An old friend I've always admired contacted me via Facebook. He's a brilliant writer and today, has about 30 advanced degrees and a Nobel Prize. Well, maybe not. But I prefer those I admire to be bumped up a bit.
He wrote to me today to let me know he's been reading the blog and shared his thoughts about my writing.
Meg, I've been reading your blog. I enjoy the levity and the aplomb you demonstrate in your writing. By the way, I've been trying to work the word "aplomb" into my conversations and writing, but the social "sciences" usually do not warrant its use. I hope all is well.
I couldn't wait to respond, thank him for his thoughts and engage in a little "writer to writer" chat.
After I looked up those words he used.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Unedible Truth
I haven't seen my friends for a while. I've been too busy attending the blogging equivalent of a Star Trek Convention and hurdling over my couch to get to the kitchen. I decided to initiate a gathering and offered to cook. I gave them two options: Chorizo Kale Penne or Shrimp Scampi Linguine.
As anything in life, sometimes circumstances change and you find yourself living in an environment not fit to host a gathering for anyone but enormous rugby players, an entire team of which would fit on your couch. I contacted my friend to propose a change of venue. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: I would host it, but we're being attacked by King Kong's furniture
Friend: Why don't we have it at my place?
Me: That would be so great, thank you. Ok, I'll bring all the food and cook.
Friend: Or...we could order pizza.
She's sweet. She just didn't want me to go to the trouble.
As anything in life, sometimes circumstances change and you find yourself living in an environment not fit to host a gathering for anyone but enormous rugby players, an entire team of which would fit on your couch. I contacted my friend to propose a change of venue. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: I would host it, but we're being attacked by King Kong's furniture
Friend: Why don't we have it at my place?
Me: That would be so great, thank you. Ok, I'll bring all the food and cook.
Friend: Or...we could order pizza.
She's sweet. She just didn't want me to go to the trouble.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sofa and the City
Recent events have lifted the husband and I to a new level of spontaneity and a general freeing of the spirit. We typically run a pretty tight ship. The budget includes very specific, only-what-we-need-for-the-week grocery lists, avoidance of credit card debt and a constant strive to save for the future. We both abide by it. Usually. Once I vengefully bought $190 eye cream because he bought season tickets to the Cubs. We both pretend like those events never occurred. Except when he attends Cubs games. And when I notice a truly dramatic difference in my crow's feet.
We bought a ridiculously large couch last week that in no way, shape, form or possibility fits in our apartment. We never measured the apartment...or the couch. We just went to a store, bought a 5-piece sectional couch with an ottoman and called it a day. We even went to Wendy's afterward to celebrate.
I'd have to draw blueprints to adequately describe the current situation in our living room, so I'll keep it simple. Our minuscule kitchen has 2 entrances to our microscopic living room. One is now blocked by 1 of the 5 pieces of our new couch. Let me just repeat this so you understand. We blocked the entrance to our kitchen.
The husband is, of course, thrilled that our entire living room is just one, big couch. It's a dream come true. He can stretch out, watch TV all day and completely avoid anything coming out of our kitchen.
We're moving.
We bought a ridiculously large couch last week that in no way, shape, form or possibility fits in our apartment. We never measured the apartment...or the couch. We just went to a store, bought a 5-piece sectional couch with an ottoman and called it a day. We even went to Wendy's afterward to celebrate.
I'd have to draw blueprints to adequately describe the current situation in our living room, so I'll keep it simple. Our minuscule kitchen has 2 entrances to our microscopic living room. One is now blocked by 1 of the 5 pieces of our new couch. Let me just repeat this so you understand. We blocked the entrance to our kitchen.
The husband is, of course, thrilled that our entire living room is just one, big couch. It's a dream come true. He can stretch out, watch TV all day and completely avoid anything coming out of our kitchen.
We're moving.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wanna bite of my bologna sandwich?
This weekend, I'm attending my first blogging conference, BlogHer '09. It's quite regarded amongst the blogging community and this year, will be held here in Chicago. I've read a bit, heard a bit and assumed a bit, but in the end have absolutely no idea what to expect. All I know is bloggers much more successful than I will be there, already knowing others, business cards printed and possessing original design, and won't be sitting alone at lunch.
I'm very excited to attend but suddenly feel like it's the first day of school and my mom dressed me in corduroy overalls and left a really embarrassing note in my brown-bag lunch. It says, "Have a great first day at your blogging conference Peanut! Just be yourself! Don't forget to go to the bathroom between panel sessions. It's very bad for your bladder to hold it."
