Pasz The Salt

Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 01:59:00 +0000

I joined a group for new moms. It's not a support group. At least they don't say it is. It's largely a group of unshowered, sticky women with babies hanging from them. So, basically your average support group.

As today was the final day, we were asked to go around the room and discuss loss we've experienced, an inevitable piece of taking on any new role. Some said they once had clean floors, others reflected on their pre-sagging hard bodies sculpted daily at the gym. Some people missed coffee, others wished they could simply say "booze," but covered it up with the always safe "time with my girlfriends."

Since birth, Baby Pasz has been swaddled. If you're not familiar, it's the process of wrapping small humans in circulation-cutting blankets - when you really mean business, sometimes equipped with velcro. The goal is to create "womb-like" security. Or, force, sorry, encourage them stop screaming and sleep all night. Grandparents think its horribly cruel and carefully say things like, "She...she likes that, you say?" Whether or not you are down with the swaddle, parents across the world are sleeping soundly tonight, my friend.

When considering the most significant change since becoming a mother, I thought of all of the times we spontaneously booked plane tickets to wherever we wanted, spent what felt like entire paychecks on magnificent meals, changed our minds and our plans within seconds to suit our mood. Though much of those decisions were made to soothe our ache of wanting a child, they are carefree, fantastic memories that I'm grateful we created.

After her 5:30 a.m. feeding, I always release her arms and unswaddle her, letting her lay in bed with us for the remainder of the morning. She happily stretches for what seems like hours, discovering her new length every day. Though she refuses to sleep without it and does so with great content, I know she can't wait to stretch out in the morning.

It's a funny thing, freedom and motherhood. Looking back on mine doesn't give me anywhere near the sense of loss I know I'll feel when she gains hers.

Mind your own breastness

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 19:28:00 +0000

People really extend themselves when you have a new baby. They bring casseroles, offer to clean the floors, say things like, "you look fantastic!" when you clearly have runny, yellow, infant feces in your hair.

Some, however, take it one step further by offering super helpful baby advice. The kind they think you need when the baby is screaming bloody murder. The kind they offer when you're trying to arrange your sore, unsightly mammary glands in some kind of suitable fashion inside the screaming baby mouth. "You're breastfeeding? You're not feeding her enough. That's why she's crying."

Ah, yes. I've not thought of that. I must have been preoccupied drinking herbal teas made of dirt and fertilizer, taking supplements I can't pronounce, spending hours around the clock with a plastic pump attached to my chest like the prize cow at the county fair. I may be feeding her nothing but granola bars and the highest amount of wine that website said I could safely drink in a 2 hour period, but I'm feeding her. At least I thought I was.

It's one thing when friends and family express opinions, often well-intentioned. It's quite another when complete strangers observe you, frazzled and defeated, in an elevator, and say this.

Stranger: "Cute baby."
Me: "Thanks. We're on our way out for a walk. It helps her to stop crying."
Stranger: "Are you breastfeeding?"
Me: "Um, well, yes. Yes, I'm....yes, breastfeeding."
Stranger: "That baby's not getting enough from you. You should give her formula."

She said it in a very "I'm with Child Services" kind of tone, too. It really infuriated me.

If I didn't have yellow poop in my hair and negative six hours of sleep, I really would have knocked her block off. Gotta run, baby's hungry....

The Shot

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 01:24:00 +0000

I was nervous about it the night before. Just picturing the cold, sterile room, the mean, old, smelly nurse whose cigarette break was immediately before. She walked into the room carrying a shiny needle dripping with poison, just salivating at the thought of stabbing it into innocent flesh.

I cried when it happened. I couldn't help myself. It was everything I have always found overbearing about my own mother - all of her fussing over me, worrying about my health and happiness and overall well-being - it was that full-circle moment that makes you so aware of all of the things you dismissed as a child, the things you should have appreciated or been more sensitive about.

I cried. During her vaccination. Which lasted .5 seconds and resulted in a very cute purple band-aid that I'm sure she'd love, if she were generally more aware of her surroundings and could identify her own hands. I cried.

On the way home, I tried to explain to her that life will be difficult, it will include needles and stubborn freckles you'll try to erase with hydrogen peroxide and people who aren't wise enough to see your beauty. I told her that she'll have to be strong.

