Bring it to the Table

No matter what situation I find myself in, I always have a primal need to contribute. I want to feel as though I've brought something to the table. That I have some sort of valuable skill, knowledge, etc. that makes me worth having around. Occasionally, not gonna lie, I even get a wee bit aggressive about it.

Cue a tale of pies and anxiety.

When it comes to cooking and baking, there is a very limited set of recipes in my repertoire. I'm not exactly what one would call "domestic" in that regard. Don't get me wrong, if provided a recipe to laboriously follow, I'll produce results. But in terms of instinct, you'll find none. The exception to this is pies.

For years, I had traditionally helped one of my grandma's prep the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. While this was a good Pie 101 (with brilliant tips like adding a baking sheet under your pie pan so if it bubbles over it doesn't get all over your oven), it was largely mixing pumpkin mush with spices / evaporated milk (seriously, what IS that stuff??) and popping it in the oven. I'd spend the course of the baking time convincing my grandma we should also make fudge, gorge myself on all the goodies, and then we'd call it a day. The real Pie Academy came from my other grandma.

She had just had a shoulder surgery and casually asked that I come visit her. Naturally I obliged and arrived wearing my sunniest granddaughter disposition, ready for a quiet afternoon of chit chatting. Shortly thereafter, she asked if I could help out with a few things. Why of course, dearest grandmother, your favorite grandkid to the rescue! There was no way of knowing what trap I had just walked into... the Pie Trap.

The next several hours I found myself kneading crusts, chopping apples, smashing pecans, creating some sort of meringue, measuring and mixing spices of every variety, staring into the oven, cranking out pie after pie...after pie... It had been a setup all along. Her gaggle of children were coming to visit (my aunts and uncles) and they loved when she baked for them. A pie was always present, without exception. Even when she couldn't move her arm, the pies needed to be there.

Hagrid approves of Halloween-themed pies and penguin ovenmits
#ReasonsImNotAnAdult

So there I was, the unwitting victim to a pie sweatshop (too soon?). No recipes, only trial and error shown through in decades of practice. And to this day, it's the only reason I can make a pie worth a damn. Don't get me wrong, I attempted to document because working from memory just isn't in the cards for me, but it's mostly things like "handful of x" and "some of z" and "don't forget to add butter." And I still struggle to find it on my laptop. I have two files named "apple pie" in my recipe folder. One is definitely for booze. I figure, whichever one I open up is the one I'll make. Russian roulette between pie and dranks - I'll take those odds.

Fast forward to this fall, when the beau and I decided to visit an apple orchard. Leading up to the excursion, I happily exclaimed how I would make us a pie from our pickings. My ridiculous delight at the chance to finally shine in the kitchen and prove my worth as a happy 50s housewife was shattered as he remarked, "Oh good idea, I've got a new pie recipe I wanted to try out!" A well-meant comment caused a fracture in my grin, as I quietly whimpered, "But, I want to make my pie. It's my grandma's pie. That pie is the pie I can make... " A noncommittal exchange followed, the result of which was my stubbornness coming out and me basically settling on, "Fine, make whatever pie you want, I'm going to make my pie."

One pie to rule them all... 

He, of course, didn't realize that I was clinging to that pie, afraid to expose my already obvious weakness in the kitchen by admitting that I can only make those specific, Grandma-inspired versions of pie and no others. As he is already far superior to me in the kitchen ((the man makes his own ice cream for Pete's sake, and has yeast at the ready to make bread or brew beer, or just to throw in the air like a magic Alton Brown kitchen fairy)), and we both know that I pale in comparison, I hold fast to tiny victories - like that damn pie. Wasn't about to give up my one skill to some other rando pie recipe.

At the end of the day, we did both make a pie. While I faked my domesticity, he gained brownie points by complimenting my efforts. Such a gem. Naturally, I responded by saying his pie was fine but mine was obviously superior. Because if I'm going to bring something to the table, it's going to be all-in, blue ribbon winner, or nothing at all, and humble pie is not one that my Grandma taught me to make...

Sweet victory... à la mode

What's your go-to heirloom recipe? 

