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Fragile Little Flower

balcony garden

This picture was taken once upon a time* when I had a dreamy job working from home. Whenever the weather was nice enough, which it almost always is, I would sit out there to work. Eight hours in front of a computer isn’t so bad when your cubicle mates are humming birds. I miss sitting out there.

For the last two months I’ve been working long hours in an office. It’s only temporary and it’s a beautiful office, but it kills me how little time there is left in a day when you work away from home. I mean, I never used to have to put on makeup or plan my outfits or shower, even. I feel like I lose hours every day just primping. It’s kind of fun, actually. I’ve never felt so feminine. But that’s not the point. The point is, from waking until almost bedtime I’m either preparing for work, working, or doing household chores. Most days I don’t get a minute to myself until after nine-thirty at night. How does that happen? Where do the days go?

While we’re on the topic, how on GOD’S GREEN EARTH do parents with fulltime jobs make it through a week? Seriously. Because I can barely manage it and I only have dogs. I don’t know how I would manage my life and my marriage if I had another human being to look after. I don’t think I would ever sleep, ever again. I’ve already given up exercising. I haven’t moved my body, except to stand up and sit down, in two months. And for the record, I’m not getting enough sleep. It’s horrible. I should go to bed right now, but then I wouldn’t get to sit here and complain about how hard my child-free first world life is.

I know there are people reading this blog who have careers and happy marriages and children and always look great and put together and I cannot wrap my head around how they do it. I feel like it would be impossible. Am I just incredibly weak? That must be it. I’m a fragile little flower. No wonder I love sitting out on the balcony in the sun all afternoon. It explains everything.

How do you do it? You super-people with your careers and your babies and your perfect hair? I want to know.

Bad Cat

bad cat

This is just one of the majillionty ways he tortures me.

F#$%ing cat.*

*I say that with love.

I suppose our reputation precedes us. AMURICA!

G'PapaPasisa&ME

Me, my pops, and my baby nephew Chris, circa a million years ago.

My nephew Chris, who is more a like little brother than a nephew because we are so close in age, teaches English at a school in Japan. He gave his students a worksheet to review the grammar they have recently learned by completing sentences about Christmas in America. Here are his favorite answers:

In America, on Christmas, we enjoy… killing reindeer with a machine gun.

Many children love Santa Claus because he gives… them a unicorn.

On Christmas morning, children always look very… bloody.

This is a stocking! It is a sock to… receive presents.

This year for Christmas, Ms. Haruo wants to… go to a Haunted house.

Chris will go to America for Christmas to… kill.

Now that I know the Japanese believe American Christmas is all about violence and bloodshed, I’m confident that my traditional decapitated and mutilated gingerbread people will be the PERFECT gift for my nephew’s Japanese fiance and her family. Super!

Extended Holiday

his hands while he cooks

He made squash for Thanksgiving dinner. He had to work that night, but he made this wonderful squash dish as his contribution. His love in a side dish, so we wouldn’t forget. There was a moment at the table, one moment, when everyone was eating and someone tasted the squash and exclaimed over its flavor. Then someone else had to try and soon everyone was eating squash and exclaiming, so I got to brag on my beloved, which made me beam. I adore him.

“Where is he?” They all asked. “It’s so awful he has to work!” And then they pat my cheek while I insist that I don’t mind, I’m used to it. He’s worked every single holiday for every year I’ve known him, eleven years last July. I long ago gave up on the idea of spending holidays with him. I resented it for years until I figured out that holidays don’t have to be celebrated when everyone else celebrates and new traditions can be invented every year. Now I kind of love it. He works on holidays so we’re forced to draw them out, add an extra day of celebration to the week. An extra day to feel grateful, safe, loved. An extra day to sleep in and eat good food. It turns out to be pretty fabulous.