As I rambled on in the backseat of the car, the one the husband couldn't wait to park and release the hormone-infested contents of, I realized she was asleep. Happily asleep with her purple band-aid and the whole experience behind her.

Maybe she was pretending to sleep. To get me to stop talking. And crying. And checking her band-aid for any escaping blood.

God help her.

Isn't she lovely?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 12:44:00 +0000

It's early in the morning. Or very late at night. On Wednesday. I mean Thursday.

I'm a new mom. And I'm exhausted. Saying it out loud helps.

She was born 5 weeks ago and she's unbelievable. Unbelievable in that she's beautiful, mysterious, precious. Also unbelievable in that I honestly still can't believe that a tiny hand wraps itself around my finger.

Everyone tells me to talk to her more, that she needs to come to understand language patterns. I certainly try, but for some reason I can't put a sentence together to greet the UPS man, let alone effectively transfer rhythmic language patterns to my daughter's developing brain. So, I sing Motown songs to her. Seems like that should work. She should measure nicely against the babies with nannies that only speak Mandarin. I mean, how many of those babies will be able to belt out Stevie Wonder on demand? Exactly.

I know that, beyond this fog I'm living in, there will be smiles, steps, sleep. Purpose.

I struggle with my qualifications for it, whether I'm enough. I think about how to better approach my own professional and creative future, redefined by her arrival. Fueled by wanting her to be proud.

I often forget to put socks on her. Well, not often. Always. I'm learning to forgive myself for it. Maybe she'll be a yogi who never needs to wear socks. One who knows every word to Stevie Wonder's greatest hits. Not exactly the resume of the next Secretary of State but she's only 5 weeks old. She'll be fine, right?

Right?

I'll do better tomorrow.

Spooked but Strong

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 10 May 2011 19:33:00 +0000

It's been a while. Infants are now toddlers, Bieber has a girlfriend , Bin Laden is swimming with the sharks. I've been blog-neglectful for a solid 8 months and though I know it felt like a well-deserved vacation, the party is over, people. I'm back.

I should start with the most joyful update: The family Pasz will make 3 in just a number of weeks. The husband and I are expecting a daughter. We're indescribably excited, grateful, euphoric...and spooked. History has conditioned us to play it cool, let the universe decide our fate when it comes to family expansion efforts. And though I admire those who boldly post the sideways tummy shot on Facebook, I'm fairly certain a large beam from the ceiling would fall on me immediately after I make the same choice. We've digested this experience slowly, cautiously and with private appreciation and not only has it been incredibly lovely, it's been easy and painless. Until last night.

I'll spare ~~my brother~~ my hundreds of male readers the anatomical references because let's be frank, no one wants to hear about pregnant lady parts. Last night, I suddenly felt a tightness in the place where the baby lives (oh hell, my uterus) and realized I was having legitimate contractions. This would be glorious and exciting if I were anywhere near my due date. As I am not, it was less glorious than one would imagine.

Trying to remain calm, I slowly told the husband that something not so typical was happening and requested he get my handy Dr. Oz YOU! Having a Baby! book. That title really does it for me - it's like a big high-five from him every time I open it on a job well-done. Dr. Oz told me that contractions are normal at my stage and explained the difference between "practice" contractions and pre-term labor. My symptoms applied to both. This is when my kind, compassionate, scared-out -of -his-brains husband made the executive decision.

Husband: "I'm packing your hospital bag."
Me: "You....you are?"
Husband: "Yes, what goes in it?"
Me: "I have absolutely no idea. The largest underwear you can find. And some snacks?"

As I watched my husband move at Olympic speed packing my hospital bag, I realized two things. I never loved him more. And we have absolutely nothing to bring the baby home in.

Then, like magic, he emerged with a hand-me-down onesie gifted from a relative. It was Halloween-themed and said, "I Love My Mummy" on it. Seems reasonable.

In the end, they were just contractions - a signal that she is on her way but not necessarily before her time. We're still spooked and likely will be until we hold her in our arms. The good news? She's all set for Halloween. And you thought I wasn't prepared for this.

Wounds

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 13:15:00 +0000

I'm here - wobbly, but here. As I've said before, everyone has sad stories so we're no different. We work every day to get up, dust it off and get back in the game. We're trying to move forward. In the meantime, it's all about stress management.

