It's True...Well, Most of It

Okay, since I had some spare time today, and since I really didn't feel like reading the book I should have been reading, I read A Practical Handbook for the Boyfriend: For Every Guy Who Wants to Be One/For Every Girl Who Wants to Build One. Not wanting to dig through each page word for word, I mostly skimmed for the good parts.

The book is written by two women and uses great images of 1940s-esque Amazon women and pin-up girls doing things like tearing down trees and otherwise taunting mankind with their wiley female ways.

And, looking at it from the perspective of a woman who has the tendency to be a bit crazy and a bit illogical (at least according to the male perspective), yeah, the book speaks the truth. The authors (one of whom is Felicity Huffman, of Desperate Housewives fame) carefully tell men that they can't really do anything to change women and need to simply understand us.

Yes, they say, we expect you to be on time each and every time you see us, and if you're late, even by fifteen minutes, we will come to believe that you no longer want to be around us, like, ever. But we can be late. For any reason ranging from "my hair just wouldn't curl" to "I didn't feel like driving in the fast lane because there are too many potholes" (I just made those up, but they sound about right), women can be late for an event, and other women will understand, to a point. Yes, we know it's not fair to have the double standard, but it exists. Deal with it.

They describe something called "female math." While a guy's logic looks like 2+2=4 or maybe 12*12=144, female logic looks more like an advanced calculus equation that would have caused you to flunk your test...or the whole class. We are logical, we are just not a man's version of logical.

I have figured out that it's best not to tell WG how I reached a decision, unless he asks, and then, well, he asked for it.

Otherwise, he gets solely the decision.

"You're going to get up early with me, go to Starbucks, drop me off at work and then pick me up."

"Why?"

"Because you want to have coffee with your girlfriend before she goes to work on a Saturday when she shouldn't have to."

"Okay."

Simple, yes? Now, the logic behind this simple decision is long enough for a week's worth of blog posts, and he has no business knowing all of those details.

Women aren't exactly crazy, we just have rules that apply only based on our decision to apply them. One day it may be okay for you to compliment our butts in our jeans, the next, we may accuse you of being chauvanistic.

And our logic is okay with that.

But, then, our logic has an advanced degree in mathematics...

Burnt

This week, while having its good points, has left me feeling burnt out.

Y'all know what happened on Monday (if not, see Tuesday's post). Tuesday was my last night of CCD, and it ran 30 minutes over and involved several 7th grade girls begging me to teach next year. Thursday was just a long day, for a wide variety of reasons (not the least of which is that I made chocolate chip cookies twice, because I forgot to add the second round of flour to the first batch - still yummy, but not presentable). Tonight will be a fun potluck after a long work day. Tomorrow I have to work, teach 40 teenagers how to job hunt on the Internet and then have two wonderful friends over (yay). It's a packed week.

I returned from jury duty at about 10:30 in the morning on Wednesday (my day off, mind you), went back to sleep (the five restless hours the night before were not exactly sustaining me), woke around 12:30 and tried to decide what to before WG arrived at my apartment around 3.

I decided I could do the following: get up, go work out, shower, eat lunch, finish the two books I was reading, do some Bible study, update my YA Book Database, look up a recipe for the salmon I'd taken out of the freezer that morning and go grocery shopping.

Realizing I was about to work myself right into the very definition of "Magic Sarah Time," I evaluated the situation and decided on getting up, eating, working on the database and looking up a recipe.

And you know what? I hit the print button on the very last piece of the database just as WG walked in the door.

And you know what else? Turned out WG wanted to go grocery shopping, so it became an outing, instead of a chore.

Wednesday was glorious.

Now, if only I could transfer my new-found ability to chill-ax at home to toning down my work duties.

I Hate These Kinds of Posts

I had it in my head that I could write this as a kind of three beautiful things. And so I will, but be warned, if you have a pet, had a pet or cried when you saw Old Yeller, you may not like this post. I know I don't.

