(I’m not 100% sure he was asleep; he may tell me later that this was all fully conscious. But I don’t think so.)
I got up at 3am to use the bathroom, and when I came back, this happened.
Drew: You okay?
Me: Yeah.
Drew: You sure?
Me: Yeah…I had a lot of tea right before I went to bed.
Drew: That is not good. That is NOT. GOOD. *snore*
(I knew it wasn’t a smart idea to down that whole cup of tea at 10:30, but I did it anyway. Because that’s how I roll.)
I had a lot of tea this weekend.
On Saturday morning Erin, Sam, Lysandra, Robert, and I had our monthly book club at Lovejoy’s in San Francisco. Lovejoy’s is Erin’s happy place, and if you give her a chance to choose a “special occasion” place, this will be it.
I had some delicous vanilla rooibos, and a sandwich plate. Half cucumber and dill, half tomato and cheese. They were both good, but now I can’t stop making tomato and cheese sandwiches at home.
The book club conversation was sparkling as usual. It wasn’t all about the book (it never is), but it covered all kinds of topics about women’s rights and parenting. (It was more fun than I just made it sound.)
Then for Mother’s Day I drove up to Lakeport and took my mom out for a “high tea.” I use the quotes because I know technically high tea isn’t the right word for the spread we had.
“High tea” is traditionally served after 5 pm to the working class, and made up of meat dishes and other heavy foods. It was more of a family meal. The ladies’ social occasion that Americans think of is called “afternoon tea” or “low tea” (it is traditionally served on low tables). The more you know!
So, a Mother’s Day afternoon tea, then. We had several types of sandwiches, and several types of sweets, and by the end of the meal I was several types of stuffed, which is silly, since everything is so tiny. But I mean, you’re also drinking pots of tea, which probably fills you up.
Both teas were fun and cute (is cute the wrong word?), although the Mother’s Day tea was slightly classier, since at Lovejoy’s we were having an intense conversation about all types of things that we had to come up with acronyms for so that the fancy ladies around us weren’t shocked. A good weekend!
I was going to say I probably don’t need any tea for awhile, but then I realized I’m drinking iced tea right now.
Oh also – I hope the color change of sychela.com (if you noticed it) didn’t freak you out. It’s something I’ve been debating for awhile, and finally took the plunge.
A foodie, I am not. Which is to my own chagrin, when someone suggests going somewhere “fancy” or “exotic.” (And probably to Drew’s chagrin, when I order chicken katsu yet AGAIN.)
It should probably be considered a character flaw. I’m just not that adventurous when it comes to food. I wonder if I can blame it on growing up somewhere without a lot of exotic food. I mean, the one Chinese place in Lakeport is called Hong Kong. And I still think it’s delicious…but I’m not sure how Chinese it is.
I had sushi for the first time in high school (out of town)… Thai food for the first time in college… and Indian food for the first time about 6 months ago. (Since THAT little work-friends lunch, I’ve definitely been called out in public for my vanilla palate. But I mean…turkey sandwiches and Greek salads are just so good. Why would you change it up?) Among the things I haven’t tasted yet: Moroccan, Ethiopian, churrasco.
It doesn’t help that I’m not really into spicy stuff. I got a quesadilla at this taqueria the other day, and accidentally ordered it with the spicy chicken. Oops. Trying to find the non-spicy option can be limiting at certain establishments. Also embarrassing, in general.
But I have been reading back through my livejournal entries (whoa, right?) and I found this entry about Drew’s and my farewell-to-New-York dinner, back in July 2009. (I just realized I titled that entry “food food food delicious food.” I didn’t try so hard, back then.)
We dressed up all fancy and went to Gotham Bar and Grill in Greenwich Village. Luckily, because I’m a hoarder of information, I wrote down exactly what we ate that night. (Most of it is taken exactly from the menu, which is why it’s so specific. But the Gotham Market Pasta is a seasonal thing and so I didn’t have the exact wording.)
I had:
SMOKED MAGRET DUCK BREAST
fresh figs, mostarda di frutta and pecorino tartufo
balsamic vinegar reduction
GOTHAM MARKET PASTA
last night’s special was fettuccine with mushrooms, spinach, and cheese. I’m sure they would have worded it better than that though.