It was a spontaneous decision, I arrived at the gym after work and instead of dragging my suddenly concrete feet to the punishing treadmill, I headed for the spa.

Me: "Hi, sorry for the short notice. Any massages available tonight?"
Irritatingly calm, serious spa employee (ICSSE): "Yes, I believe we can accommodate you ma'am."

Ok, never call me ma'am. Ever.

Me: "Really? Great! But I have to warn you. My legs are a lit-tle hairy."
ICSSE: Long pause. "Um. Right. Ok. Do you prefer a man or a woman?"
Me: "Probably a woman. You know, because of the whole hairy leg thing."
ICSSE: "Melissa will be with you shortly. Please put on this robe and wait in the front."

It was my only chance. I grabbed the robe and sprinted into the locker room. To a girl from Indiana, it's one of those fancy locker rooms. With Kiehl's products and a steam room and free Q-tips. And disposable razors.

I turn on the the water in the shower, cold because of my obvious time constraints, and make rapid blade to skin contact. My first sensation is relief, purely housed in my self-esteem because Melissa won't have to comb through the forest and will perceive me as woman of great grooming standards.

Melissa met me in the Zen place.

Melissa: "Hello Megan"
Me: "I shaved my legs!"
Melissa (clearly trained by the spa's personality-crushing methods): "I see. Is there anything that's bothering you, in particular, today?

I wanted to tell serious, socially repressed Melissa that it's all really hard right now. That I swallow my tears daily, that it's hard to get out of bed in the morning. But I think she wanted me to reference my hamstring tightness, so I did. Anyone who references their hamstrings is clearly in great shape and likely, well-groomed.

The table was warm and almost enough to warrant the $120 service alone. Within moments, blood began to squirt from my extremely pale, dry, raw chicken-like limbs. They burned like flames, only intensified by her overly fragranced, kinky massage oil. I begin to wonder if Melissa would now refuse to friend me on Facebook.

My next massage will be much more relaxing, I'm sure. And I probably won't have to steal the bloody table sheet. And the robe.

How come nobody told me that?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:16:00 +0000

Slowly but surely, the tomato plant is growing. I water it most days, other days I find it too daunting to climb 4 flights of stairs and just pray that it will survive. Like any good caretaker.

Though I contained it in a "cage," or one of those wire stake-like situations, it's becoming a bit unruly - jaunting out in all directions and growing hair on its leaves. Yes, hair. Or fuzz. Think menopausal tomato plant leaf.

The other night as the hubs was grilling dinner, I spent some time examining the tomato plant. As I looked closely, I noticed some peculiar yellow flowers. At first, I thought they were sort of pretty. Like the dandelions that my dad used to scoop up with the lawn mower because he said they were weeds, even though at the time, I thought they were so beautiful I planned to populate my entire wedding bouquet with them. After considering it further, I decided they were just that. Weeds. Weeds on the stem of hairy leaves. They had to go.

While visiting my parents this weekend, this happened:

Dad: How's your tomato plant coming along?

Me: Oh fantastic. Not to brag, but I seem to be getting the hang of this gardening thing.

Dad: Do you have any tomatoes yet?

Me: No, not yet. But I have been weeding it.

Silence.

Me: You know, those yellow flower weeds. I pull 'em right off every time I see 'em.

Dad: Brilliant. Those are tomatoes.

There's always next summer.

The Garden of Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 12:02:00 +0000

I planted a garden. An urban garden. Or, I planted one tomato. On the roof. And I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm completely preoccupied with it, all day every day. Sometimes in my sleep.

I'm afraid that it's going to die.

I did the research which, since Al Gore invented the Internet, means I scour Google for scary stories about how non-organic soil and fertilizer bleeds pesticides and human poison into vegetable gardens everywhere.

Organic soil. Check.

Then I read that I'm supposed to use compost, which apparently means I need to pile our leftover potato peels, egg shells, wine corks (no?) in the backyard and let it turn into something even more disgusting than it already is. If the backyard wasn't an alley, I'd be all over that. Maybe.