This year we shared a romantic Thanksgiving for two on Michael’s day off. We ate meatloaf leftovers and worked on a Christmas craft project inspired by the Dia de los Muertos display we saw earlier in the month. It turns out that clay people and cardboard houses are waaaaay harder to make than you’d think. Three hours of work yielded six naked, faceless people, one house with an unattached roof and only half a paint job, and a miniature wiener dog. If we actually want a whole village we’ll be working on this every year for the rest of our lives, but then again, isn’t that what it was all about? Creating a new family tradition.

He’ll work Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. We’ll wait until his next day off to celebrate together, the two of us, alone in our little home with the beasts and their endless shedded tufts of hair. We’ll cook if it sounds like fun or we’ll order in. We’ll nest. We’ll watch holiday movies or go adventuring, build tiny dream homes out of cardboard and hot glue or spend hours in bed. Whatever we do won’t matter as long as we’re together, uninterrupted, happy and in love.

This is my fourth week linking up with Just Write. You should totally link up too.

And on that day, we gorged ourselves on the flesh of dead birds

I could have titled this post, “Snapshots from Thanksgiving Weekend,” but where’s the fun in that?

turkey pie

I baked a strawberry pie. Someone who ate a piece wanted to know if I’d made it. I answered in the affirmative, of course.

Friend: Did you make this pie?
Me: Yes, sir!
Friend: How did you make the crust???
Me: With unicorn magic and fairy dust.*
Friend: THIS IS THE BEST PIE CRUST I’VE EVER EATEN.

*I did not tell my friend that, in fact, the pie crust was made by Pillsbury. I’m probably going to Hell.

table for 6

We hosted our first family dinner on Saturday. I made turkey meatloaf, roasted red potatoes, and a nice green salad. I also set the fanciest table I’ve ever set in my young little life. But it’s nothing in comparison to this:

thanksgiving table

My mother’s holiday table is what my kitchen table aspires to be when it grows up.

turkey boy

She made these beautiful turkeys out of pinecones she’s been saving for fifty-five-ish years. Her mother found them on a vacation in 1956-ish and thought they looked just like turkey bodies, so my mom has been saving them all these years to turn them into Thanksgiving decorations. Next time Mike wants to know why our linen closet is stuffed full of craft supplies I rarely use I’m going to say, PINECONE TURKEYS.

candle light

Even her hors d’oeuvre table was gorgeous.

pilgrims and natives

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without the Sylvanians! In this scene, a friendly native bearing gifts of friendship approaches a wary pilgrim. Not pictured – our fireplace mantel, where a Puritan minister teaches the natives about Jesus.

she gazes longingly

Mike made a wonderful squash dish that was the belle of the Thanksgiving ball, next to the turkey and my grandfather’s infamous wild rice stuffing. Even Valentine wanted this squash. If you behave, dear readers, I’ll share the recipe later this week.

What were the highlights from your Thanksgiving weekend?

It’s not all skin and bones

This is the best. song. ever. I seriously cannot stop myself from dancing whenever I hear it. Total mood picker-up-er. Play the video, close your eyes and listen to this song. Now. Play it play it play it DO IT!

Wasn’t that awesome? Don’t you feel great now? Is that not the happiest song you’ve ever heard in your entire life? The perfect feeling to start a long weekend with, am I right?

The cat on the table and the child in my head

I’m chopping vegetables when she starts crying, a plaintive meowing. She paces across the kitchen table, coat gleaming, belly hanging, begging for my attention. “I’m sorry, Cat. I’m fixing dinner. I’ve got nothing for you.”

In my head she’s a little girl. Three or four. Her eyes wide and pleading, “Mama, play with me!”

“I’m sorry, Baby. I’m fixing dinner. Papa will be home soon and I’m hungry! Would you like to help?”

She peels the garlic and breaks heads off brocoli stalks. “They look like tiny trees!” She is gleeful. I’m in awe of her strong little hands and the pleasure she takes in such simple tasks.

And then I chide myself for being so stupid. Getting lost in childish imaginings. Children are not in the picture. Not now, not for years, maybe never. Maybe because you never know and maybe because it just seems impossible. The other day I asked Michael, “How will we know?”

