If you are what you eat:
- I am three slices of apple pie a day for the past 5 days
- I am enough cranberry sauce shaped like a can to equal the amount of sugar in 24 donuts
- I am the dressing that's being stealth-fully eaten out of the tupperware in the kitchen when no one is looking
- I am the bottle of wine that's been finished off singlehandedly over the past few days
- I am the apples that slid out when the apple pie was being sliced that were quickly rescued from their lonely place on the pie plate
- I am the half gallon of milk to accompany all the pie
- I am the sweet potato casserole that tastes even better as a leftover
- I am full.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Fragile
Lately I've been reading a book, by one of my favorite authors, called Nineteen Minutes. Jodi Picoult is, in my opinion, a brilliant author, a master of character development, an artist of phrasing and storytelling. My favorite thing about her books is that she always takes a topic that we think of as black and white and she opens the curtains to shed a different light on the subject, a light that reveals the many shades of gray that we seldom stop to ponder. (Disclaimer: Any readers who have a weak stomach for harsh language will want to look elsewhere for your next read.) In this particular book, Picoult takes a school shooting, much like Columbine, and tells the story from all the possible angles, turns it around in her hand as one might examine an old toy for the first time, looking at it with new eyes.
The author, without excusing the actions of the shooter, lays out for the reader the tapestry of Peter's life, and we find that humiliation and degredation have been woven throughout. From his first day on the school bus in Kindergarten to his atrocious acts his Junior year of high school, we see the tearing down of his pride, the slow erosion of his self-worth brought on by the constant barrage of bullying Peter endures as he goes through his everyday routines, trying to become invisible.
Particularly striking to me is the relationship that is depicted between Peter (the shooter) and his mother. Thinking about becoming a mother myself somewhere down the road, the story has softened my heart in an almost uncomfortable way. My sensitivity is heightened, my eyes opened to the smallest actions and interactions that shape the course of our lives, that slowly but surely form us into the people we become.
This weekend while babysitting I took one of the girls to her volleyball game. It was her turn to serve and, after the ball sailed over the net and landed safely on the other side, she looked to me and caught my eye for approval. I smiled and nodded - a silent message, "I see you. I am proud of you." Something about that interchange sent a bittersweet pang through my heart. This particular girl has been through a lot for her young age and I was struck in that moment by her thirst for affirmation, humbled that I had the opportunity to offer it to her in that one small instance. I thought of the children who look to the stands for a nod of approval and don't catch the eye of a loved one, who see instead an empty seat where a busy parent should be sitting, who see a parent who is physically present but distracted by other things, too busy to see, to acknowledge. Thanks to Picoult, I was swept away in that moment as I realized how all of the small, seemingly insignificant things are the essence of the bigger things, the slight winds that alter our course and lead us in a very different direction, the small streams that steadily work to form a canyon where there once was none.
I thought of Peter and his mother, of all of the people in the world and all of the mothers who love them. I thought of how fragile we all are, of how vulnerable we are to the people around us, the way we are treated, the events that shape our lives. I prayed for my future children, for all of the things I will be helpless to protect them against, for all of the things I can do to be the wind that steers them in the right direction, the whisper of hope in a world of setbacks and disappointments. We are so fragile. All we can do is strive to tip the balance, to be fully present in each moment and offer our truest selves to each other, to listen and give a voice to those who speak, to be the ones who heal instead of hurt, who bless instead of curse. The rest is trust.
The author, without excusing the actions of the shooter, lays out for the reader the tapestry of Peter's life, and we find that humiliation and degredation have been woven throughout. From his first day on the school bus in Kindergarten to his atrocious acts his Junior year of high school, we see the tearing down of his pride, the slow erosion of his self-worth brought on by the constant barrage of bullying Peter endures as he goes through his everyday routines, trying to become invisible.
Particularly striking to me is the relationship that is depicted between Peter (the shooter) and his mother. Thinking about becoming a mother myself somewhere down the road, the story has softened my heart in an almost uncomfortable way. My sensitivity is heightened, my eyes opened to the smallest actions and interactions that shape the course of our lives, that slowly but surely form us into the people we become.