Three Beautiful Things about Timmy

1) Knowing him when he was just a little ball of gray and black fluff at 11 hours old, eyes closed, mewing quietly. Seeing him for the first time and knowing that he'd be the kitten I begged my parents to let me take home. Bonding with him and playing with him for the five weeks before he came home with me. Feeding him formula for the next few weeks, because his mother's owners hadn't wanted to keep the kittens any longer than five weeks. To his very last day, to his very last hours, he was happy to sit on my lap, knead my stomach and nuzzle against me, purring.

2) Hearing his lovely little meow whenever I saw him. He would talk. Other animals of ours whine and complain, but Timmy talked (how hard it was to type "talked" instead of "talks"), chattered and had full-fledged conversations with people.

3) Being with him at the end as I was with him at the beginning. Being able to kiss him, sing him his special songs and help him pass on peacefully to a heaven I believe is populated by the other animals we've lost and a wealth of great-grandmothers and others who will happily listen to his chatter and hold him in their laps. Keeping a promise I made to know him his entire life and to not let him be alone at the end.

A Logical Dream

Last night, I dreamt I gave birth to twins. Apparently, I was only expecting to give birth to one child, but twins it was, twin boys at that. I was happy to discover that they were fraternal, so I could tell them apart. There were a few funny moments, like when my mom told me I looked tired, hours after the birth, and I said, "I just gave birth to twins," and she nodded, looking relieved that there was nothing seriously wrong with me.

My husband and I couldn't decide on names, so we gave them nicknames for the first few days of life, one of them was "Freckles." Eventually, we named them, although I only remember that one was named Cameron (not a name I would expect to choose in real life). The boys started to get a little bit older. They were rambunctious and very, very active little boys.

At one point in the dream, when they were around three, my dream husband came to me in Target or somewhere, with this look on his face, "Let's try for another baby," he said.

"I thought you only wanted two." And to be honest, even in the dream, I knew that the two kids we had were enough. I was kind of tired but managing my life and was content with my two sons.

He looked at me in a certain way, and I said, "You want to try for a girl?"

He smiled, "Yeah."

"Oh, but what about the boys...I mean, they're...good..., but they're kind of a handful."

He looked at me with this puppy dog expression, and I knew that it wouldn't hurt to try.

"Well, what names were you thinking?"

And he smiled.

It was an interesting dream for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it really helped solidify my recent, solid, realization that two kids would probably be the limit of what I could handle well, and it's not just me trying to fit with WG's firm stand on having only one or two kids. I find it interesting that in the dream, I was the one trying to be logical and suggest that maybe a third child wasn't the best idea.

I woke up feeling relieved, feeling content and feeling hopeful about the future.

Five on (Almost) Friday

Thanks to Brandy, of the blog with the name I most like to say (it's just so much fun!) when telling people (yes, I do admit it out loud) what blogs I read. Here are her lovely five questions, my best answers and explanations for how to participate!

1. If you could steal one thing in the world, other than money, what would you take and why?
I would steal whatever it would take to cure or solve my mother's various health problems. I don't know what this one thing would be. But if I could figure out what it is, I would steal it. And I would steal it not because it would cure or because it would make her pain free. I would steal it because it would give her the freedom to think about other things. And to make up for my slight guilt at not going into the sciences and discovering it myself.

2. What's your greatest talent?
Considering my latent fear that I am, in fact, completely talentless, this is an excellent question. I'd love to say writing, or baking, or photography or something even remotely interesting, but I have to be completely honest and say that I just don't know. It's not a cop out, and it's not a brag on my limitless talents. There is no one thing that I think I'm particularly good at...so maybe my greatest talent is my ability to be well-rounded, to be just slightly good at a lot of different things, to have my fingers in many, many pies. I don't have a greatest talent, and I'm okay with that.

3. Where are 5 places you would like to visit before you die?
I thought about this a lot today. Five ends up not being enough. I decided to cheat (because, hey, what am I if not a rule-breaker, yeahhhhhh right) and combine a couple ...you'll see why.

*The places my family is from, part 1. Europe. I have yet to see the origins of my Italian and Polish families, and since I actually know where they were from, I'd like to see those places and stand where my ancestors stood and decided to leave.