“When I have a job and we have health care and we’re ready to buy a house and we’re not worried about paying bills every month. Maybe then.”

Maybe we’ll wait until we’re in our forties and adopt. I can see myself, like all those women I watched in Manhattan with long silver hair and ethnic children. I could love any child I held in my arms, I know that.

By now I’ve peeled and chopped a whole garlic bulb, but I don’t care. I sprinkle it over the vegetables, slide it into the oven, set the timer. I over-season everything. Fresh cracked pepper makes raw chicken black. Kosher salt, onion flakes, garlic powder, oregano, basil, sage smells like pee but I sprinkle on three-times the amount you would anyway. The chicken will come out of the oven crunchy for spices but I don’t care. I like it that way. Just like I like my food burned crisp. Everything tasting like it came out of a campfire. Smoky.

I reach for another beer. Dinner is in the oven but Mike won’t be home for three hours at least. I’ll eat alone while I balance the budget. Wait up for him. Reheat a plate for him. Press my face into his neck while he eats. Breathe. So glad he’s home.

This is my second installment of Just Write, an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments, begun by Heather of the EO. You should totally join in.

Four Years of Wiener Jokes

Mike and his wiener in 2007

Mike and his wiener, NYC, February 2008

Last Wednesday was the fourth anniversary of Theo’s adoption. I unearthed this email, sent to Dopey less than a week after we’d brought him home, and oh! the memories that flooded in…

We did adopt little Theo and he is fitting in beautifully. I was worried it would be over-crowded with another little furry body in the house, but it’s not at all. He’s very sweet and mellow and the cats act like they don’t even notice him. And Val is really warming up to him. She lays on her back and nibbles his paws trying to get him to play with her. He sniffs her and then curls up on my lap or Mike’s lap – which ever lap is closest. Then she comes over and sniffs him and curls up on top of him. It’s cute.

When we first brought him home, he did not bark, he did not play, he did not sniff trees or chase cats. Rescued from a puppy mill where he lived his entire life in a chicken-wire box, he did not know how to be a dog. However, he did know how to eat a bowl of dog food in less than fifteen seconds, puke it all up, then eat it a second time. That was lovely. He also knew how to mark which dog bed was his – by pissing all over it. And he knew how to take a giant dump in our bed. (Though, to be perfectly fair, he only did that the very first night we had him home.)

It’s been remarkable, watching him bloom over the last four years. Where once he was a silent shadow who shuffled along with his head hanging low, now he bounds through our home with confidence, leaping in happy circles and howling with joy. This year he started playing with toys. I was shocked the first time I saw him wrestling one of the plush squeaky toys Valentine loves, but now it’s a daily activity. In July, he initiated a game of fetch with me, for the first time ever. I was so startled and so happy I cried. But the biggest accomplishment of all? Our little wiener is finally, FINALLY, after FOUR YEARS, finally house-trained.

hairy wiener

Bravo, Theo. Bravo. A very happy (belated) adoption day to my favorite hairy wiener.

Help Me

happy wiener

That is one seriously happy wiener.

Last night I was clearing the kitchen table so I could put together some favors for an office event. I’m picking up screw drivers and receipts and mail and recently-removed lampshade hats and I’m thinking to myself, “My goodness. We’re just living all over this place.”

What a funny thought. And so perfectly true. We’re living all over the place. Our lives are simple — work, school, chores, dog walks, dinner, work, school, chores, dog walks, dinner, work, school, chores, dog walks, dinner — but we love it that way. There are things we could whine and bitch about, for sure, but we have a good life. We’re in love. We’ve got these two stupid dogs and these two mean cats and a python that thinks we’re just barely too big to eat. We’ve got a huge, wonderful extended family. Mike is in school and I love my job and everything is kind of perfect. We’re living and enjoying our life instead of sloshing through it just to survive. And sometimes that means there are wads of dog hair under the kitchen table and piles of mail on top of it, but my point is: Mess on the kitchen table and all, I wouldn’t change a thing about our life.