So I found a free gardening class at Home Depot, arrived 25 minutes early and begged the sweet, little old gardening lady to save me. I was strangely intimidated by her. She seemed so sturdy, such a capable nurturer. I immediately cursed my freshly painted jezebel-red fingernails when she said, "I assume you don't want to get your hands dirty today." Huh? Was it my Olson Twins giganto sunglasses? My purse the size of Texas? "No, I'm very dirty," I say. "Everyone I know says I'm so dirty." Words that certainly could have been said better, agreed.

Within minutes, we were kindred spirits. I explained that my goal was simple. To grow something that lives, flourishes, arrives to become part of the most fulfilling meal the husband and I could imagine. I told her that I need a win.

Upon promising I wouldn't cyber stalk her, she let me take home the "demo" plant. It could have been because I was the only student, with the exception of one late-arriving couple who wanted to grow cilantro. Amateurs.

Today, Tammy the Tomato remains in very early development on the Pasz rooftop. I over water her, talk to her out loud, stare at her for uncomfortable lengths of time. And according to the little sticker, she'll be with us in 78 days.

It's weird how the lady from Home Depot changed her phone number.

Age-induced ramble

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Apologies for my recent absence. It's not you, it's me. I should probably summarize my time away from the blog as productive and meaningful.

I've been in Haiti.

Ugh, fine. I wasn't in Haiti. I've been watching Golden Girls re-runs and eating potato chip and peanut butter sandwiches. I turned 32, lightened my hair to pretend like I didn't turn 32, stood on my head in yoga to attempt acceptance of turning 32, realized that White-Out is a stunningly bright shade in comparison to the color of my original birth certificate, and washed down the potato chip and peanut butter sandwiches with chocolate chip, tequila, Ambien smoothies. Totally should have just gone to Haiti.

I did, however, go to Italy. And it was deliciously gorgeous. So wonderful, in fact, that I have to post the details of it later. It wouldn't be fair to combine fresh, clean, beautiful food and perspective-altering coastal views with turning 32. Also, I forgot to download the photos.

I'm back. Older, wiser, clearly lazier, a little wackier. I think I might be turning into that old lady at the party who talks about her hemorrhoids. Stay tuned, if you dare.

The Feat

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 18:32:00 +0000

The husband bought me an apron for Christmas. It's a handmade, ruffled 1950's apron that ties around my waist. It's not the kind of apron on which you wipe the peanut butter off of your fingers. You wear this apron with lipstick. Maybe even a skirt. Hopefully deodorant. It's for entertaining.

Everything in relative terms, the new space looks pretty darn good. So, when the opportunity arose to host a small family gathering, in honor of my mom's 60th birthday and our many other March birthdays (June was a fertile month for my people), I volunteered. I also volunteered to serve dinner. And bake a cake. From scratch. For people to eat. Small, still-developing children, too.

As any supportive mother would, mine responded in the following manner:

Me: I'm baking the birthday cake myself.
Mom: I'm so proud of you! I'll bring an ice cream cake.

One would assume two cakes weren't necessary but a solid argument was made that the ice cream cake was just a side dish. It's like prematurely insisting she take the training wheels off of my bike and promptly slamming, eyeballs first, into Mrs. Fleener's bushes. It's frightening how mothers just seem to know when they should bring an ice cream cake.

The chosen cake? Double chocolate butter cream from Ina Garten. I enlisted the help of a friend whose qualifications extend beyond owning an apron, borrowed her super serious KitchenAid mixer and made a cake. A great cake. So great, in fact, I rode right past Mrs. Fleener's bushes, over a hill and back again. Eyeballs in tact.

I forgot to buy birthday candles and I forgot to wear the apron. I over seasoned and burned the first batch of croutons for the Caesar salad. I ran out of sauce for the lasagna and made only 1 1/2 instead of the planned 2. I served chemical-laden, frozen garlic bread. I sent the husband to the neighborhood market 406 times for forgotten items.

I realized that I can do it. But nothing tastes as good without ice cream cake. Happy birthday Mom.

Space and Thyme

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 02:47:00 +0000

The french phrase used in cooking, mise en place, means everything in place. In basic terms, it's the preparation of all ingredients, whether chopped, diced, sliced or zested, prior to cooking the meal. It's laying out your clothes the night before school, it's the elaborate outline of a thesis. It's doing the work before the work, in case the work is hard.