*The places my family is from, part 2. The USA. Though I brag about my rather diverse family and the immense quantity of people that comprises said family, I have not met most of these perfectly lovely people. Since Math is not my strong suit, I am combining Kentucky, Michigan, Georgia and Indiana as one "place." I'm an English Major. I can do that.

*Israel. At some point, I would like to walk that path that Jesus walked. I'm not sure I'm willing to make an official goal, something I'll regret if I don't do, but I feel that, if it's ever safe enough not to give my mother heart failure, I would like to go to this holy place.

*With all of the hullabaloo surrounding the great land of the kiwis of late, I will say that I would like to tour Australia. And that 16 hour flight better result in more than a two week vacation.

*Someplace where I will have my grand adventure. This adventure will actually be enjoyed by yours truly, as I will not plan it to death and start crying if we don't get to everything on the list. I have yet to encounter such a vacation, but I'm looking forward to it!

4. When was the last time you were really embarassed?
Honestly? When I finally came out of the fog of jealousy surrounding "Needy Girl" and WG. When I could see the situation clearly and realize how, how, how, not me the situation had made me and how stupid the whole thing had been. I was embarassed at a) having gotten so up in arms over nothing and b) doubting WG, oh, and c) dragging my friends and mom into calming me down.

5. Why do you blog? (I'm asking everyone this, so curious!)
Originally, I started blogging so that I could vent and whine about the unfairness of life after college. I was 21, confused, bitter and mildly depressed at having to return to my hometown and start over as if college had never happened. Next, I blogged because it let me keep up with my friends without the nasty little thing known as the mass e-mail. Now, I blog out of a sheer love of writing, just kidding. In the past several months, I've gotten more involved in the "blogosphere." I've found that there are a number of people out there with life experiences and other thoughts that I want to know about, and, in some ways, I've found a bit of a community out here in blogland. Finally, I blog because it is like the journals I've filled with my thoughts over the years. I get to work through my issues...and let friends, strangers and strangers who become less strange, help me.

And so, five things you never knew you wanted to know about me. If you are interested in participating, here are the rules:

Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me!”
-I will respond by e-mailing you five questions. I get to pick them, and you have to answer them all.
-You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
-You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
-When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

NOT a Stepford Wife...

I am not a wife. I am not close to being a wife. Yet, since getting my own apartment and having my own kitchen in which to prepare meals for family and friends, I have morphed into something worse than a Stepford Wife...I have slowly, but surely, morphed into my grandmother, otherwise known as The Martyr.

The Martyr prepared meals far before they needed to be ready, thus giving her the opportunity to complain that the chicken was dry and the salad limp AND that she didn't have time to read her book club book, because she had been slaving over a meal for us, her ungrateful family. The Martyr could never sit down at the dinner table for more than five minutes without jumping up to go get more salad dressing, another soda for my uncle, fresh rolls out of the oven, whatever. That woman never ate a hot meal, and not because we ASKED for any of these things. In fact, we told her repeatedly to please, please sit down and eat with us. I think she liked being noticed for her martyr-like behavior and enjoyed hearing our fruitless pleas that she just sit down and enjoy the meal.

On Saturday night, it became all too obvious that having people to cook for has gone to my head and made me into the modern-day version of this Martyr-Wife. I cooked a meal that I wasn't familiar with (rule number one of things you should NOT do when cooking for a potluck), then fretted over how it would turn out, worried that no one would like it and even came up with a back-up plan, in case the food turned inedible. I also made it a point to tell every one of my guests, WG included, that I wasn't confident in the meal and that I had a back up plan. After being alerted to my concern, how could they complain about the food? Or, if actually good, how could they actually praise it without me believing they were simply trying to calm me down? The simple answer: they couldn't. I had set myself up to be the martyr, to complain about having worked hard on a meal that wouldn't live up to expecations and to force my guests to tell me the meal was "fine." I also kept getting up and down, bringing napkins, some pepper, more wine. I didn't give myself a chance to enjoy dinner. I sacrificed that.

And oh, shouldn't you notice that? Shouldn't everyone say, "Oh, look how much she cares about her friends that she wanted to make sure the meal was spectacular, that she couldn't even sit down for five minutes!"? No, they shouldn't.