Anyone else struggle pretending to be as effortless as the iconic 50s housewife?

Busy Doing Something Close to Nothing

Life has been, shall we say, "busy" lately. All the adult points have been had. All the events planned, attended, documented via endless photos and social media postings, etc. Good times for all as we raced through the summer and into early fall.

Time flew. It flew like a kid on roller blades down a steep hill. At first it seems like a great idea, but as the momentum gathers the gleeful delight turns into a shriek as the kid realizes they can't slow down. Eventually they throw themself off the sidewalk and onto the grass in a tumbled attempt to stop. All the chaos, all the flailing arms, all the scrapped elbows. But at least they stopped before they flew out into the busy traffic at the intersection (that's always what's at the bottom of the hill). The flight has come to an abrupt halt. It was quite the ride.

That was me, hurtling into this past Sunday.

I awoke to silence. The calm after the storm. And I realized - I have no obligations to anyone today. OR this week. Looking around me, I literally almost didn't even know what to do with myself. So naturally, I went back to sleep.

Upon waking again, still silence. The beau was away at work, and I knew I should go get my car and head back to my place but... my place was full of things to do. Chores. Dishes. Cleanup from the weeks of chaos. Windows to weather proof. Laundry to tend to. My place, in other words, was simply not on the agenda. I had at least five remaining hours of total alone time, I wasn't about to give that up to a silly thing like responsibility.

Making the executive decision that the TV was to remain off, I wandered about aimlessly. I could go for a walk maybe? Enjoy the day? No, today was lazy day. No leaving the apartment at all. The world was too busy. Staring down the silence, I started to list out possibilities. Work out? Look through and edit all my photos from the day before? Impromptu solo dance party? All of it somehow sounded like work. So, after some mild cleaning/organizing (it's not a burden when it's helping another person, instead of dealing with my own crap), I settled into the couch and nested.

Nesting is an all-time favorite hobby of mine. Gathering pillows, blankets, miscellaneous snacks and twigs, etc. into a giant heap (in this case, on the couch itself) and burrowing in. Once nested, reading a book, napping, listening to music or just laying about are all fair game. After constructing and cozying up into my new fluffy home, I got anxious about not getting anything done. I'd resolved to be lazy, but after such a constant rush forward, the abrupt halt was too much. To compromise, I pulled out the laptop and perused endless recipes and organizing tips. Things I'll never actually cook or apply to my life, but that I simply adore reading about. Could spend days looking at tips and tricks. But that soon too felt like work.

By this time I realized though that it was merely an hour before the man of the house returned. I'd not eaten anything other than a chocolate croissant (which I was now casually wearing all about my shirt), showered, or hardly moved for hours. In a daze, I fled the nest and began quick deconstruction. Being lazy for an entire day made me feel oddly stressed as it was, I couldn't handle the wry smile and thinly-veiled judgement in the phrase, "So, what'd you do today?" as he gazed upon my elaborate blanket fortress, croissant crumb necklace and bedraggled appearance.

Frankie says...
(I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of pants in this photo)

Into "real-person" mode I went. Still having an hour worth of precious slothy seconds, I lazily read all the bottles in the shower and enjoyed the hot water. I know, it's awful, water waste is awful; but I frickin' love reading the bottles. The marketing for such a simple thing like shampoo can be ridiculously witty and brilliant. Know that I'm reading, shower bottle content writers. I care what you're writing... Anyway, shower. Hair. Makeup. Actual people clothes (ish). Door opens. Just in time. Pulled off a casual, "Yep, nothing special today, just relaxing," and settled into the evening, getting ready for the work week ahead.

NOW, it's not like there wasn't a to-do list a mile long that I could've been addressing. It's that, some days, adulting isn't in the cards. Some days, the most adult thing you can do is nothing at all. A little reset. Sometimes you have to make a point of doing something close to nothing, just walk in through the out door, wear that raspberry beret (the kind that one might find at a second-hand store, if you will)... Okay that got out of hand.


Anyone else feel guilty about having a lazy do-nothing day? 
Or about randomly incorporating Prince lyrics into everyday life?