CRISP SOFT SHELL CRAB
chanterelles, asparagus, sweet corn and brown butter aioli
white verjus sauce
He had:
BLACK BASS CEVICHE
honeydew melon, hearts of palm, grapefruit and radish
jalapeno cucumber broth
FOIE GRAS AND ORGANIC CHICKEN TERRINE
toasted brioche, kumquat marmalade and balsamic vinegar
RACK OF LAMB
swiss chard, roasted cipollini and potato purée
For dessert:
RHUBARB PINEAPPLE SOUFFLÉ
rose petal jam, crisp meringue
strawberry ice cream
and
GOTHAM CHOCOLATE CAKE
with seasonal ice cream
I remember thinking it was delicious. And I remember, at the time, thinking that going out to a place like this was a good idea. But then it makes me wonder…what happened that I changed my tune, so that I just want grilled cheese and apples with peanut butter? And am I hiding this flaw well enough? Also, what is an appropriate occasion for me to suggest Outback Steakhouse? Or do I need to just bring it up ironically and then see what people’s reactions are? Alternately, would Outback deliver lunch to my work?
I get kind of worked up about bad writing. Particularly about bad writing that makes all the bestseller lists. Especially when this bad writing really serves no purpose. And when everyone is talking about it, even though they all admit it’s bad.
The worst is when I secretly want to read it, just in case I’m missing out on something big.
But no. I will not succumb.
When I first heard about Fifty Shades of Grey, I wanted to see what all the hype was about, even knowing right off the bat that it was housewife erotica, and then finding out it was based off of a Twilight fanfiction – ugh. On Amazon, the first two chapters of the book were available for reading online, so I sat down and spent 20 minutes with Anastasia.
Oh. Good. Gravy. From that oh-so-purple way of getting the first-person narrator to describe herself (by staring in the mirror and bemoaning how “unattractive” she is – spoiler alert, she’s bee-you-tee-ful!) to the horrific exclamations (“Holy crap!” etc), this is one of the worst things I’ve read. And people are eating this up? Because…it claims to be erotic? For the record, there wasn’t any of that in the first couple chapters, but I could see where it’s going. And it’s nowhere good.
The articles I’ve read about the book(s – there are three of them) since then have all been making fun of it and talking about how bad it is. The reviews I’ve heard have been mostly, “Meh, it’s all right, but it’s not very good.” So why is this thing doing so well?
The only thing I can do is keep promising myself that I will not spend any money to read it. And that I will not succumb and get it from the library either. (Getting erotica from the library…ew?)
But this is my PSA so that hopefully no one else gets sucked in to this terrible writing. Don’t do it, people! Here is a list of other good series that would be way more worth your time:
Just a list of ideas, running the gamut from children to YA to adult. I’m kinda just pulling this off of my shelves, so I know there’s a lot that’s not represented. (Let me know if there’s a series you feel I should include!)
For the record, this article about Fifty Shades of Grey from Vulture is kind of hysterical. (Also kind of graphic, so maybe not for everyone.)
Dear people on the internet,
Why do you take such offense against these little yellow Baby on Board stickers that hang in car windows?
I mean, I kind of get it. I used to be one of you. I assumed that the sticker was there as a way to tell me to slow down and drive more carefully around the baby. I thought that was the equivalent of a mom shushing me in a public area where I should be allowed to talk freely, just because her child was sleeping. (In both cases, I should probably just restrain myself a little better. But also in both cases, I disliked having a stern stranger tell me what to do.)
Here’s a little story: once in high school, I was driving from Lakeport over to Fort Bragg. Between Willits and Fort Bragg is a 30-mile stretch of winding road through the trees – it’s gorgeous, but it’s one lane, with a single passing lane available about 10 miles in from the coast. There are plenty of places to pull over and let someone pass you, though.
I was stuck behind a car rattling along with a Baby on Board sticker. This car would not pull over, no matter that it had been nearly 20 miles, which was unbearable to me, a teenager in a 2-door car with a stick shift. Finally we approached the passing lane, which incidentally was on an uphill stretch, and as I moved over to pass…the jalopy sped up! I barely made it past them, and then I continued on my way…at which point that car tailgated me for the remaining 10 miles of the trip.
