Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Surf and turf, baby!

LAST NIGHT I finally conducted the Great Lobster Experiment.  You don't remember? That's because I first concocted the scheme last year. You see, in 2002, I suddenly developed an intolerance to my favorite food, shrimp. Not an allergy where the throat constricts, but what I'll gently call a Violent Gastric Reaction.  Took me three tries to figure it out, but once I determined it was shrimp, and also probably scallops, I swore them off for forever. And, I reasoned, as lobster is shrimp's oversized cousin, I figured the shrimp reaction would only be maginified if I ate lobster, so I swore it off, too.

But the I got to thinking how LONG the next 40+ years would be if I could never taste the sweet, succulent meat of a lobster tail, all dripping with butter and delicious. So, I decided to take a chance. I would eat lobster one evening for dinner, in the comfort of my own home, so that if I did end up sick, I could confine myself to the bathroom at one end of the house and send everyone else to the other end, so as to mercifully spare them from the violent retching noises that were sure to ensue.

Yesterday, when I saw lobster tails on sale for $5 each at Safeway, I threw two packs into my cart and practically ran home. "Kids!" I yelled. "We're having LOBSTER TAILS for dinner!"

I steamed them up (the lobster tails, not the kids) and melted a stick of butter. Then I tucked myself into this baby:

DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS, I Facebooked. IT'S BEEN A LONG NINE YEARS!

It was every bit as delicious as I remembered. Even more so, maybe. I finished this tail, then I ate another one. Butter was dripping down my chin! Children were fighting over the last tail! There was mirth and joy and celebration and bliss! Choruses of angels sang "Hallelujah!" from the heavens!

And then, I waited. If I was going to get sick, I knew the symptoms would show themselves within a couple of hours.

But: Nothing happened. Nary a stomach cramp. Zippy nausea. Nothing unusual forced its way out of either end of my body! I slept like a baby, and this morning?  Well, let's say that all of a sudden, I'm a lot less of a cheap date than I was last week, when I was relegated to the red meat and chicken sections of the restaurant menu.

Next time the Red Hook Lobster Pound lunch truck docks near one of my clients' offices, I will brave the long line for an authentic New England lobster roll.

I can have the lobster at the kids' favorite birthday destination restaurant, Sakura!

Red Lobster? Don't mind if I do! And bring me some of those cheddar bay biscuits!

I'll still steer clear of shrimp and scallops, but look out, all you lobster tails - Mama's back.

The Greenest Grass

AS THE LATE NOVEMBER AFTERNOON DARKENS, I exit my client’s office building onto 17th Street NW, into the gray rain. It is that misty kind of rain that is enough to instantly unstraighten my hair, regardless of whether I use an umbrella.

I pull my wheeled bag down the street, past the back entrance to the Mayflower Hotel,  and I’m immediately stricken with a fantasy. In my head, instead of continuing down the street, I enter the hotel, nodding friendly greetings to the familiar bellhops as I board the elevator to an upper floor. I slide the card-key into the card slot and hear the electronic tweets as I enter my warm, welcoming suite. I kick off my heels (I’m wearing heels in the fantasy, not sensible commuter shoes, and they don’t hurt!), and notice that a bottle of expensive red wine and two glasses are waiting. Wait - is it wine, or champagne? Or is it an icy cold, extra dry, three-olive vodka martini? And are those… cheese straws? And cashews??

And isn’t that just like me to become mired in the ridiculous details? Because it doesn’t matter; whatever consumables are in my fantasy room, the point is that I have conjured myself into a place that is the polar opposite of where I’m headed tonight in real life: A semi-clean ranch home in the outer suburbs, full of dog-hair tumbleweeds and rogue dirty socks and laundry that needs folding and sheets that really ought to be changed and three growing boys who need things NOW. Milk, for starters.

 Said destination is a world away in my head at this moment, yet it’s only a one-hour commute from this fantasy spot. That’s assuming Metro is running on schedule. Add time if it isn’t. Also, add 15 extra minutes if you include picking up the kid from extended care, and another 15 minutes if you must choreograph a mad dash through the grocery store on the way home because the boys are killing a gallon of milk every other day lately.