This weekend while babysitting I took one of the girls to her volleyball game. It was her turn to serve and, after the ball sailed over the net and landed safely on the other side, she looked to me and caught my eye for approval. I smiled and nodded - a silent message, "I see you. I am proud of you." Something about that interchange sent a bittersweet pang through my heart. This particular girl has been through a lot for her young age and I was struck in that moment by her thirst for affirmation, humbled that I had the opportunity to offer it to her in that one small instance. I thought of the children who look to the stands for a nod of approval and don't catch the eye of a loved one, who see instead an empty seat where a busy parent should be sitting, who see a parent who is physically present but distracted by other things, too busy to see, to acknowledge. Thanks to Picoult, I was swept away in that moment as I realized how all of the small, seemingly insignificant things are the essence of the bigger things, the slight winds that alter our course and lead us in a very different direction, the small streams that steadily work to form a canyon where there once was none.
I thought of Peter and his mother, of all of the people in the world and all of the mothers who love them. I thought of how fragile we all are, of how vulnerable we are to the people around us, the way we are treated, the events that shape our lives. I prayed for my future children, for all of the things I will be helpless to protect them against, for all of the things I can do to be the wind that steers them in the right direction, the whisper of hope in a world of setbacks and disappointments. We are so fragile. All we can do is strive to tip the balance, to be fully present in each moment and offer our truest selves to each other, to listen and give a voice to those who speak, to be the ones who heal instead of hurt, who bless instead of curse. The rest is trust.
Monday, October 8, 2007
The Wonders of Soap
Have you ever thought about soap? I mean, really stopped and thought about it? For some reason, it's one of those strange things I think about a lot.
First of all, what is it? Sure, now we can get it at Bath and Body Works and pump it out in liquid form from a dispenser that assures us of its antibacterial properties (which I feel confused about because I think I've read that if you use antibacterial soap too often, your body won't build up an immunity to germs and bacteria. Anybody medical know the real story behind this?) But what did it used to be made of? Animal fat or something? Honestly, I can't understand how rubbing a block of animal fat on your hands is supposed to make them clean. Maybe it wasn't animal fat - I may just be revealing my ignorance about all things "soap." I know glycerin is or was at one time a component in soap. But then again, I don't have a clue what glycerin is (apart from a Bush song that I've never really liked). No matter what it's made of, it leads me to my second big point about soap:
Why do we trust soap more than anything else in the world? Think about it. A mom changes a poopie diaper and only minutes later is cutting up the veggies for dinner. How can that be? Soap. A surgeon pumps gas in his car and then drives to work and holds someone's heart in his hands. Soap. (Yes, and latex gloves, but still...) A Papa John's employee takes a bathroom break and then returns to the kitchen to toss our dough in the air. Soap. (We can only hope.) We will do the most disgusting things and then touch things that we (or other people) will be putting into their mouths, and we never give it a second thought because of soap.
The level of trust we put in this stuff simply amazes me! We never go around worrying that the soap didn't get the job done (except for those of us that are OCD). We just scrub-a-dub-dub and go along our merry way. I can't think of anything we trust as much. And yet I don't know how it works. I don't know how God works, either, and yet I find that I often trust him less than a bar of soap. A brick of something with glycerin (perhaps) and who knows what else? How embarrassing, really. I guess one big difference is that soap is pretty predictable. It's always supposed to do the same thing (and if it's not doing it's job, none of us will really know the difference since bacteria are microscopic). So maybe that's why it's easier to trust soap than the Creator of the Universe.
I'll get off my soap box now...
First of all, what is it? Sure, now we can get it at Bath and Body Works and pump it out in liquid form from a dispenser that assures us of its antibacterial properties (which I feel confused about because I think I've read that if you use antibacterial soap too often, your body won't build up an immunity to germs and bacteria. Anybody medical know the real story behind this?) But what did it used to be made of? Animal fat or something? Honestly, I can't understand how rubbing a block of animal fat on your hands is supposed to make them clean. Maybe it wasn't animal fat - I may just be revealing my ignorance about all things "soap." I know glycerin is or was at one time a component in soap. But then again, I don't have a clue what glycerin is (apart from a Bush song that I've never really liked). No matter what it's made of, it leads me to my second big point about soap:
Why do we trust soap more than anything else in the world? Think about it. A mom changes a poopie diaper and only minutes later is cutting up the veggies for dinner. How can that be? Soap. A surgeon pumps gas in his car and then drives to work and holds someone's heart in his hands. Soap. (Yes, and latex gloves, but still...) A Papa John's employee takes a bathroom break and then returns to the kitchen to toss our dough in the air. Soap. (We can only hope.) We will do the most disgusting things and then touch things that we (or other people) will be putting into their mouths, and we never give it a second thought because of soap.