I reached the coast and pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store…where the jalopy pulled up behind me, parking me in, and an irate woman got out and began yelling at me about “almost running her off the road” and how she had “a baby in the backseat.” All I could do was stand there in shock (I have never been good at confrontation) – but what I wanted to snap back was that she had plenty of chances to let me pass, she didn’t have to speed up while I was passing her, and she certainly didn’t have to speed up in order to follow me the rest of the way.
So. She was crazy, and should not have behaved that way. Because of her I am now totally paranoid about being followed and trapped in a parking lot, and I always have a contingency plan if I think someone is tailing me.
But, here’s what I started out to say. I realized something, many years later.
The Baby on Board sticker is not there to tell you what to do: it’s just to alert you, the other driver, that the car with the baby is likely to drive slower, more cautiously, and to view yellow lights as “stop now” signals rather than “go very fast.” So if you need to adjust for that, then feel free. I’ll be here, in the right hand lane, signaling carefully and going the speed limit.
Hope this helps, whiny people on the internet!
If I could go back in time and tell High School Me one thing…
…it would be to take advantage of Phys Ed.
I would rejoice if, at this point in my life, there was an hour of every weekday set aside for exercise, complete with someone shaking it up every few weeks and introducing a new unit (archery, then softball, then tennis, then weight lifting). This would happen at the same time every day, preferably in the morning before the rest of my classes– I mean, before work. A relative stranger would intimidate me through warm-ups of jumping jacks and crunches. I would have very little excuse or reason not to go, because at the end of the year I would get a grade, based not on my physical fitness, but on how hard I tried this year.
And in high school, we took all this for granted. We cheated our way through running the mile, and we opted to play badminton (or even ping pong!) instead of tennis because, let’s face it, a bunch of people trying not to move too much can play badminton pretty easily.
I mean, all the other mistakes I made and stupid things I did in those four years don’t really matter. You know, they shape the person you become, etc etc. I didn’t make any mistakes that ruined my life or anyone else’s (as far as I know). But it might have been really useful if someone had just enlightened me as to the fact that one day, I would pay a monthly gym membership for the chance to run on a treadmill and lift weights. And maybe that same person could point out to me the comparisons between a gym membership, and a Phys Ed class.
We keep telling ourselves we have plenty of time to get everything ready for this baby, and that’s kind of true. But we had our crib just sitting around in the box, so today we put it together.
Here’s the “before” shot:
This was an exciting moment – realizing we didn’t need any additional tools and that all the pieces are carefully sorted and labeled for you!
So step one is to…dump all the pieces out onto the ground in a pile. (Bonus points if the pieces are about the same color as the carpet.)
After a false start or two, we got our sea legs and things started coming together.
Love the finished product! We still have 80% of “nursery” stuff to go – including a crib mattress – but if the crib is the centerpiece, then we made some real headway today.
Among my habits that annoy Drew, “saving” is probably pretty high up there. I “save” all kind of things. I save up recycling rather than throwing it away, even though we don’t have a recycling dumpster at our new place. (C’mon… seriously? This is California!) I often have a box going for stuff (clothes, books, anything really) that I mean to take to Salvation Army or Goodwill…eventually.
And I have this irrational fondness for collecting coins for months in an old Nesquik container. Then one night, I dump them out on the carpet and watch TV and roll them into actual, exchangeable piles of money.
We had some rolled coins still sitting around from a few months ago, and then a bunch of new loose coins. So the other night, I flopped down on the carpet to roll the rest of them, and Drew sat down with me. I don’t know if he enjoys it at all, or if he just recognizes the value in turning this sort-of-forgotten money into bank-account money.
We ended up with $65 altogether – $10 in quarters, $10 in nickels, $10 in pennies (this is weird, right?), and $35 in dimes. That’s right. Those skinny little dimes, that I don’t always bother to pick up when they fall on the ground, added up to $35.