I and my wheelie bag descend into the Farragut North Station. All the escalators are running tonight, which bodes well, and indeed I am rewarded with a mere two-minute wait for a train that is destined for the very end of the line, where my large gas-guzzling, holds-a-family-of-five-plus-a-large-dog vehicle is parked. I grab a sideways seat near the center doors of the car and resign myself to 30 mildly motion-sick minutes on the train.

The think about Downtown DC is that evokes in me strong memories and emotions. DC was where I began my career, over 20 years ago, two blocks north of the Mayflower at the corner of Connecticut and N. I was fresh out of college and had spent every minute of my 22 years living in Pennsylvania, and I was so ready for a change. DC ended up being perfect for me; I took to city life like a duck to water. I loved it. I thrived.

I sometimes long for those relatively carefree days. I lived alone, I was responsible for only myself. I paid my bills on time, and no one else depended on me. If needed, I could stay at the office for a few extra minutes to wrap up some work without the pressure of having to leave RIGHT NOW in order to pick up a child from daycare or cook dinner for a hungry family.  No one would wake me up in the middle of the night but me. My commute was a mere two stops on the Metro, but on nice days I would sometimes walk the 45 minutes between uptown and the southern part of Dupont Circle.

Not long after I moved to DC, I met the man with whom I now share our 0.87-acre slice of suburban heaven. Curt and I had such fun back in the day! We were two country kids from central PA, ramming around the city, discovering our new selves, soaking in the energy, taking advantage of all the city had to offer. Three years later we were married. That was 18 years, three kids, eight vehicles, and three mortgages (not counting the refis) ago.

And that’s what’s funny about my little fantasy: it almost always includes this man with whom I have shared everything for more than two decades. Except that in my fantasy, we are us NOW, not us THEN. We have nowhere to be but in the present.  Don’t misunderstand: I love everything we have. I have the man, the kids, the large automobile, the home in the suburbs in a Very Good School District. And I am happy; I wouldn’t change a thing! It’s just that sometimes, the weight of all the responsibilities in our life overwhelms me. And then this fantasy that I have, the one about just walking away from it, tugs at that part of my brain that won’t let me utter these thoughts aloud…

...and before you know it, I have changed into a chic ensemble that includes sexy high heels that don’t hurt my bunions OR my hammertoe, and I’m skinny and my hair is fashionably sassy and has been professionally highlighted, and I am carrying a really expensive handbag – without guilt over the cost! (or maybe it was a gift!) – and I am sipping a sophisticated, $14 cocktail in a trendy downtown establishment and I’m out late and I’m not tired! I’m having witty repartee with Very Smart DC types, who may or may not include my husband (wait, where’s Curt?), because while he is without a doubt my better half, I am me, after all, I’m an individual, and…

Well, it goes on and on, but eventually it ends, because I have to come home sometime, right? I mean, these three human beings that my husband and I have created? They really do need me. They need US, here, together. And really, they’ll be grown and gone in the blink of an eye, won’t they? This is what I’m told: Don’t wish these days away. Enjoy every single moment!

This picture came from here)

So, I’ve come to regard my fantasy as therapeutic (without the copay). It’s a necessary mental break. A reboot. A pushing of the reset button in my addled brain. Because this fantasy reminds me that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  I mean, it would be fun for a day or two, but after that? Wouldn’t it become boring? Might I not start longing for the husband and the children and our cozy home on our quiet street?

I’ve learned from observing others around me that the grass mostly isn’t greener on the other side of the fence. And when you look at it all, the metaphorical grass where I live is the most vibrant shade of green! (The real grass where I live is another story entirely.) I’m truly blessed; I couldn’t  - wouldn’t! - ask for anything other than what I have.

…But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize every so often that my life was carefree and my commute was but a short walk to a funky establishment in a happening ‘hood. As long as I always remember where I am meant to be, where I truly belong.

 

Brown

A FEW WEEKS AGO, I was shopping in one of those big cosmetic stores. I looooove makeup and nail polish and beauty supplies. Depending on the day, I love them slightly more than, or just a tad less than, office supplies. (Don't judge.) If I had unlimited money, I would buy a lot more of this stuff. But I don't, so I often end up buying my stuff in hasty dashes to CVS.