The level of trust we put in this stuff simply amazes me! We never go around worrying that the soap didn't get the job done (except for those of us that are OCD). We just scrub-a-dub-dub and go along our merry way. I can't think of anything we trust as much. And yet I don't know how it works. I don't know how God works, either, and yet I find that I often trust him less than a bar of soap. A brick of something with glycerin (perhaps) and who knows what else? How embarrassing, really. I guess one big difference is that soap is pretty predictable. It's always supposed to do the same thing (and if it's not doing it's job, none of us will really know the difference since bacteria are microscopic). So maybe that's why it's easier to trust soap than the Creator of the Universe.
I'll get off my soap box now...
Monday, September 3, 2007
Planning My Own Funeral
For some unknown reason, I have recently been strangely fascinated by my impending death. Not that I'm wanting my life to end any time soon, but I just spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about things like this. I think it may stem from my utter lack of imagination when it comes to my future. Growing up, I couldn't imagine leaving my family and going off to college. I became convinced that, since I couldn't picture it, Christ was simply going to come back before I reached that point in my life. In fact, my brothers and I would wish each other goodnight each evening by saying, "Sleep well - maybe Jesus will come tonight!" Well, high school came and went, and no sign of Jesus' return. Eventually, getting married replaced leaving for college as the thing I couldn't envision for myself. Surely Jesus will come back before I get married - I just can't picture it!
As you're all aware, the last trumpet call has not yet sounded and here I am, happily married for almost six years. Up until this point I never thought about my death - I just thought that the world would end before major events could happen in my life. I guess I've become a little less egocentric in my thinking since then, because I have abandoned this notion of the armageddon fitting any timeline related to me. However, my imagination about the future hasn't improved at all - instead of thinking Christ will return before (fill in the blank) I think, "Surely I will die before (fill in the blank)" I can't imagine having children and getting to be a mother - I wonder if I will make it that long or if I'll be taken out in some freak accident?
A few weeks ago, disturbed by my preoccupation with my own death, I tried to determine what it is that leaves me so convinced that things that happen to everyone else around the world couldn't be experienced by me. I think it all comes down to a sense I have that my life is too good to be true. I don't even believe in "too good to be true," but there's some sick part of my subconscious that tells me to be careful about getting too comfortable because it could all be taken from me in an instant. Meeting and marrying the love of my life was too good to be true, but it happened nonetheless. Having children with this man seems WAY too good to be true, which may be why I just can't imagine it. I can't believe that something so completely wonderful would happen to me, even though wonderful things have been happening my whole life. It just seems crazy that any one person should get to be so blessed.
ALL THAT TO SAY...
Since I've spent so much time thinking about my eventual death, I have of course considered what I would want for my funeral. Following are two versions - the dramatic version and the realistic one.
Dramatic Version:
It's my 100th birthday. All of my friends and family (which consists of beautiful children and many, many grandchildren, as well as a few greatgrandchildren) have come into town to celebrate the occasion. I am confined to my bed but am still sprightly and in my right mind - there's nothing sickly about me, but I'm just old - I'm 100 years old for goodness sake! We have a wonderful visit together and there's lots of singing going on as everyone is gathered around my bed in the sunny spacious room. Finally, they bring in the birthday cake (I haven't yet decided on the flavor, but I have about 72 more years to come up with something...) and I blow out the candles. I eat each delectable bite with all of the enjoyment of my younger years. After the cake, I set my plate down and gather everyone around me. I take turns looking my loved ones in the eyes as I make a grand speech about life and love and all things important - with all of the wisdom afforded me by my 100 years on this earth. After I have shared my heart with everyone, I lean back, breathe a deep sigh, and die with a smile on my face.