Fangirls Don't Cry

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there was a fangirl squee so intense, that it destroyed an entire planet.

And by a long time ago - I mean today. And by far, far away - I mean right here, at this very computer.

There I was, happily jotting away at my adult coloring book (because my standard Loony Tunes coloring book and crayons were apparently not up to snuff, I swapped out for a fancy one - that my mom got me - and some colored pencils), my laptop sitting a few feet away, humming along as it loaded the latest ep of Downton Abbey (#CuzIm90). A ping. Some sort of social media alert. A brief glance up at the screen where I see a newly released Star Wars trailer from a mega-fan friend. Naturally, I click play immediately. Overwhelming joy, soaring musical fanfare (at full volume), insane visual stimulation and then... Tickets Now Available.

The laptop topples to the floor in slow motion. Or, in actuality, it hurtles off my lap as I launch it away in excitement and then gasp, gather it up off the floor, pray that it's still functioning and click frantically to buy tickets at my favorite theater for midnight showings. Site malfunction. Try another movie ticket site. Site malfunction. And another. And another. Until I find that I myself am malfunctioning more than the sites.

And yes, I started to get a bit hysterical. For the past almost fifteen years, I'd attended the midnight showing for every major sci-fi/fantasy film release. I could just go the next day, but...no. Not an option.* Frantic call to super-fan friend to shriek about my panic.

He's already driven to a theater to get his tickets.

That's all I needed to hear.

Five seconds later, I've swapped PJs for pants and am in my car just after 10:00 pm. I can hear the brassy intro music echoing in my mind. Alone in my car, I sing a few bars under my breath. Hit the gas pedal.

Flying through the construction zone on the highway, I envision being pulled over for speeding. The officer asking, "Where you off to in such a hurry, miss?" As I frantically sputter out, "Star Wars tickets, on my way, must get, before sold out!" And the officer would look down at me and say, "I'll let you off with a warning. Now get going, and may the force be with you." I would squeal happily as I hit the gas pedal once more.  Luckily, I didn't have to try my luck with that one. The twenty minute drive to the theater took ten, spurred on by a full blare of "Hold on, I'm comin" by Sam and Dave. I put my Blues Brother sunglasses on, even though it was dark out. The fangirl is nothing if not reckless.

Arrived. Parked like an idiot, diagonally across several spaces. Started my sprint to the door.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a duo of young men likewise bolting towards the theater. "Oh HELLS no," I think aloud as I pick up the pace. By the time we got to the door, the three of us were in a dead sprint, my dread growing seeing the line of people inside. The little punks hit the entrance first, throw it open and rush in. One of them shouts back at me, "I'd be a gentlemen, but… Star Wars." I know, man. I get it. I'd have punched you in the face and stepped over your weeping body, but I'm a g'damn lady. ((If they'd have gotten the last tickets however, that'd have been another story, one that would end up with me posting bail or in a mental ward probably.))

Wait. Eventually get to the front of the line. All 7:30 showings for premiere night are sold out. All the 10:00 showings, too. The man at the counter looks up and says, "Please don't cry, we have another showing that night." ....He was talking to the man behind me.

I find your lack of faith disturbing... GOT 'EM!

Then there they were. The tickets, in my hand. Three tickets to relive the glory of my youth. Flashbacks to waiting outside the theater for hours leading up to the midnight showing for the prequels - despite the fact that my small hometown theater had no line and no fear of selling out. It was a rite of passage, to celebrate a revival of a beloved franchise that I had obsessed over as a child. And now, a fresh chance to do it all again, there in my hand.

And then the wind caught the tickets.

You've never heard a war cry so very shrill and piercing.

But at the point of my writing this, they are once again nestled safely to my bosom (next to my heart, duh). After finding my way home through the daze of pure adrenaline, I'm home again. Rest easy, fangirl. You've had a busy day. You're fortunate to be all in one piece. Those Jundland Wastes are not to be traveled lightly…

Did you all get your tickets too? Who else is frickin' PUMPED? 

#IdBeAGentlemanButStarWars

*A Star Wars revival comes along but 2-3 times in a generation!

