Trials

Just caught a pleasant surprise that is Anna Chlumsky in an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. (RJ and I seldom watched live TV. Everything is recorded.) It's nice to see her grown up and beautiful and a wonderful actress.

Chlumsky is, of course, of My Girl fame. I have a friend who named her firstborn TJ, after Macaulay Culkin's character in the movie.

I find it hilarious that each SVU episode is preceded by the fiction disclaimer that no character or event in real life is depicted, when most of the time it is so blatantly obvious by which news story the writers happen to have been "inspired". Seriously they don't even attempt to hide it. What a mockery.

In this particular episode, Fifty Shades of Grey is the insinuated topic. To be fair, the plot is pretty good, imagination-wise. "Pretty good for an American show", as RJ would put it.

Now, I haven't read said book. Don't intend to. Have heard enough about it. Haven't read the author's résumé. No matter. In the TV version, nowhere is it stated that it is an autobiography. But everyone sets out to believe it couldn't have been research. It had to be someone's personal fantasies.

Where's the logic? As a feminist I have a problem with that. I could be educated enough to know all about what motivates someone to kill, all the psychological and circumstantial triggers. I can be really intrigued by the subject matter because, boy, the human mind truly is complex and fascinating. Does NOT mean I want to kill. (Although given certain circumstances, never say never.)

In fact if the book was indeed about gruesome gory mayhem written by a mousey female professor of academia, I bet everyone would've shrugged it off. It would never have been called "personal". Cuz women are virgins or bitches or whores, and nothing in between.

Tangent

A friend on FB shares a story in the news: five months ago a boy was diagnosed with leukemia in Beijing, China. His best hope of survival was a bone marrow transplant from his father who was a match. Upon learning the facts, the father filed for divorce and refused to pay the boy's medical bills, allegedly stating, "It'd cost less to have another child!"

As the boy was near his end, his doctor called the father so that he could have a last word. The man declined to speak. It is reported that the boy passed away last Wednesday. The father never showed at the funeral.

The repost looks real. It may very well be real. The author of the article sounds outraged. My friend's friends are outraged.

"This man is not human!" they roar.

Oh, but he is. And, while I'm sad, I understand the "culture" and the "values" behind the man's decision and action. And I am sad for the fact that I understand: after thousands of years of political unrest and widespread poverty and misery, it's every man for himself. The Chinese are nothing if not "practical". His assessment was monetarily correct. It's just another woman, just another child. There are so many of them in China after all. The earth is overpopulated anyway, right? Thanks to those who thrive to extend lives. How dare they play God? We should've succumbed to natural selection all along.

And I'd be dead.

Crossroads 2

Completely changed career paths recently. Relinquished anything accounting or finance-related and never looked back.

All these YEARS when I'd be wistful about never having had a clear vision of "what I want to be when I grow up", someone inevitably would ask, "What do you want to do?" I'd reply, sadness filling my core, "I don't know." Thinking it'd be rude to follow that with, "If I knew, I'd be doing it now."

Someone would also suggest doing something that I love. I feared the familiar: turn something fun into work, and it ceases to be fun.

Milestones came and went and no career. It's not even about the common notion of success. Or money.

It depressed me to no end that someone my age couldn't figure out what to do with her life. I'd do something for a while, hate it, dread every Monday. That's no way to live!

A while ago, with the flourishing food truck scene, I felt hopeful seeing hiring Tweets and such. Oh, the possibilities!

RJ was a lot more realistic. "You love food," said RJ. "Doesn't necessarily mean you want to work in a truck."

Perhaps. "But that's how Julia Child found her calling!" I whined. But I knew I was no Julia Child.

Other opportunities knocked. It was like after I'd decided desk jobs weren't for me, I was more sought after! The irony.

Then a dinner service needed drivers.

In a nutshell, I pick up food from local chefs and deliver it to families.

Food is something I feel passionate about. I aim to please. I'm punctual. I'm an excellent driver. I love driving (the listening to the radio part; the back pain, not so much). Why not?

And the rest, as they say, was history. I love how my job is the right mix of fast-paced and relaxing. Customer satisfaction is instant gratification to me. After all, I'm all about getting approval. For the first time, I work for a cool boss who trusts and respects and doesn't micromanage. Now, come Monday, I'm actually excited to start the week. I've never felt that way about any other job. Every night I come home smiling. And RJ notices. Of course.