I took this Safeway bag full of money into the bank this morning, where shifty-eyed tellers immediately assessed my intentions and each tried to pass me off to the next person. The first guy said, “Tell you what we’re going to do, my coworker over there is going to help you because I have to…go do something.” (Seriously.) Then the girl he passed me off to said that her drawer wasn’t big enough for all of it, so I’d have to go over there. The third guy had been sneaking a look at a text message and so he didn’t have any excuse ready to go, and he wound up dealing with me.
But here’s what I want to know: is it so weird that I do this? I mean, it’s money. What am I supposed to do, go to a Coinstar and let them take almost 10% of it? That’s $6 saved right there.
And this is a bank. This is a branch of one of the biggest banks in America, and I’ve been a customer there for 10 years. So what if once a year I come in and make someone count rolls of change? It’s just counting. You learn that ish in elementary school.
To add insult to injury, the guy finished up our conversation by telling me how my name should be pronounced, which I’ve decided is one of the most annoying things that people persistently do. I don’t tell you that your name is spelled wrong, Kriss. So how about you give me my receipt for my $65, and let me get out of here.
My bff Liz, who is 19 weeks pregnant, is currently in the doctor’s office finding out whether she’s having a boy or a girl. All day long I’ve been getting texts and emails from her, saying “We find out today!!!” “3 more hours!!!” “An hour and 45 minutes!!!” etc.
My excitement is growing, even though technically whether she has a boy or a girl doesn’t affect me. Knowing that she is literally in the appointment right now is very suspenseful. She promised to call me immediately afterward, but I don’t know when that will be exactly…it could be in 10 minutes, it could be in 40 minutes. Appointments are weird.
She told me this morning to “call it” – to guess whether it’s a boy or a girl. I had to admit that I’ve been picturing her with a boy, although I don’t know why that is. A few months ago I was thinking that a girl would be more fun to shop for, but after spending time in baby stores and on baby websites, I now feel confident that there are adorable gifts to be had for babies of either sex.
I know that really, every parent just wants a healthy baby, and whether it’s a boy or a girl is of little consequence. I wonder though – if you really want a boy and it turns out to be a girl, is there more potential for (slight) disappointment in an ultrasound situation, as opposed to a delivery room reveal?
I guess this also leads me to think about loving your baby – when that shift happens. But that’s probably a completely different post.
Do you ever have conversations in your head with someone? The other day, Imaginary Drew was asking me which of my parents was my favorite. This may be an actual conversation that’s happened out loud at some point. I thought I would have an answer for Imaginary Drew (I don’t like getting into fake conversations when I don’t know exactly what my platform is), but it turned out I had no idea which is my favorite parent.
I thought I would have reasons for why I favor either parent in a certain situation, but I couldn’t even make that work. Really what it comes down to is that I adore both my parents and that has nothing to do with the scenario. I am equally happy whenever either of them picks up the phone. (And I am basically over the moon if they actually pick up the phone before the answering machines picks up.) When I’m home for the afternoon or the weekend, I prefer it if they stay in the same room so I can stay there with them – if they split up it gets complicated.
I have a vague memory of being a kid, and of having divvied them up, into the times of day I preferred each of them. (No offense, parents, this is a weird little kid memory, and I was probably hopped up on Ovaltine.) I think I remember, but I could be wrong, deciding with my brother that we liked playing games with my dad during the day, but my mom was better at tucking us in at night.** Does that even make sense now? I don’t know. Would Robb back me up? Probably not.
Once I’d realized that I really don’t have a favorite, I realized how lucky that is. Lots of people don’t even know one parent, some people hate one (or both) of their parents…and I get two parents. Still together after all these years, and still as interested in me as I am in them. (I presume.)
Imaginary Drew, by the way, agrees with me that it’s impossible to name one favorite parent. This is corroborated by Real Drew. And really, haven’t we totally beaten the odds? By having two sets of parents who are still happy together? I mean, what are the chances? Hashtag lucky!
**A memory: I went through this phase where I had this deep fear that the toilet seat would be left up and one of our cats would fall in. This horrified me, and every night I would have to ask the parent tucking me in to double check that the seat was down. But I was too embarrassed to say the word “toilet” (I had the weirdest, shyest neuroses) so we made a deal that I would just sign the word for toilet and they would double check. Such patience!
The Cameraphone Diaries 