Then, she pulls right up to the front in a woodgrain station wagon when it's over and I climb in, head hung low.
Wish me luck.
I'm very excited to attend but suddenly feel like it's the first day of school and my mom dressed me in corduroy overalls and left a really embarrassing note in my brown-bag lunch. It says, "Have a great first day at your blogging conference Peanut! Just be yourself! Don't forget to go to the bathroom between panel sessions. It's very bad for your bladder to hold it."
Then, she pulls right up to the front in a woodgrain station wagon when it's over and I climb in, head hung low.
Wish me luck.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Monsieur, can you bring my husband a hamburger?
I married a good man. He's so wholesome, it's like he grew from a tree and was just plucked right off the branch. He's honest, ethical, kind. He calls to cancel dinner reservations when we make other plans. He frequently gives blood because he feels its his civic duty. My blood comes out only by accident.
When we travel, he sends me an itinerary in advance to ensure we see everything of importance and are armed with sufficient knowledge to get us from A to B. He's a much more curious, interested person than I am, always looking toward our next experience and constantly hungry to learn something new. I'm a bit lazier about life and will go along for the ride if the food is tasty, the hotel toiletries are good enough to steal, and the humidity isn't such that will make my hair curl.
On our recent trip to Paris, we took a less prepared approach. Life was hectic and it was all we could do to get on the plane, pop a few sleep helpers and pray we made it over the ocean. We arrived, grabbed a couple croque monsieurs and sat in the grass cramming through a city guide to figure it all out. In the end, we strolled through beautiful gardens and vibrant city streets and stood in front of gorgeous cathedrals and monuments, grinning for the camera. It was a relaxing, wonderful experience. However, more careful preparation certainly could have gone into our dining plans.
Since no one eats until what feels like midnight in Paris, we caught on quickly that our usual American appetite, one that kicks in at 6pm, needed to be held off a bit. I mean, I'm worldly and fabulous...I can wait until midnight to eat dinner. My stomach was eating itself and I couldn't form sentences and I shook from the 7 cafe au laits I had to ward off the hunger, but I looked cool. And French.
Our solution one night was to hang up our hunger and sit at a wine bar before dinner, in hopes they would offer us a block of cheese. After a few hours, we became toodrunk lazy to move to a new location, and decided to have a look at the menu. I barely passed studied about 4 years of French, so my liquid confidence kicked in and I chose some lovely dishes for the husband and myself. Strongly recommended by the waiter, I ordered beef carpaccio, foie gras, potatoes and greens with a little olive oil. Good stuff, right?
Let me just preface it with this: Before I met him, my husband ate a Potbelly's sandwich every single night after work. He's adventurous, but he'd rather eat one or both of his shoes than what I ordered for him that night. However, true to form, he put aside his own desire to vomit on the plate, and ate 3/4 of the dish by closing his eyes and rapidly tapping his foot while chewing each piece until he could swallow it. See, he was concerned that the waiter would be insulted. He's just that good inside.
Below, our lovely, sometimes raw, before dinner-dinner, brought to you by the unethical treatment of animals.
As kind as my husband was to the waiter, I don't think he was very happy with me. Not sure if it was too much wine but when I glanced at his hand, he appeared to have removed his wedding band.
When we travel, he sends me an itinerary in advance to ensure we see everything of importance and are armed with sufficient knowledge to get us from A to B. He's a much more curious, interested person than I am, always looking toward our next experience and constantly hungry to learn something new. I'm a bit lazier about life and will go along for the ride if the food is tasty, the hotel toiletries are good enough to steal, and the humidity isn't such that will make my hair curl.
On our recent trip to Paris, we took a less prepared approach. Life was hectic and it was all we could do to get on the plane, pop a few sleep helpers and pray we made it over the ocean. We arrived, grabbed a couple croque monsieurs and sat in the grass cramming through a city guide to figure it all out. In the end, we strolled through beautiful gardens and vibrant city streets and stood in front of gorgeous cathedrals and monuments, grinning for the camera. It was a relaxing, wonderful experience. However, more careful preparation certainly could have gone into our dining plans.
Since no one eats until what feels like midnight in Paris, we caught on quickly that our usual American appetite, one that kicks in at 6pm, needed to be held off a bit. I mean, I'm worldly and fabulous...I can wait until midnight to eat dinner. My stomach was eating itself and I couldn't form sentences and I shook from the 7 cafe au laits I had to ward off the hunger, but I looked cool. And French.