Instead, they should say, "Sarah, you are NOT a Stepford Wife. You are not a wife of any kind. Calm down and enjoy your youth. There will be time for cooking meals for your family soon enough. Potlucks and dinner parties at the homes of twenty-somethings should involve something called 'take-out' or include the phrase 'bought at Costco.'"

In the quest to overcome my slide into wife/martyrdom, I told WG last night, "I am only going to cook things I like. I might try new recipes, but I'm not going to burn myself anymore." I've been burning myself, not on purpose, but because I get nervous and stop paying attention to the fact that at 350 degrees the oven is, indeed, hot, and so are the things inside it.

I need to remind myself who I am.

I am 26. I am a girlfriend. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I am a cousin. I am a librarian. I enjoy baking and cooking, but I am no chef. I'm no amateur gourmet. I'm a girl who likes comfort food, will choose a chocolate chip cookie over a chocolate souffle any day and who seriously, seriously, needs to chill.

There was a day when homemade included boca burgers and fries from a freezer bag. Or, at best, chicken cooked with rosemary and butter, nothing more, nothing less. That day has returned, my friends, and all around me may breathe a great sigh of relief.

Reclaiming Sunday Night

I've always had a thing against Sunday nights. Sunday nights mean that the weekend is over. They're not really a weekend, not truly a weeknight. And since WG came into my life and since he stayed with me then moved on to his new place, I've also come to dislike Sunday afternoons, too, since I never know exactly when he'll be heading back to his own place. When he leaves on a Sunday depends on what we've done during the day (or, for example, who has been over for a visit), what he's got to do to prepare for his week, or a dozen other factors I can't name.

For the first couple of Sunday nights, I just kind of wandered aimlessly, getting used to him not being around, vaguely realizing that I need to prepare myself for my own work week.

This weekend, this Sunday, I reclaimed my evening. When I wasn't in grad school, and even as far back as being back in Berkeley on a Sunday night, I treated myself a bit to prepare myself for a new week, and to take the edge off of Sunday evening. And this week, I came back to that.

After WG headed home to revamp his computer, I headed to my parents' house to pick up my cat (the cat "grandparents" watched him for the weekend for two reasons...so WG and I could have a cat whining-free evening on Friday, our sixth "mensiversary" -- look it up, it's a real word-- and so that one of our game night participants on Saturday would be able to breathe in a cat-free apartment), socialized a bit with my me-deprived parents, and then headed home with a very loud cat, took a bubble bath and settled in for some Alias...

And you know, after a fairly emotional weekend, I am grateful for an evening to myself...but more on that later.

For now, I've reclaimed Sunday night, and I think that's fairly darn awesome.

Friday Song Lyrics

It's been a strange week.

It's time for a weekend and time for some good music.

What are the voices in your head singing?

The songs currently running through my head:

Avenue Q Soundtrack: Mix Tape
A mix tape.
He made a mix tape.
He was thinking of me,
Which shows he cares!
Sometimes when someone
Has a crush on you
They'll make you a mix tape
To give you a clue.

Heroes (by David Bowie, Jakob Dylan and Ewan McGregor...not all at the same time)
I
I will be king
And you
You will be queen
Though nothing will
Drive them away
We can beat them
Just for one day
We can be Heroes
Just for one day

Neil Diamond, Hell Yeah (my grandfather...if I could choose my grandfather)
If you're asking for my time
Isn't much left to give you
Been around a good long while
So I gotta say it fast
Time is all we'll ever need
But it's gotta have a meaning
You be careful how it's spent
cause it isn't going to last
I hear you wondering out loud
Are you ever going to make it
Will you ever work it out
Will you ever take a chance
and
Just believe you can
Hell Yeah You Will
You're going to be okay

Five Iron Frenzy, Every Day New Again
When I was small, the furthest I could reach,
Was not so high,
Then I thought the world was so much smaller,
Feeling that I could fly.
Through distant deeps and skies,
Behind infinity,
Below the face of Heaven,
He stoops to create me.
Dear Father, I need you,
Your strength my heart to mend.
I want to fly higher,
Every new day again.