That's why a trip to my local Ulta (or Sephora, oh how I love Sephora!) can be a dangerous thing for me. But in Ulta I was, with 20 minutes to spare, and so I was talking myself out of buying everything filling my basket with a few items I'd rationalized really, reeeeally needing. Including some new nail polish for Fall! You see, I'm either a nail-biter, or obsessed with achieving the perfect manicure. Right now, I'm the latter. And it's Autumn, so the bright, light colors of spring and summer are no longer appropriate, right?

Are you with me?

I wear a lot of brown. I tell myself this is okay not because I'm a harried working mother, but because it's oh-so... of-the-day. Brown is the new black. Or maybe gray is; I can never remember. The point is, I was in Ulta and I picked up this collection of four miniature bottles of OPI nail lacquer. It's their Touring America collection, and it features some nice autumnal shades of gray, a deep merlot, a medium pinkish tone, and... "A-taupe the Space Needle" - a deep taupe shade with a name that could only come from OPI:

(That's not me. My nails aren't that long. I got the photo from Amazon.)

I applied it to my nails, and I liked it. It was trendy. It matched all of my clothes! And I loved it right up until the moment when it occurred to me where I've seen that shade before:

It is the exact color of baby poo.

Not the very first poo - the meconium - it's a lighter shade than that. And not newborn breastfed infant poo, which is more of a puce tone than a brown. No, A-Taupe the Space Needle is more the shade of several-month-old baby poo, the kind they start having right after you start them on rice cereal.

Once I had that little epiphany, I couldn't stop thinking about it. And I couldn't wear it anymore. I came straight home and removed it from my fingernails.  And that's fine; I should be able to find another trendy taupe that doesn't remind me of baby poo, right?

Or maybe not. My fear is that now, all shades of brown are ruined for me forever, just because of this one little notion. And that's gonna be a problem, because I LIVE in neutrals. What about my eye shadow? Do my eyelids look as if I've swiped the feces of a wee human? And does it have to stop at human poo? Maybe I have slacks the shade of, say, deer poo. What about the paint on my bathroom walls? It's a medium brown shade... whose poo does THAT resemble?

Really, where does it END??

I really must figure out a way to overcome this. 

Or maybe I shouldn't think so much.

A close shave

I SHAVE MY LEGS ALMOST EVERY DAY in the summer. But now it's October and I'm wearing pants and, well, let's just say I'm lazy not shaving daily is a timesaver.  Plus, we turned on our furnace last night and it's no match for my drafty bathroom window, which

(Got this photo on Flickr)

means the bathroom features a brisk breeze isn't always ideally warm and conducive for close shaving.

(Um, hey guys? I hereby grant you permission to quietly excuse yourselves now. Head on over to the buffet - I think there's some ham left and some of that tangy honey-mustart - make yourself a sandwich on one of those nice crusty rolls and talk about football or something. Really, it's OK. You're welcome.)

ANYWAY, girls, where were we? You know how you go to shave your legs in the shower and you try to make sure the water is really warm and you kinda wait and do some other stuff first, waiting for the goosebumps on your legs to subside so you don't end up with instant stubble, or remove a layer of your epidermis during the shaving process?

Or is it just ME?

There was a girl on my freshman floor who had a thing about leg shaving and the whole goosebump phenomenon. Problem was, her roommate found out and used to torture her by throwing a bucket of cold  water over the top of the shower stall when she was in there shaving. The rest of us would hear her yell, "DAMMIT, LISA! NOW I HAVE TO START OVER!"

I was thinking of that girl this morning afternoon when I turned on the shower to "preheat" my bathroom. It had been a week couple of days since I last bothered made the effort to shave, and I was hirsute overdue. I waited till my shower stall was nice and steamy and stepped in. I shampooed, rinsed, conditioned. While the conditioner was on my hair, I loaded a body puff with shower gel and scrubbed everywhere, including a brisk few moments on my legs. Then I rinsed everything and allowed the hot water to focus on the back of my neck for a few minutes. Because I find that sometimes helps with the leg-goosebump issue.

Only, it didn't. So, I attacked my calves with a grainy scrub. One more rinse, some more time under the hot water, and I was ready to scrape them with a sharp blade, as is the custom of most modern Amercan women.