Our solution one night was to hang up our hunger and sit at a wine bar before dinner, in hopes they would offer us a block of cheese. After a few hours, we became too
Let me just preface it with this: Before I met him, my husband ate a Potbelly's sandwich every single night after work. He's adventurous, but he'd rather eat one or both of his shoes than what I ordered for him that night. However, true to form, he put aside his own desire to vomit on the plate, and ate 3/4 of the dish by closing his eyes and rapidly tapping his foot while chewing each piece until he could swallow it. See, he was concerned that the waiter would be insulted. He's just that good inside.
Below, our lovely, sometimes raw, before dinner-dinner, brought to you by the unethical treatment of animals.
As kind as my husband was to the waiter, I don't think he was very happy with me. Not sure if it was too much wine but when I glanced at his hand, he appeared to have removed his wedding band.
Even in a foreign country, I can screw up dinner.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Bakin' Bacon
I'm currently obsessed with Ina Garten, of Barefoot Contessa (Food Network) fame. If you're not familiar, I'd describe her as "Martha Stewart lite" who actually has friends and drinks more. She lives in the Hamptons with her husband and invites us into her insanely gorgeous kitchen that overlooks her fresh herb and veggie garden, to teach us how to whip up homemade triple chocolate gelato. With her ice cream machine. Pretty relatable, right?
While I plan to do productive things like vacuum up the month's worth of crushed cereal and shredded cheese embedded into the corners of our kitchen floor, I usually end up at the bookstore pouring over expensive cookbooks instead. This week, I only had eyes for Ina. My first challenge was a California BLT. Yes, that's right. A BLT with avocado. No mountain too high in our house.
Ina bakes her bacon on a rack in the oven, which was far too complicated for me to understand. I considered frying it up like any respectable Midwestern girl, but I'm not the one with the million dollar food empire. Small problem. No rack. My bacon went straight on a cookie sheet and in the oven and I didn't even think twice. Guess what happened? I know, you're shocked.
Plan B.
The house smelled like burnt bacon for days. For me, a lingering reminder of failure.
To the husband, heaven.
While I plan to do productive things like vacuum up the month's worth of crushed cereal and shredded cheese embedded into the corners of our kitchen floor, I usually end up at the bookstore pouring over expensive cookbooks instead. This week, I only had eyes for Ina. My first challenge was a California BLT. Yes, that's right. A BLT with avocado. No mountain too high in our house.
Ina bakes her bacon on a rack in the oven, which was far too complicated for me to understand. I considered frying it up like any respectable Midwestern girl, but I'm not the one with the million dollar food empire. Small problem. No rack. My bacon went straight on a cookie sheet and in the oven and I didn't even think twice. Guess what happened? I know, you're shocked.
Plan B.
The house smelled like burnt bacon for days. For me, a lingering reminder of failure. To the husband, heaven.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Weighty Issues
I started writing this post like a letter to a childhood crush. Write words, erase them, write them more "casually," erase them, write them honestly, erase them.
I had a miscarriage. There you have it.
The thing of it is, it's a very abstract experience. It happens to so many women and almost everyone you know will tell you it's happened to someone they know. It feels like a death, but not with something you're connected with enough to grieve it like one. It feels confusing and embarrassing and leaves you so mystified about life, in general. At the same time, it's one of those things that changes a new marriage - if you're lucky, for the better.
Unfortunately, 3 months of pregnancy followed by a solid month of emotional eating and drinking does not a skinny girl make. This will not be a sleeveless summer. It's enough weight for me to notice (and likely the very smart husband who has been rendered mute on the topic), but others seem unsure. See, I announced the pregnancy to everyone I knew shortly after we found out, much to the husband's dismay. Boss, coworkers, old friends, new friends, homeless people, our doorman. Our doorman, who when told, responded with, "You pregnant? Jennifer Hudson's pregnant." Alrighty. Guess we don't have to pick up our People Magazine this week, then.
Today, I ran into that doorman while leaving the building.
He scanned my body and said, "So..how you doin' Meg?"
Translation: "You sho' don't look pregnant. You look kinda fat, but not pregnant. You seen Jennifer Hudson lately? Now she look pregnant."
I explained that we were no longer pregnant but are hopeful to be someday again and contemplated jumping through the glass door if he didn't open it for me to escape soon. I anticipated his sympathetic, warm response and got the following.