Rachael Yamagata, 1963
Baby, I'm stuck in the middle, and I don't know why
Find the words you sing to be
Sweeter than the words of the bird in the sky
Oh, the days you came around
I feel so good for me
I can take most anything
Cause what you bring

I find it to be magical
I feel like I'm loving you in 1963
Flowers in my hair
Little bitty hearts upon my cheek
Baby, you'll be on my mind
'Til I kiss you next time

You Gotta Have Faith

Since all the cool kids are doin' it...

I believe in ice cream and the power of prayer. I believe that in combination, these two things can work miracles.

I believe that it is time to bring our troops home from Iraq and Afghanistan. They have been there too long, fighting a war that doesn't make a lot of sense.

I believe that when they come home, we need to respect that they fought for a cause they believed in and respect that they were willing to make a sacrifice for our nation, for the sake of democracy and give them the treatment (therapy, parades, what have you) that they deserve.

I believe in love.

I believe that love takes an infinite different forms, and that love looks different to every individual. Love does hurt if you do it right.

I don't believe that the boy worth crying over won't make you cry.

I believe that my life will change drastically when I get married and have children, that my relationships with my family and friends will not ever be the same. But I also believe that they will grow stronger over time.

I believe that in order to fulfill our roles on this planet, we have to be willing to change and to accept change, even if it makes me get a funny burn in the pit of my stomach and a familiar ache in the center of my chest.

I believe that I have found the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and that doesn't terrify me at all.

I believe that we should not choose our lifelong careers at 18 or 22 or 30 or 40, but that sometimes these careers choose us.

I believe in the unseen, the unknown and the impossible.

I am a Catholic, but I do not believe that I have to only go to a Catholic Church in order to receive spiritual nourishment.

I believe that abortion is wrong but that banning abortion is not the only solution. I believe that we should have more than "here's a condom" or "don't have sex until you're married" as our sex ed in both public and private schools. I believe that we should encourage adoption. I believe that life should not be over for teen mothers, and that we should encourage them to move forward in life.

I believe that day care should not be so expensive, that pre-school should be free and that mothers and fathers could have enough time off work to properly care for their families.

I believe that welfare and other government subsidies need to be overhauled and that the minimum wage needs to be raised and rents in good quality neighborhoods need to be lowered.

I do not believe in the forty hour work week. Life is too short for that, but I have to pay the rent somehow.

I believe that I will follow my future husband wherever he needs to go, but that he should be equally willing to follow me.

I believe that family comes first but that the definition of family is flexible.

I believe that there is life outside of California.

I believe that we do not use public transportation nearly enough, that we should all drive cars that get good gas mileage and that my apartment complex should offer recycling.

I believe that my life is richer now that I don't have cable. I believe that Americans watch far too much television and have lost the ability to converse.

I believe that the fact that I have changed in the last six months does mean that I have sacrificed myself. Rather, I have become more myself. I believe that in order for a relationship to be successful, both people involved have to change.

I believe that God comes first, and eventually, my husband will come second. My children will share that spot with him.

I believe that I finally understand why girls seem to disappear when they fall in love, and I'm okay with it.

I believe in honesty.

I believe that sticks and stones may break my bones but words can always hurt me.

I believe that we can rehabilitate criminals but that we have to get them when they're young and their records can be sealed, so that they do not have to deal with having a record their entire lives.

I believe that schools should not teach to the middle, nor to the test. Children should be encouraged to learn. Perhaps I believe that the montessori style should be brought up all the way through high school, at least to some degree.

I believe that, on the inside, we are who we were on the first day of 9th grade.

And, finally, I believe that an Oreo cookie shake can solve a lot of problems.

The Beauty of This Weekend

My mommy's birthday, Easter Vigil Mass (my possible favorite amongst all Catholic masses, when done right) and Easter itself. All provided ample opportunity for me to find beauty in the days...and here they are.

1. My mommy laughing, crying, smiling and otherwise truly enjoying her birthday week and her actual birthday-day. She was beautiful and happy and very, very loved. And we all got cake.

2. Steak, lots and lots of sugar, a walk with the dogs and two and half hours watching Matt Damon, Leo and Mark Wahlberg...in other words: Easter Sunday was a blast.