RJ has a funny way with words. We are alike in that regard.

When I take off, he says, "Be safe." Which means, "I love you. Make it home."

Whereas, time and again I say to him, "Don't die."

It's really the same thing.

It just dawned on me lately that he'd been saying "be safe" everyday now that I'd been working.

Last night, I asked, cackling at the idea, "Have you been worried about my driving?"

He chuckled too. "You drive like me!" He said.

It's true. We have the same driving "style" and values. Which made it extra humorous.

I assured him that I drive safely. "Because if I hit someone or get pulled over," I explained. "My deliveries will be late!"

Black Birds Have Spoken 11

I made a ham and egg sandwich this morning. Had never made one before.

The question begs to be asked, "Why not?" I LOVE ham and egg.

Thus far, the most I could be bothered with breakfast making was a couple of maple sausages and fry an egg over easy. Lately I couldn't even turn on the stove. Been microwaving which, I concur, is sacrilege. I am no stranger to eating bread straight out of the fridge, either.

Hunger took over this morning. I pictured the humongous version at a local donut shop. Of course there is the beloved McMuffin also. Can't go wrong with that.

But it was after 10:30, so a no go at Mickey Dee's. Drive to the donut shop which was only five minutes away?

That would be ridiculous! I have ham, for Christ's sake.

I've mentioned in the past that I'm easily daunted, especially with the unfamiliar. The multi-step coordination! Could I handle it without burning a thing or two? Will everything still be warm by the time I'm done?

The lack of self-confidence is fucking amazing. It's practically a two-ingredient process!

As soon as the ham sizzled in the pan, I panicked. Oh, shoot, is it cooking too fast? I turned it over gingerly. It'd caramelized. Ham caramelizes? I didn't know that!

The translucent slices took turns writhing violently as if expressing my anguish.

The egg itself was not as remarkable even though, working the single-handed cracking trick, I did break the yolk. Who cares? We're whisking it. (Who's "we"?) The beaten yellow silk filled my 5" pan to the rim, a perfect round, a lovely sight on which to feast my eyes. I made sure not to oversalt as it was to compliment the savory meat.

I made myself comfortable at the table to take my time with this creation. A moment into it, I had to take a peek into the stacked contents. It was simplicity at its best. Everything slightly glistening and browned to perfection. Simple food porn is still food porn.

Every bite was a perfect combo of flavor and texture. And fresh ground pepper is one of my favorite things on earth. Just the way I like it. Know what, too? Warm toast? Pretty nice!

I made a ham and egg sandwich this morning. And it was the best ham and egg sandwich I'd ever had.

Mashed

The other day, RJ and I had a lunch date at one of my favorite Italian restaurants which has a Madeira cream sauce to die for.

Every now and then I come across a restaurant that has specific items I actually dream about and yearn to return to. I have quite a few of those under my belt now. They give life meaning.

Our server was an older man with an accent we couldn't quite name which I found added to the exotic feel of the joint.

After our pasta dishes were served he asked if we wanted shaved Parmesan.

"Not me, thanks," I said, while RJ was affirmative.

The man returned and started shredding above my plate.

I held out my palm à la "Stop! In the name of love..." and repeated my none-for-me mantra.

The man mumbled a vague apology and added, "It's so rare someone doesn't want cheese..."

Have I been called out as the weirdo? I get it. People generally like cheese.

I had to laugh about it. This harkens back to other dining experiences:

- At an Indian or Pakistani restaurant, when offered three different kinds of naan, I say, "None." *shocker*

- When ordering curry at a Thai place, I decline jasmine rice. *What?!?*

- Flour or corn tortillas with my camarones a la diabla? Neither, thanks. *No you didn't!!!*

You catch the theme here. Seriously I have stunned my share of good, honest, hard-working folks in the hospitality industry. For that I do not apologize.

What is that, blasphemy? It's convention after all.

Fuck convention, I say. And what's more, fuck carbs.

So, yeah, you bet I'm a tad jaded. But, as for this fav restaurant of mine, I found the passive-aggressive rudeness oddly endearing. It's quite continental, when you think about it. Just another quirk to enrich the ambiance.