Then I towel-dried off, applied lotion, and put on jeans and socks and no one would even know the lengths I went to to achieve smooth legs. THE END.

If you have a sure-fire trick to eliminate this problem from which I've been suffering for, oh, the last 30+ years, would you kindly leave it in the comments?

That's enough. No, really. I mean it.

I'M NOTHING IF NOT A MULTI-TASKER. In fact, though I've not been diagnosed, I'm sure I have just a touch of adult ADHD. Which is good for my work, because I'm a consultant with four  five six clients, so I have to be able to toggle. And toggle I do! But lately there's a lot of other stuff going on aside from work, and it's a lot to handle. For starters,

THE AIR CONDITIONER STOPPED WORKING. In August. Fortunately, it was right at the end of the summer's worst heat, and we have been muddling along just fine with window fans ever since. As I write this, the guys are installing a new unit outside, along with new heat exchangers in the furnace, because those were also cracked and cracked heat exchangers can cause carbon monoxide leakage and carbon monoxide KILLS, so we couldn't allow that. So yeah, I'm really excited to be writing a giant check for air conditioning today that we probably won't use again until 2012.

But hey, that's part of the fun of owning a home, right? Of course it is. And so is DEALING WITH YOUR INTERMITTENT HOME PHONE SERVICE.  Last week, it all stopped working. This past weekend, it seemed that I narrowed the problem to the main floor jacks - the downstairs ones worked - along with the demise of our only corded phone. I plugged in the wireless set downstairs, and for one day this weekend, it worked. Until this morning, when it started ringing all funny and when I answered it I would hear dial tone and lots of static. then later I picked it up to see if it had fixed itself was still doing it, and I heard someone else's conversation. I was immediately transported back to a simpler time, when both my grandmas had party lines at their houses. However, back then, you knew on whom you were eavesdropping. Today, I couldn't tell who it was.  Totally random! Then a few minutes ago, I did receive and was able to answer a call. Still staticky, but the calls are going through. Baby steps.

It may be worth noting that our DSL, which is delivered through the very same phone line, has been working the entire time. Well, except for when it freezes and I have to reset the box. Which is daily. But normal!

In other baffling tech news, OUR ONE DIRECTV BOX IS GIVING THE REMOTE CONTROL THE SILENT TREATMENT. Apparently they've come to a stalemate, because the remote no longer works. Which is highly inconvenient, and I realize how whiny that sounds, but it's a COMPLICATED SETUP that can't be operated by anyone who was born before 1970 the buttons on the box. I have been postponing the call I know I need to place to DirecTV in order to resolve this issue.

Also from the "Stuff Our Parents Never Had To Worry About" desk, I have one kid whose cell phone recently "broke" (he said it "fell down the stairs at school" and I really do want to believe him), so I bought a replacement from a Very Nice eBay Seller, then had to fight with Verizon Wireless to have them waive the data plan requirement. Because the kid is 13 and in 8th grade and he does NOT need a data plan on his cell phone. And the other kid dropped his two month old iPhone, cracking the screen. Now he can pay $169 for a replacement through the insurance that costs $9 per month, or $200 for a replacement at the Apple store. 

And as if all that weren't enough, we're trying to refinance. And it's dragging on because we started the process with one company, then switched to another. All the signing of forms and copying of documents makes me long for the days of the "no-doc" loans (Approval process: "Do you have a pulse? Are you a citizen? Here, please, take all of this money and then some more, too!). Suffice it to say, the process has changed quite a bit since our last trip around this block in 2006.

And I could go on! I could complain about our multi-theater campaign against invasive insects: Stink Bugs on one front, Camel Crickets on the other. I could talk about the shelf that randomly fell out of our bookcase two weeks ago, causing one of the shelf pins to disappear. We haven't replaced it yet. I could talk about the three trips it took to get one headlight replaced in the Suburban. (It wasn't just the bulb.) I could talk about earthquakes and floods and petulant teenagers and how my house is never completely clean.

But I won't. Because we're dealing with all of it, and we're doing just fine. We just take it as it comes, right? What other choice do we have? And yes, I do fantasize about hopping on the first flight to Bora Bora, but really, how long could I stay there before I started to miss the mundane routine of my life, my family, my little place on this Earth? Surely not more than a couple of years  months  weeks...