3. Saying we love each other with the lights on, not on a text message, and much, much earlier than the first time at about 2 a.m. Saying it into each other's eyes, when we can actually see each other's eyes, somehow makes it seem oh so much more real.

Birthdays and Whatnot

My mommy had a birthday! Thank you for the well wishes via blog...she's one of my readers, so she was happy to see thos :).

Despite some random health concerns this week, she had a smile on her face anytime I saw her. I think that, despite the fact that her two best (local) friends nearly forgot her birthday completely, she had a good week. It's important that she realizes how much the people in her life care about her. It's not just love, it's caring.

Love can only go so far, but I think that caring about someone, even if it tends to get delegated to a few steps below love (i.e, "I love you" followed by "Well, I'm not there yet, but I really care about you). No, caring is perhaps the physical testimony to loving someone. Caring about someone means bringing them a snickers bar when you know they need one, or making sure that there is always coke in the house, even though you, yourself don't drink it, or picking up one of those samples at Costco and giving it to someone when you get home from grocery shopping. It's the little things, the little happy things that show love.

So, Mommy had a birthday. And despite her fears that we, her husband of 29 years and daughter of 26 years, both lifelong Catholics, would forget that we could not eat meat on the Friday before Easter and inadvertently take her somewhere that did not serve fish, we went to a lovely Japanese restaurant (sort of the local version of Beni Hana), where they prepared us our (fish) meal right in front of us. We dined on calamari, halibut and shrimp. The men (my dad and WG) both enjoyed a Kirin (very wheaty Japanese beer), and my dad was thoroughly pleased by WG's statement that, "I'll get whatever he gets, because he knows what he's doing" (yes, in a Japanese restaurant, my dad MORE than knows his stuff...so points were scored, and both my mom and I were very pleased by this). My dad ordered my mom a Strawberry Daquiri (since the introduction of WG into my life, more alcohol has been consumed in my family than in the last five years combined, and this is not necessarily a bad thing), so that should could, indeed "sip Bacardi like it's your birfday."

Later, we went to grab a coffee, headed home to blow out the candles, do presents and watch an old (but incredibly funny) Saturday Night Live. In between, yes literally, in the moment when she was about to see the identity of her presents, my mom peeked through the doorway of the kitchen so that she could see the large TV in the family room and see if her beloved Giants might just see fit to Beat L.A. on her birthday (they didn't, but they gave her an early gift on the 5th by winning 5-3). It was quite comical, watching her pause mid-open to lean over as far as she could to see the television.

In the end, all the presents got opened, she shed some tears, and she was happy.

And that's really all that matters.

Happy Birthday, Mama!!

Cupcakes!

WG (aka Wine Guy) and I had Irenie and the F-Man over for a BBQ on Sunday. New York Steaks on the apartment complex grill, baked potatoes and a lovely mixed salad.

I was in charge of dessert.

I assured Irene that there would be meat and chocolate cake.

I told her I would buy some cake at a local bakery.

And then, I decided it was high time I used two things:
1) My copy of Nigella Lawson's Feast
2) My cupcake tin

So, I made Guiness cake. Yes, that's right, a chocolate cake that starts with a cup of Guiness bear, is stirred on the stove and then, finally, baked. After cooling the cupcakes for a significant amount of time, I iced them with a cream cheese/heavy cream/powdered sugar frosting that Nigella describes as just like the foam on a Guiness. I have yet to taste the beer outside of a cake, and don't plan to, but man, that stuff makes one tasty chocolate cake.


My mother has requested these cupcakes in a full cake form for her birthday this Friday. I will gladly comply.

Real

You get through the sometimes perfect first few weeks, when it's easy to be together and torture to be apart, and then where's the fairytale? Well, in all reality, you don't WANT the fairytale.

You want the guy who's going to lead you the bathroom, sit you down on the toilet lid, bend down and put a bandaid on your finger when you cut yourself with a way-too-sharp butter knife in the kitchen trying to slice an avocado that is SO not ripe.

That's a real knight in shining armor.

And that's the guy I have.