Dear Santa,
I'm writing with combined feelings of guilt and hope this Christmas. See, I was raised to believe that you can't just suddenly decide to believe in something when you need things. It's sort of like not going to church for 14 months and then praying really hard when you're pulled over for speeding. I don't even try that anymore. Usually.
I'm writing in an effort to encourage myself to believe. A cynic by nature, I tend not to believe in things, probably because finding out why I shouldn't is just more interesting sometimes. I certainly wasn't a brilliant child but the year you put plastic fruit in my stocking left me with no options. However, this year I'm willing to revisit my thoughts on your existence and assume the fruit in your bag was dangerously unorganic, so you opted to go with my mom's plastic variety. For my safety.
Of course I'm requesting the usual list of material things, including an apartment not smaller than our couch, a gas stove, a bathtub long enough to include my toes, a garbage disposal. Oh, and some sort of age reversal pill. Or 43 million dollars. Whatever. I'm not that fussy.
What I'm really hoping for this year is a little luck. I think we're due. If you can reach in your bag and find anything at all for this reformed non-believer, that's what I'll take.
In return, I'll be sure to leave out cookies and milk. Don't worry, I'm not about revenge. All my cookies just taste like plastic.
Faithfully yours,
Meg Pasz
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Ones of Two
Our parents had 10 year olds at our age. They had mortgages, woodgrain station wagons, Encyclopedia Britannicas and memberships to whatever the 1987 equivalent to Costco was.
The husband and I were married at 30. We spent our 20'seating burritos and competitively drinking Jager bombs building our careers. We pursued advanced degrees and became very successful. Alright, the husband did that. But I did graduate past the Jager bomb to the Irish car bomb. Sweet sophistication.
There's such a thing as "single person behavior" (SPB) that surfaces occasionally during marriage. For me, it's a number of productive things, including ensuring no bottle of red in the house goes unopened, staring into a torturous, magnified hand mirror at every clogged pore on my face, watching mind-numbing hours of Real Housewifosity. I suspect the husband spends his in purgatory, the space between real and fantasy sports. This is particularly important when he's holding the "COMMISH" position, which is apparently similar to the person who holds the nuclear codes. We both sit comfortably in single person behavior time when it's granted to us.
Last night, while the husband attended his work holiday party, it was full-on SPB for me. Pore-unclogging mask, bottle of red and a shiny, new Real Housewife episode. The husband stumbled in at the night's end with Chipotle.
Adult burritos. Some things never change.
The husband and I were married at 30. We spent our 20's
There's such a thing as "single person behavior" (SPB) that surfaces occasionally during marriage. For me, it's a number of productive things, including ensuring no bottle of red in the house goes unopened, staring into a torturous, magnified hand mirror at every clogged pore on my face, watching mind-numbing hours of Real Housewifosity. I suspect the husband spends his in purgatory, the space between real and fantasy sports. This is particularly important when he's holding the "COMMISH" position, which is apparently similar to the person who holds the nuclear codes. We both sit comfortably in single person behavior time when it's granted to us.
Last night, while the husband attended his work holiday party, it was full-on SPB for me. Pore-unclogging mask, bottle of red and a shiny, new Real Housewife episode. The husband stumbled in at the night's end with Chipotle.
Adult burritos. Some things never change.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Fried chicken and Kleenex
Last night, the husband and I dined at Table 52, Art Smith's restaurant, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Art Smith is a famous chef, known for his soulful, southern cuisine. He was Oprah's private chef for many years. I enjoy, but am not a fanatic for southern food. Yet last night, I met Art Smith and I immediately started sobbing.
Scene: Husband and I are seated on the first floor of the very small, intimate restaurant. We were served our entrees. His, a 20 oz. rib eye, mine "Art's fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
Art Smith approaches our table.
Art Smith: Hello. Are you enjoying everything?
Me: Oh my God. Art Smith. Art. Smith. I'm eating your fried chicken. (Tears begin a slow leak). I'm so honored to meet you! It's our first anniversary! Art. Smith.
