
Somebody asked me what I was doing for Valentine’s Day. We were in the kitchen at work. People were talking about their weekend plans–especially looking forward to a federally induced 3-day weekend.
“So, you have plans for Valentine’s Day?”
I was in the midst of my beeline for the coffee maker. I came to an immediate and full stop. The question halted me, and, before I could check myself, I said that Valentine’s Day was a bullshit holiday.
Now everyone in the kitchen froze. The only sound was the very faint whirring of the microwave in the background. Someone was making oatmeal, I think.
I realized what I did. I spoke bad about that (b.s.) holiday of romance among people who were primed for romance. Or pined for romance. Or thought that they were supposed to participate in this external marker for romance.
And here I was, offering grumpy-Sanders, bellicose-Trump pronouncements on hearts, chocolates and flowers. On overpriced dinners for amateurs who only go out once or twice a year.
Truthfully, I like chocolates and flowers and fancy dinners. I often buy them myself. It was part of my training, because my truly loving spouse does not show unending devotion via these symbols. [Except for the dinners. We do that together. They are fun. We like to eat. And drink fancy drinks. And wine, too.] We have our own way of maintaining civility and sparks just shy of an incendiary device as part of our long term Waltz of the Incompatibles.
So my highly attuned senses dismissed the idea that V-day is important to show love in your life. Dismissed it a little too quickly and with a bit too much fervor.
Someone broke the silence and said, “I’d think you’d be like that about Valentine’s Day.”
I really appreciate that “do what you want” attitude. So, you all do you.
Dude, I so love your music but mostly your vulnerability. You have such passion and such angst, it makes your art. And you know that a good row makes for good sales. I remember when you and 50cent went at it. That day you both dropped your records in the background of a shitstorm bet. Likely you both sold way better because of the noise. Actually we know you both sold better.
So today there was a cacophony about your new joint. Looks like you’re dissing Taylor Swift–hate to say this, but–again. The lyric in question
“I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex. / Why? I made that bitch famous.”
Then you go through some B.S. rigamarole about calling a woman a bitch is okay, even “endearing” in hip hop. It’s a term affection just like you call folks “Ns”.
Did you see what I just did there, Kanye? I didn’t call anyone an “N”, because I am white. So, you get to do that and I don’t. And I’m fine with that.
But one other thing, you don’t get to call me, or Taylor, a bitch, either. You can call 50 a bitch. And you can call Luda a bitch. I don’t care. But don’t you call a woman a bitch, because it’s not the same. At all.
Bad friggin’ blood.
Another thing I know. More folks are listening to this song. This is likely what you’re going for. And your art.
Oh Taylor!
Tay Tay has her people out on this. You’ve been one of my guilty pleasures. You have that manufactured vulnerability, too. And I am a sucker for it. And your catchy pop tunes.
But where did your little bro come from? I didn’t know he spoke on your behalf until today. I didn’t know he existed until today. I guess he was so mad at Kanye that he threw out a pair of his Kanye West branded sneakers. We know this because he did this via a post on Instagram.
I hope someone did a dumpster dive and grabbed those $200 kicks and resold them on eBay. I hear they’re going for $800-900 on the resale market. Hmmmm. I wonder if Kanye gave them to the Swift family.
Speaking of resale, all this noise continues to make Taylor Swift famous. #justsayin
It was pretty much guaranteed there’d be Kraft Singles in the deli drawer. Processed cheese product, Pepperidge Farm soft whole wheat bread and butter was my the three ingredient go-to dinner when I didn’t feel like cooking.
Grilled cheese sandwiches. Crunchy on the outside, melted goo on the inside. I would put butter on both sides of the bread so the cheese would be buttery as well.
Balancing the buttered bread as I assembled the sandwiches was the hardest part. (This worked out poorly if I left the butter in the fridge. I usually kept it on the countertop. Except for that time period when the dog was on his butter diet. The other dog, when the kids were young.)
I’d butter two pieces of bread and lay the cheese in, put the bread together, then butter the top. I’d flip the top to the bottom when I put it on the grill and butter the piece that was now on top.