"Yeah, uh, well my 4th wife wanted kids and I was like, I ain't givin' you no DAMN kids. So then she got a dog and I was like, I ain't pickin' up no HOT POOP. So don't you worry Meg, you just enjoy life as you have it - all that stuff is crazy."
So, next time something devastating happens, don't seek therapy. Don't practice yoga each morning to try to find inner calm. Just visit my doorman and become enlightened on how much better your life is because it isn't filled with damn kids and hot poop.
For some reason, I can't stop eating today.
I had a miscarriage. There you have it.
The thing of it is, it's a very abstract experience. It happens to so many women and almost everyone you know will tell you it's happened to someone they know. It feels like a death, but not with something you're connected with enough to grieve it like one. It feels confusing and embarrassing and leaves you so mystified about life, in general. At the same time, it's one of those things that changes a new marriage - if you're lucky, for the better.
Unfortunately, 3 months of pregnancy followed by a solid month of emotional eating and drinking does not a skinny girl make. This will not be a sleeveless summer. It's enough weight for me to notice (and likely the very smart husband who has been rendered mute on the topic), but others seem unsure. See, I announced the pregnancy to everyone I knew shortly after we found out, much to the husband's dismay. Boss, coworkers, old friends, new friends, homeless people, our doorman. Our doorman, who when told, responded with, "You pregnant? Jennifer Hudson's pregnant." Alrighty. Guess we don't have to pick up our People Magazine this week, then.
Today, I ran into that doorman while leaving the building.
He scanned my body and said, "So..how you doin' Meg?"
Translation: "You sho' don't look pregnant. You look kinda fat, but not pregnant. You seen Jennifer Hudson lately? Now she look pregnant."
I explained that we were no longer pregnant but are hopeful to be someday again and contemplated jumping through the glass door if he didn't open it for me to escape soon. I anticipated his sympathetic, warm response and got the following.
"Yeah, uh, well my 4th wife wanted kids and I was like, I ain't givin' you no DAMN kids. So then she got a dog and I was like, I ain't pickin' up no HOT POOP. So don't you worry Meg, you just enjoy life as you have it - all that stuff is crazy."
So, next time something devastating happens, don't seek therapy. Don't practice yoga each morning to try to find inner calm. Just visit my doorman and become enlightened on how much better your life is because it isn't filled with damn kids and hot poop.
For some reason, I can't stop eating today.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Salt on the Wound
My intentions yesterday were to spend my Sunday in a way that was productive, fulfilling and wise. My intentions were to open the windows to the glorious, sunny day in the city, make the bed the right way, scrub the bathtub, buy flowers for every room. My intentions were to cook meals for the week ahead in a slow and steady manner - one that would yield delicious, satisfying results.
Instead, I went to a mid-day brunch and drank mimosas for 5 hours. Instead, I decided to bring my bad-influence, drinking partner friend home with me - a plan to continue our ridiculous behavior with red wine, baguette and french cheese while preparing my week's meals. Instead, I followed recipes through glassy eyes while gossiping about the men in her life and well, the rest is history.
I made the saltiest, most disgusting chicken salad one could ever imagine. I vaguely recall her observing the saltiness when it was immediately finished, but I also recall pouring lemon juice in it and being confidently (and wrongly) pleased. I also recall the husband arriving after a full day of a Cubs double header, hot dog eating and beer slugging and deeming the dish "perfection."
We both brought it for lunch today and an hour later, feel as if we've eaten spoonfuls of kosher salt with a side of chicken. I am on my 15th glass of water and it hasn't begun to satisfy my thirst. My fingers look like pork sausages and my shoes feel strangely tight.
Don't try this at home.
Instead, I went to a mid-day brunch and drank mimosas for 5 hours. Instead, I decided to bring my bad-influence, drinking partner friend home with me - a plan to continue our ridiculous behavior with red wine, baguette and french cheese while preparing my week's meals. Instead, I followed recipes through glassy eyes while gossiping about the men in her life and well, the rest is history.
I made the saltiest, most disgusting chicken salad one could ever imagine. I vaguely recall her observing the saltiness when it was immediately finished, but I also recall pouring lemon juice in it and being confidently (and wrongly) pleased. I also recall the husband arriving after a full day of a Cubs double header, hot dog eating and beer slugging and deeming the dish "perfection."
We both brought it for lunch today and an hour later, feel as if we've eaten spoonfuls of kosher salt with a side of chicken. I am on my 15th glass of water and it hasn't begun to satisfy my thirst. My fingers look like pork sausages and my shoes feel strangely tight.
Don't try this at home.
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