Let's Talk About Stress, Bae-be

Being stressed out is like some sort of awful adult rite of passage that we weirdly glorify in our society. If you’re not stressed out, you’re clearly not trying hard enough. But if you’re too stressed out, you clearly just can’t hack it and are failing. Everyone talks about balance, but everyone casts a wide array of judgments based on projected stress level. It's a Catch 22 kick-in-the-teeth, is what it is.

In the college years, stress was my life blood. I didn’t feel it, it just fueled me. I ate it for breakfast AND second breakfast. I’d say things like, “No pressure, no diamonds!” as I got myself involved in every extracurricular, never said no to a social engagement, clawed my way ahead academically, took on side jobs, and ran myself around, taking in everything I could, for 22 hours a day (only pausing for naps, often in the shower). I would burn down the hours in a flame of glory, rise up from the ashes, sputter about and tackle it all again. Like most foolish youths, I was “unstoppable” and unfazed by life’s little tensions. I kept my stress caged away in one little knot at the base of my neck and carried on.

Even in the years following, stress worked differently on me, and it was great. But the older I get, the more my once beloved friend seems to be turning on me. Adult stress is different. I’m less worried about how I might change the world, and more worried about how I’m going to afford to retire. Instead of getting anxiety over the screaming child on an airplane, I fall down this worry rabbit hole - what will happen to me if I don’t birth any wee shrieking beasties of my own? Who will pick out my nursing home when I’ve gone senile? Will I just eventually die fat and alone and be found weeks later, half-eaten by wild dogs, just like Bridget Jones warned me? Worse yet, if I do somehow end up with a spawn of my own, what if I DROP it?!

The stress of my younger years was driven by me, to force self-improvement and make me strive to be better. The stress of today has gone from beautifully abstract to practical, and yet largely irrational. Once laughable little inconveniences can now build up in strange ways. And it’s bloody well exhausting.

Business-casual? #AmIAdultingRight
The blazer makes all things possible.

The other day, before hosting a large group of friends in my tiny apartment for a Wine & Cheese party (so adult), I just randomly started crying. My confused co-host attempted to comfort me (bless his heart) and asked what was wrong. As silent tears flowed, I sputtered how I didn’t want to talk about it. Why? Because grapes. I had burst out crying over the thought that we might not have enough GRAPES for the party. The most trivial thing had caused a total breakdown. Grapes were of course just a smoke screen for the larger anxiety spiral - fear that I’d somehow fail astronomically hosting, burn the house down, cause all my friends to abandon me and my boyfriend to leave because no one wants to be with the hostess with the leastest, death, eaten by wild-dogs, etc. It all escalated rather quickly.

Spoiler alert, several people brought grapes. We had more than anyone could possibly need - an excess. The grape surplus was such that we could have doubled our wine tally by harvesting the juice from all the bags of grapes we had. Everything turned out just swell. Grapes for all!

The moral here is pretty simple: calm the heck down, they’re just grapes. Life is just a bunch of frickin’ grapes. 

• Sometimes your bundle will be bountiful, other times you won’t have enough
• Sometimes things change for the better (wine) and sometimes for the worse (real raisins don’t dance and sing Motown music – I’ll never forgive the lies)
• Sometimes you’ll have to make choices (red or green, we all know the answer)
• There may be a point where everything seems to be rolling around in opposite directions, while you chase about and try to get everything back together - because you know if you lose track of one thing, you’ll step on it later and it’ll squish and be awful
• A lot of the time, there are outside factors that can impact prosperity (I live in Wisconsin; grapes, like humans, don’t naturally thrive in the frozen tundra); they're beyond your control, just make the best of it
• Some days are sweet, some are sour; Some days you just want to foot stomp that shit

But don’t let all the little things stress you out, dear friends. Keep your eye on the bunch, that big picture. And draw out as many skewed analogies as possible from this world while you can. Go dance until those grapes become wine and live the damn dream, because you deserve it, you adult, you!

Take THAT, sour grapes!

*What's YOUR point?

What's the most ridiculous adult stress you find bothering you? 

How do you handle those rolly-polly grapes?