Art Smith: Oh, great. Well happy anniversary. (He signals his security detail for assistance)
Me: I'm crr. crryyyying.
Art Smith: Oh. Oh wow you are. Well, there are many more important things to cry about. Please don't cry. Please? Really...please?
The husband sympathetically smiled at Art Smith and shook his hand. I'm sure there was a slight possibility he just wanted to ask Art Smith for ketchup or something but was distracted by my loud sobs.
I don't remember how it was that Art Smith eventually left our table but when I dried my eyes and looked up, he was greeting the remaining tables with little to no reaction from his regular patrons. To them, it was no big deal. Just another dinner on a Sunday night.
The morning after, I am working through the reasons I cried in my fried chicken on our first anniversary. Was it too much champagne? Was it because I knew the fried chicken would show up in the form of saddlebags within 12 hours on my body? It's quite possible that the husband will never take me out to dinner again or that I may be served a restraining order today from Art Smith. But I've forgiven myself. My reaction was honest and authentic. It was a surprising occurrence on a very special night. I can only hope that no matter how many anniversary dinners we have at great restaurants, I'm never unaffected.
Also, my affections for Art Smith were further confirmed when he gave us doggy bags before the police escorted us out. How thoughtful is that?
Scene: Husband and I are seated on the first floor of the very small, intimate restaurant. We were served our entrees. His, a 20 oz. rib eye, mine "Art's fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
Art Smith approaches our table.
Art Smith: Hello. Are you enjoying everything?
Me: Oh my God. Art Smith. Art. Smith. I'm eating your fried chicken. (Tears begin a slow leak). I'm so honored to meet you! It's our first anniversary! Art. Smith.
Art Smith: Oh, great. Well happy anniversary. (He signals his security detail for assistance)
Me: I'm crr. crryyyying.
Art Smith: Oh. Oh wow you are. Well, there are many more important things to cry about. Please don't cry. Please? Really...please?
The husband sympathetically smiled at Art Smith and shook his hand. I'm sure there was a slight possibility he just wanted to ask Art Smith for ketchup or something but was distracted by my loud sobs.
I don't remember how it was that Art Smith eventually left our table but when I dried my eyes and looked up, he was greeting the remaining tables with little to no reaction from his regular patrons. To them, it was no big deal. Just another dinner on a Sunday night.
The morning after, I am working through the reasons I cried in my fried chicken on our first anniversary. Was it too much champagne? Was it because I knew the fried chicken would show up in the form of saddlebags within 12 hours on my body? It's quite possible that the husband will never take me out to dinner again or that I may be served a restraining order today from Art Smith. But I've forgiven myself. My reaction was honest and authentic. It was a surprising occurrence on a very special night. I can only hope that no matter how many anniversary dinners we have at great restaurants, I'm never unaffected.
Also, my affections for Art Smith were further confirmed when he gave us doggy bags before the police escorted us out. How thoughtful is that?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I Do
Just a few days from today marks our first wedding anniversary. December 13th, 2008.
We both, separately, spent the night before and morning of completely alone. We kept it smallish - 3 attendants on each side, made up of pure family. I wore feathers instead of a veil and carried red roses. My makeup artist said she "could probably do my hair, too" so she got the job and an awful one she did. I loved it.
We had red velvet cupcakes instead of cake and a band that inspired our most reserved friends and relatives to dance all night. No bouquet toss, no garter, no announced entrance. I loved it.
Our first dance was to "Love is here to stay." The husband drank too much and I didn't drink enough. The bustle hook on my dress failed and the bottom of it was torn and stained. I loved it.
Just like our wedding day, everything this year didn't happen as planned. Every day wasn't easy and without challenges. But at the end of each day, we sat down at the table together and found a way to laugh.
In years to come, we pray that our table will grow and the laughter will be louder. In my dreams, it's deafening.