That's the power of quality noodles. Noodles are my love and my weakness. Any kind, shape and form, any cuisine. They're the one instance when I'm blind to convention AND carbs.

FUNdaMENTAL

I majorly cleaned today. I almost never clean. Not in the "normal" sense. Folded and put away clean laundry that'd been sitting there for over two years. You heard me. Sorted months-old coupons and menus I'd been collecting for years.

I don't usually fall this behind. Blame it on the two years I shacked up with RJ at his place and compound that with my then freeway-driving phobia. Usually, I'm in principle very much against letting things accumulate. If I can help it, that is. I absolutely despise wrinkles in clothing that can be avoided by processing promptly. While a bit of a hoarder, I regularly cull and toss expired vouchers and lackluster catalogs and older magazines.

We all know how the bigger the task grows, the more daunting it becomes to tackle it. Before you know it, months go by. Years.

I don't know what got into me today. Got fed up with my intimidated self, I guess. Simply sickened.

Well, I couldn't handle the entire pile of laundry. Did as much as my drive took me. Really made a dent. Did put away all the fresh laundry from today, though. Proud of that.

Also recently finally got grilled enough to start flossing regularly. Long due. Hey, not my fault that we didn't have dental floss growing up. It was a novel idea. A seemingly superfluous, stupid one. We did just fine without it for years, okay? Look, I can barely stand brushing my teeth (makes me gag). Not to mention I tried and failed - just couldn't work the angles. And if you know me, I give up easy.

Took years of gingivitis and deep-cleaning and one insightful dentist to get through to me. "If you floss, you may never need deep-cleaning again!" My good new dentist spread the great news. Wha?!? How come nobody ever told me that before? I thought I was so consistently susceptible, I must have been cursed. Why bother? (Have I mentioned I don't tend to try very hard in fear of failure?)

Always suspected the old dental office milked me for all the insurance allowance they could. But now, there's hope! Work a little, try harder, save yourself. What a brilliant idea!

And the angle predicament? I've learned since then I have child-size jaws. That's right. When they needed to insert a "bite block" (who knew that's what those are called?) to hold my mouth open cuz my cheeks would just get so tired so fast, an adult size one didn't fit. They reached for the junior counterpart. Yikes! How's that for a porn-star dream-crushing revelation?

To the rescue come these tough floss-on-a-bow devices in a brand recommended by my dentist: Plackers. At first I was still befuddled and frustrated. But with relentless practice, yippee I became able to clean between ALL my teeth! You don't know how triumphant that felt!

I've spent most of my life not taking very good care of myself. These baby steps are tremendous. Who knows? Next up I may start cooking healthy, real food again. And *grasp* not self-medicate so much. Even though sometimes I think I'll run out of time first.

Lane

In 1991, I moved into an apartment in Ban Nice in SoCal with my then boyfriend. It was my first experience with swimming in winter.

The complex was managed by a couple, Rey, who was retiree age, and Shirley in her 50's. They'd just accidentally had a baby boy.

An aspiring artist, I took photography classes. I don't remember much of my work except for this one headshot of Brent when he was learning to walk. Even on 8" x 10" black and white glossy Ilford his blue eyes really popped. I had overexposed the film and had to burnish the crap out of the paper. Of course, Shirley didn't know I had made eight prints in order to perfect one. She thought I was a genius. It was possibly the most meaningful gift I ever presented a mother.

One night, while Hulmes and I were bobbing in the water, Rey, Shirley and Brent came to hang out poolside.

"Aren't you gonna come in for a swim?" I asked Shirley.

Shirley made a face. "I don't like to get wet," she said.

"Don't like to get wet?!" The notion resounded in my head and I just could not comprehend. It's the funnest thing!

And Hulmes didn't like the way Rey looked at me so I don't recall hanging out much after that.

To think that today Brent is of legal drinking age!

As for me, with age, I've ceased to like getting wet. Well, not entirely. Our community pool is only dozens of yards away. But most summer days the thought of changing into a bathing suit and the rinsing and drying after... Ugh, just seems too much work.

Sometimes I think if I had a pool in my own backyard - if I had a backyard, I might sing a different tune. Skinny dipping is still an unfulfilled dream.

Oh, how I love lists.