I like to make simple, classic Sunday dinners for us. It's no secret that I suffer from the Sunday blues, so something about closing out the weekend and preparing for the week ahead demands comforting recipes with achievable results. Tonight, I chopped, measured and placed my ingredients across what feels like a counter top the size of a football field. I now have to climb inside deep cabinets - I'm telling you, secret drug tunnel to Mexico deep - to retrieve pots and pans. We have two entrances, a parking spot that holds an actual automobile, a guest room where humans can sleep. In this space, no maintenance man to unclog the drain. It will be as functional, tidy, as beautiful as we make it. We're going to have to do the work.

The good news? Everything is in place.

The Little Apartment that Could

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 15:54:00 +0000

As we pack the contents of our tiny apartment in boxes, I am increasingly aware of two things. First, we're hoarders. Second, we had some good times here. We're moving to a home that has everything we could ask for in city life. Something about it instills this need to raise the bar and exist in it as respectable adults who don't qualify as candidates on Clean this House. Or Intervention. Still, I can't help but grieve that loss of innocence, those discoveries that accompany a new marriage.

Sure, there are downsides to having dinner blow up in your face and instead of cleaning tomato sauce off the ceiling, deciding to belly up to the pub across the street and spend 4 hours, 800 calories and $100 more than planned on a particular evening. However, those impromptu evenings across the street in our lovely neighborhood produced great things - memorable conversations, laughs that hurt your stomach muscles, levels of learning about each other that wouldn't have happened when the only question I'm asking is, "Are you sure you like your dinner? It's a little overcooked. And vomit-like. Anyway, hope you like it."

It's also unfortunate when you purchase Octomom's couch and only 4/5 of it fits in your living room and you're forced to store the remaining piece in a (former) guest room and decline all offers for family and friends to visit. But when life overwhelmed, it was like a big, comfy, protective adult fort.

It's time for the next phase. And I have big plans. I'm going to cook well, clean constantly, spend a lot of time at Home Depot (I heard they have hot dogs). I will ban the husband from eating shredded cheese straight from the bag with his CTA train disease-infested hands. I will never, ever burn dinner again in my beautiful new kitchen.

Ugh, I'm exhausted. Did I tell you about the bar across the street from our new place?

website counter

Losing my religion

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 01:33:00 +0000

We eat pretty well. And by well, I mean we eat reasonably healthy food, prepared by a really crappy cook. And the guy who makes pizza at Whole Foods.

For me, food has become disappointingly faith-based and I just don't feel a sense of belonging. I follow the rules. I eat blueberries and flax seeds. I substitute yogurt for mayonnaise. I write DANGER: DEATH IS IMMINENT with a Sharpie on the husband's (toxic aluminum) can of Diet Coke. I am an active, pay-my-dues participant in the Church of Food but apparently the road to enlightenment in this religion is a confusing one, requiring committed study. Not just Eat, Pray, Love which, until recently, I thought was just a self-help book about eating too much and asking for forgiveness.

The current teachings in the Book of Health are:

If you wish to be cancer-free with a life expectancy of 107, eat broccoli. Only, eat it raw because actually cooking it strips it of all health benefits, which means you just ate a nutrient-free house plant for dinner. You're likely deficient of vitamin D, a hormone known to increase bone health and fight various forms of cancer. To increase vitamin D levels, make sure to get natural sunlight for 20 minutes a day without sunscreen. Unless, like me, you've been previously diagnosed with a pesky melanoma and live in Chicago, city of darkness. Ah, but wait! Milk is packed with calcium and vitamin D, so grab the nonfat variety and drink up. Unless you're concerned that cow's milk is not meant for human consumption and creates cancer-feeding mucus in the body. Who needs milk when you can sip antioxidant-rich red wine? Just be careful of the sugar, however, because it leads to diabetes and obesity.

So anyway, now I'm totally into Scientology.

All Grown Up and Nowhere to Go

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 19:25:00 +0000

We bought a car. A grown-up car. We bought it legitimately, from a dealership, equipped with smooth talking, mustache-wearing salesman, not from the old lady down the street. For me, it brings some sort of new sense of responsibility that I can't decide is comforting or terrifying. First of all, it boasts technology only Steve Jobs would understand. We own no actual key to enter it, the seats send jarring waves of heat to our bottoms and it actually speaks to us, recommending restaurants and nearby gas stations. I asked it to drive me to inner peace but I think that's a different option package.