Or would I? I’ve been thinking a lot about babies. (Like that’s new.) At first I thought it was just because I was ovulating, but that was weeks ago and I’m still baby crazy. (More than usual.) But then I think about our life now, and how different it would be if there was a baby. And I think about how much work a baby is and I know that I would end up doing most of the work because Mike doesn’t have boobs and how could I balance it with my job? And what if I suck at it? What if I hate it? What if I resent the baby or Mike resents the baby because everything was perfect and then we had a baby and ruined everything? I hear that’s what happens to people. They have a new baby and for the first three months they stare at that screaming thing and wonder what on Earth they did to their life.

I don’t want to feel that way about a baby. I want us to be stupidly, madly, happily in love with our baby. But what if we’re not? THEN WHAT?

This is what keeps me awake at night.

Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Yesterday I tried to post this recipe but instead I got carried away talking all about our wonderful anniversary/family visit. And as much as I loved pouring over family photos that week, I equally loved spending one-on-one time visiting with my mother-in-law. I realize that the cliche is a mother-in-law who meddles and sticks her nose in and disapproves of everything, but my mother-in-law is anything but that. She’s absolutely lovely. She reminds me a lot of my Aunt Sue – my mother’s beloved Aunty who passed away when I was 16. I spent my childhood at Aunt Sue’s heels while she baked cakes and served fairy tea in miniature china teacups. I spent hours with my head resting on her ample bosom, while she told stories about her childhood home, our nation’s capital, the illustrious Washington D.C.  She’s been gone for years, but I see her in my mother-in-law. The way Mom pads around the kitchen in red knit ballet slippers, telling stories about her childhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where her mother lived her entire life in a two-bedroom house with no kitchen sink. We spent our mornings immersed in photo albums, our afternoons cooking, and every evening I curled up at her feet like a cat and asked for more stories. More!

When Michael’s parents were first married, they owned a beautiful sailboat that they’d take out for weeks at a time. Michael cut his teeth sailing and I have seen the photos to prove it. (omgsoadorable.)  The following is a recipe for the strawberry pie Michael’s mother used to make on the boat whenever they went out to sea. It’s unbelievably easy and it’s probably one of the best strawberry pies I’ve ever eaten.

Sailboat Strawberry Pie

Oven: This will depend on the type of crust you use
Prep: 30 min.
Bake: Nada
What You’ll Need:
frozen/refrigerated pie crust
fresh strawberries
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
whipping cream
sugar
vanilla extract

We started with a Marie Callender’s frozen pie crust. I was skeptical because I’ve always insisted on baking my own pie crusts from scratch, but this pie crust was so delicious – flaky, tender, flavorful – I don’t know if I’ll ever go to the trouble of making a crust from scratch again. We followed the instructions on the box, which were something along the lines of “take the crust out of the box, prick it all over with a fork, bake it for 15 minutes, voila!”

While the crust was in the oven, we washed the strawberries, trimmed their tops off, and set them out to dry. It’s important that the strawberries are completely dry before you put them in the pie.

When the crust had baked and cooled, you sift 1 cup of powdered sugar evenly into the pie crust.

When the strawberries are completely dry, you arrange them in the powdered sugar dusted pie crust.

strawberries

We were only about half-done filling the crust with strawberries at this point…

Next, sift 1 more cup of powdered sugar over the strawberries, covering evenly and completely.

If you want to make your own whipped cream, now is the time. Add a teaspoon of vanilla extract to your whipping cream and whip on high while slowly adding sugar to taste. We forgot to buy whipping cream, but Mom had Cool Whip on hand and that worked perfectly.

Cover your pie with whipped cream (or Cool Whip) like so:

whipping cream

You want to completely cover the pie with whipped cream, much the way you would cover a meringue-topped pie with meringue – sealed all the way to the edges. Put the pie in the fridge for two or three hours to chill before serving. Voila! You’re done! Easy peasy and completely delicious.

fini

Now I wish I’d taken a photo of the pie once it was cut and plated because in addition to being delicious, it was also gorgeous. But you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Now onward! Make pies!