But today, it's quite nice just looking across the table at the husband. I love it. I do.
We both, separately, spent the night before and morning of completely alone. We kept it smallish - 3 attendants on each side, made up of pure family. I wore feathers instead of a veil and carried red roses. My makeup artist said she "could probably do my hair, too" so she got the job and an awful one she did. I loved it.
We had red velvet cupcakes instead of cake and a band that inspired our most reserved friends and relatives to dance all night. No bouquet toss, no garter, no announced entrance. I loved it.
Our first dance was to "Love is here to stay." The husband drank too much and I didn't drink enough. The bustle hook on my dress failed and the bottom of it was torn and stained. I loved it.
Just like our wedding day, everything this year didn't happen as planned. Every day wasn't easy and without challenges. But at the end of each day, we sat down at the table together and found a way to laugh.
In years to come, we pray that our table will grow and the laughter will be louder. In my dreams, it's deafening.
But today, it's quite nice just looking across the table at the husband. I love it. I do.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Killing the basa
We traveled to the husband's homeland for Thanksgiving. Not Poland...Toledo. But what we brought home was straight-up Polski. I almost took a photo of it, but there's something a bit naked and vulnerable about 6 pounds of long, winding tubes of raw kielbasa . It just felt dirty to me.
The husband spent the last month advertising this great meatness to his colleagues and promised to bring in a full batch after the holiday. The direction from Mama Pasz was, "Boil it to death. You can't ruin it."
Last night, I opened the fridge and faced my opponent. It just stared at me, red and sweaty and powerful. There was no pulse, but I swear I saw throbbing. It knew its sausage fate but it wasn't going to go quietly. Since there were 6 pounds (apparently few vegetarians at the husband's office), a large pot would have been extremely beneficial. But, the Pasz's work with what we have, and what we had was a lot of unlarge pots.
When the husband arrived home, the kitchen was overflowing with angry, growling sausage and my pots runneth over. Literally.
Husband: Um...so my mom usually puts the lid on when its boiling.
Me: Brilliant idea, husband. Perhaps that's why my chest resembles a burn victim from exploding sausage water?
Husband: At least it smells good....
Me: CALL YOUR MOTHER. Or 911.
Just as you suspected, Mama Pasz once again advised to "boil it to death. She can't ruin it." And after a bottle of wine, my burning sensations faded and the sausage found a simmering level of death acceptance. The husband expressed complete satisfaction about the result, but for some reason checked each small piece before packing it for his coworkers. Life is just a tad scarier after Mama Pasz, let's be honest.
In closing, a famous Polish proverb: A woman cries before the wedding, the man after.
The husband spent the last month advertising this great meatness to his colleagues and promised to bring in a full batch after the holiday. The direction from Mama Pasz was, "Boil it to death. You can't ruin it."
Last night, I opened the fridge and faced my opponent. It just stared at me, red and sweaty and powerful. There was no pulse, but I swear I saw throbbing. It knew its sausage fate but it wasn't going to go quietly. Since there were 6 pounds (apparently few vegetarians at the husband's office), a large pot would have been extremely beneficial. But, the Pasz's work with what we have, and what we had was a lot of unlarge pots.
When the husband arrived home, the kitchen was overflowing with angry, growling sausage and my pots runneth over. Literally.
Husband: Um...so my mom usually puts the lid on when its boiling.
Me: Brilliant idea, husband. Perhaps that's why my chest resembles a burn victim from exploding sausage water?
Husband: At least it smells good....
Me: CALL YOUR MOTHER. Or 911.
Just as you suspected, Mama Pasz once again advised to "boil it to death. She can't ruin it." And after a bottle of wine, my burning sensations faded and the sausage found a simmering level of death acceptance. The husband expressed complete satisfaction about the result, but for some reason checked each small piece before packing it for his coworkers. Life is just a tad scarier after Mama Pasz, let's be honest.
In closing, a famous Polish proverb: A woman cries before the wedding, the man after.
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