In a month, we're moving to an area of the city that requires us to have a car. This opens up fantastic possibilities, including bringing groceries home without the bottom of the bags falling out while crossing Clark street, savings on constant flights and trains to visit loved ones, an overall significant reduction in frostbite and windburn. For now, however, I'm still a downtown girl. I can walk anywhere for anything I could possibly need. In addition, I haven't driven in 5 years and have skills that would warrant a "Student Driver" sign on the top of my very technologically advanced vehicle. The car symbolizes change. Scary change. Super Wal-Mart change. No Bloody Marys at brunch change.

I have one more month in our ungrown-up residence, walking instead of driving, eating on TV trays, storing pots and pans under the bed. It's time to grow up. And good gracious, you should see the new kitchen.

But for now, the car lives here. At least until I get my driver's license.

New

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 21:00:00 +0000

I’ve always hated January. I don’t feel the same way about it as I do about Sundays, which just generally make me uneasy, what with the seductive stress of the Monday ahead and that all-day feeling that you should disinfect something or go to confession. January, though, just has such high expectations.

Gyms overflow with dreams of visible ab muscles, cranky coworkers unsuccessfully hide caffeine withdrawal, our economic abyss is further solidified by tightening budgets. The Pasz’s are guilty of the same. We made the list. We made broccoli for dinner. It was actually brocollini, which is probably a lot healthier. The budget is in tact. We bought vitamins. We switched to potato-based vodka. You know, typical stuff.

What I’ve decided to do, instead, is resolve not to resolve. I don’t know if I’m just drunk on protein shakes but I’m a little angry at myself for always holding out for something better. I’m certain there are better kitchens, more money, spanxlessly beautiful bodies, answered baby prayers. I’m also certain my husband is a ~~terrible~~ hilarious dancer that keeps me screaming with laughter most days of the week. So, I resolve to appreciate that this year. With a side of brocollini.

I’ve discovered a blog, written by a woman I went to high school with, that you may find valuable. Diagnosed with breast cancer at 29, she faced it courageously and her honest, energetic account of the experience really affected me. If you have time between sit-ups this month, http://erica-battleblog.blogspot.com/. Happy, happy New Year.

Dear Santa

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 17:24:00 +0000

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

The Ones of Two

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 15:57:00 +0000

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's ~~eating 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.

Fried chicken and Kleenex

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 16:23:00 +0000

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?

I Do

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 04:33:00 +0000

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.

Killing the basa

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 15:59:00 +0000

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 Gratitude List

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 16:57:00 +0000

This time last year, the husband and I were weeks from marriage. It was all in front of us. And we were ready to take it on, still waters or not. Not is what we got. But we rode the waves in, what turned out to be, a really comfortable boat(complete with a boat-sized kitchen indeed). I'm grateful for many things - amongst the obvious is gainful employment, family and friends and of course, the amazing hubs.

But it's the small gifts we tend to gloss over in retrospective thankfulness. If you'll indulge me...my gratitude list.

Cast iron skillets
Maintenance men
Under eye concealer
Butter
Spanx (also related to butter)
Overdraft protection
Top Chef
BYOB restaurants
The prospect of more counter space someday
Sunless tanner
Spellcheck
Elevators
Most cream-based sauces
I don't have to cook tomorrow. Or I was banned. Either way, really...

And lastly, for you. For validating the ridiculousness that is this blog. Happy Thanksgiving.

How to pick up women

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 20:49:00 +0000

I moved back to Chicago about three years ago, after enduring the infinite grayness and death-of-my-soul atmosphere in Detroit, Michigan for most of my 20's. Sorry, Detroiters. Like that maverick presidential candidate John McCain, I only drive the Straight Talk Express.

When I moved here, I had about 1.5 friends leftover from the carefree, post-college era who didn't get married and move to a much larger residence near an expressway and a Super Target. These days, I have a few more friends and of course, the blessed husband but to me, variety is the spice of life. I need a little girl action. I need a dinner club.