Actually, buttering the sandwich really wasn’t the hardest part. Fact is, I would regularly burn the grilled cheese. The toast would be black and gross on one side. Sometimes both sides, but usually after I burned one side I’d be much more mindful and avoid burning the other. I’d scrape the bad side and serve it burnt side down. Artful presentation can go a long way. They’d still notice, though.
Fact is, burnt isn’t always the same. Sometimes it just burns right at the surface–just the coating of butter. It looks bad but tastes fine. The bread under the crust is soft and the cheese nicely melted and buttered. Sometimes it’s burnt through so the bread is hard and shiny like plastic and you know this because someone at the table knocked on it like a door with a little knuckle to prove it’s lousy. When you bite in, it definitely does not taste fine.
Because of the latter disasters, the kids would not trust that the former could occur. Always twice shy, they began to turn the sandwich over on the plate to see if it was actually burnt. Woe unto me that it was not good. To make it through dinner, I’d take the one that looked most burnt. It was fine. Almost always.
And that’s what I’d do when I did not want to cook dinner.
I think I may have burnt this one as well. It will be better next time. Probably. <
Three almost painfully earnest–think Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt–women greeted people alighting from Metro Center this morning. They were wearing big and friendly smiles.
They said “hello,” and then offered up ashes.
I looked again, sideways and not slowing down as to look like I might be a taker of their wares.
It was sunny and cold. All three women had dirt on their foreheads. I did a quick calendar calculation. Yesterday I was drinking whiskey. It was Fat Tuesday. So today would be Wednesday. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. Today.
I spied a reusable grocery bag to the left of the lay providers of holy ashes. It was like one of those brightly colored plastic totes you could buy at Trader Joe’s with tropical flower colors if not actual outlines of flowers. Were the ashes in there? In that bag? How much did they carry with them? How did they transport them? And why were they so jovial? Is this a celebration of fasting and penitence?
I’m wondering if these cheery women took this task upon themselves? Were they assigned ash distribution for those on the go from their church?
Who did they think would be interested? People who forgot about getting their ashes? Those who couldn’t make it to church?
This is definitely not for Catholics. There wasn’t a street Mass. So maybe for other Christians who do Lent? Or for a casual Lenten observer? Or maybe Lent is #trending for fashionable religious and secular alike? Like ashes from H&M?
Frankly, it’s a weird kind of proselytizing. Usually disciples give out pamphlets not ashes. Maybe the ashes were old pamphlets that they were recycling.
Pope Francis described Lent as a good time “to train ourselves to be more sensitive and merciful.” In that spirit, I am going to stop judging the happy women with the ashes in their shopping bag peddling contrition with a side of penance
Today is the first presidential primary of the 2016 Presidential Election Cycle. (I know that’s not really a proper noun, but SOMETHING should be proper this cycle. Something.)
Also, the Iowa election thing doesn’t count as a primary, because it’s a caucus. Whatever that is.
People in early primary states have an undue influence on the outcomes of our elections. Like New Hampshire. They have 0.4% of the U.S. population. (Data from here.) And they have about 95% of our news interest right now for their 48 or so delegates to the party conventions. It takes 1,237 delegates to win on the R-side and 2.383 on the D-Side. So these are drop in the bucket numbers.
In New Hampshire, they are so done with the attention. Some posted signs to keep away the “personal” attention.
“No solicitation! Political or otherwise. Please respect our privacy. We promise not to knock on your door. Thanks.” —via NYTimes
Other facts about the little granitey state of New Hampshire? They have two Senators and two members of the House of Representatives.
So I live in a place where we have ZERO Senators and ZERO members of the House. That doesn’t stop people who we don’t get to vote for from telling us what to do. Nope. It’s worse to be left out.
Oh, and one last thing. Our Presidential primary date? Used to be in April. Got moved to June. You know, when everything has already been decided.
And then we have to physically LIVE with the winner. Insult to injury. #notaxationwithoutrepresentation
Doctor of Thinkology 