Recently, the husband and I attended a few gatherings of friends of friends...of friends. In situations where the crowd is comprised of more than what I call the "trunk," and extends to "branches," women tend to do one of two things. Talk to only those they know and stare a little too long at your slightly stained cashmere sweater that you may or may not have pulled out of the dirty laundry before you arrived....or, smile and introduce themselves. Recently, the latter happened. And it was ON.

I met someone. And it was magical. And I'm now in a DINNER CLUB. At first, a bit nervous. What will I bring to the dinner club? Can I slide under the radar and just be a side dish? Will I have to debut as an entree? Sweet Jesus, will I be dessert? Hiding my dirty clothing is one thing, but the cooking disability cannot be outed this early. These details are vital to the success of any first date with a woman.

Turns out, it's a restaurant dinner club. I knew it was meant to be.

Unlovin' the Oven

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 15:09:00 +0000

It's no secret there's no love lost between our kitchen and myself. But it's nothing compared to how much I loathe the oven. I've been burned too many times. If the kitchen is the guy in high school that I overheard calling me "Casper" because of my tanless, corpse-like skin, the oven is the guy I caught kissing the blond girl in the coatroom when he was supposed to be my date for the Valentine's Dance. All hypothetical of course. A-hem.

It's surely the oven's fault that I have burns up and down my arms from pulling out the black food it produces. Not only must the temperature be inaccurate, the design is such that makes me certain I have freakishly long, circus arms. Recently, when a few stray, roasted brussel sprouts were left behind during my awkward pull-out, the whole apartment smelled like them for days. I probably should have taken them out before cooking again, right? Solid point. I'll take it into consideration.

I found a solution. Forget the oven. Accept that there is no chemistry there. Move on and give another appliance a chance.

Cook in the dishwasher.

This recipe for Dishwasher Salmon, courtesy of Real Simple, is the answer to my oven issues and the cure to what could appear to strangers to be a teenage "cutting" addiction. This recipe made me believe again. Believe that we can all escape convention and find success in our own unique methods. Believe that even though I really hate salmon, I'm going to dump a whole lot of it in my dishwasher tonight and turn it on permanent press (the husband does the dishes) and when I open it, I will have a lovely, omega 3-rich meal and zero burns on my incredibly pasty white arms.

So long, Oven. Real love doesn't hurt.

Identity of a Woman

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 16:27:00 +0000

After 10 months of marriage, I have officially changed my name. It wasn't anything personal. ~~I was too lazy to go downtown and change it.~~ It was hesitation purely based on my strong feminist beliefs.

As a child, I often quoted Gloria Steinem and planned to burn my bras. Not that I wore a bra as a child. I was more of an adolescent. A feminist one. One who would sooner cut off her toes than take some silly man's name. It was fortunate that I never had a boyfriend - or wore a bra - until I was already past my feminist phase. Which I'm sure was a relief to my mom, who would have lost on any investment in bras for me, considering my intentions to burn them.

Though I carry the crumbs of my early adolescent feminist passion with me today, I'm an entirely new woman. I'll do anything for my husband. Obey, honor, protect. I'll care for him when he's sick, build him up when he feels down.

But ask me schlep downtown to a cold, sterile government building to stand in line in that room with a number machine that clearly only belongs at the deli? I think that's a little excessive. There are security guards there. Mean ones.

The husband assured me that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would have been downtown immediately following our blessed nuptials. He would have pulled number ONE from the deli machine. So, as Gloria Steinem said, "Become the man you want to marry."

Today, I'm proud I made the trip, enduring stare-downs from overworked, underpaid security guards, repeatedly explaining to the man behind the counter that there is not one, but two Z's in my last name. I am a new woman, who belongs to a very good man.

I still burn stuff though.

I'll ask my readers. Both of them.

noreply@blogger.com (Meg Pasz) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 21:45:00 +0000

As a follow-up to the terribly exciting chili recipe contest I held earlier this month for a Restaurant.com gift certificate reward, I'd like to announce the winner(s). There are two. Why, you ask?

Because two people responded.

They're both my friends. In real life. Outside the blogosphere. Basically, I paid them.

Congratulations Jen and Lexie! It's such a coincidence that I know both of you. And that you know each other. And that we all used to work together.

Looks like we're all going to dinner together at one of Chicagoland's fancy Restaurant.com establishments.

Yes, I'll pay.