My family takes me down to the shoreline (the ocean would be preferable, but I'd settle for a large lake) and lays me on a wooden raft. They say a prayer over my frail body and place a bouquet of flowers in my hands. I am wearing a dress of a color that brings a glow to my cheeks, even as my life has left me. A small symphony (maybe a string quartet or something) plays on the beach as they shove the raft off into the water. The music soars as the setting sun illuminates the water, my body becoming smaller and smaller as it drifts into the distance. An archer takes an arrow and, lighting it on fire, releases it from the bow. It soars over the water and sinks into the wood of my funeral pyre. My loved ones watch from the shoreline, tears in their eyes, rejoicing at the thought of my spirit ascending to be with the Lord at last.
Realistic Version:
I have changed my mind about this. The dramatic version sounds so darn wonderful, I'm just going to imagine that as the way it's going to go. If for some reason it doesn't go down exactly like that, what will I care? I'll be in heaven...
As you're all aware, the last trumpet call has not yet sounded and here I am, happily married for almost six years. Up until this point I never thought about my death - I just thought that the world would end before major events could happen in my life. I guess I've become a little less egocentric in my thinking since then, because I have abandoned this notion of the armageddon fitting any timeline related to me. However, my imagination about the future hasn't improved at all - instead of thinking Christ will return before (fill in the blank) I think, "Surely I will die before (fill in the blank)" I can't imagine having children and getting to be a mother - I wonder if I will make it that long or if I'll be taken out in some freak accident?
A few weeks ago, disturbed by my preoccupation with my own death, I tried to determine what it is that leaves me so convinced that things that happen to everyone else around the world couldn't be experienced by me. I think it all comes down to a sense I have that my life is too good to be true. I don't even believe in "too good to be true," but there's some sick part of my subconscious that tells me to be careful about getting too comfortable because it could all be taken from me in an instant. Meeting and marrying the love of my life was too good to be true, but it happened nonetheless. Having children with this man seems WAY too good to be true, which may be why I just can't imagine it. I can't believe that something so completely wonderful would happen to me, even though wonderful things have been happening my whole life. It just seems crazy that any one person should get to be so blessed.
ALL THAT TO SAY...
Since I've spent so much time thinking about my eventual death, I have of course considered what I would want for my funeral. Following are two versions - the dramatic version and the realistic one.
Dramatic Version:
It's my 100th birthday. All of my friends and family (which consists of beautiful children and many, many grandchildren, as well as a few greatgrandchildren) have come into town to celebrate the occasion. I am confined to my bed but am still sprightly and in my right mind - there's nothing sickly about me, but I'm just old - I'm 100 years old for goodness sake! We have a wonderful visit together and there's lots of singing going on as everyone is gathered around my bed in the sunny spacious room. Finally, they bring in the birthday cake (I haven't yet decided on the flavor, but I have about 72 more years to come up with something...) and I blow out the candles. I eat each delectable bite with all of the enjoyment of my younger years. After the cake, I set my plate down and gather everyone around me. I take turns looking my loved ones in the eyes as I make a grand speech about life and love and all things important - with all of the wisdom afforded me by my 100 years on this earth. After I have shared my heart with everyone, I lean back, breathe a deep sigh, and die with a smile on my face.
My family takes me down to the shoreline (the ocean would be preferable, but I'd settle for a large lake) and lays me on a wooden raft. They say a prayer over my frail body and place a bouquet of flowers in my hands. I am wearing a dress of a color that brings a glow to my cheeks, even as my life has left me. A small symphony (maybe a string quartet or something) plays on the beach as they shove the raft off into the water. The music soars as the setting sun illuminates the water, my body becoming smaller and smaller as it drifts into the distance. An archer takes an arrow and, lighting it on fire, releases it from the bow. It soars over the water and sinks into the wood of my funeral pyre. My loved ones watch from the shoreline, tears in their eyes, rejoicing at the thought of my spirit ascending to be with the Lord at last.
Realistic Version:
I have changed my mind about this. The dramatic version sounds so darn wonderful, I'm just going to imagine that as the way it's going to go. If for some reason it doesn't go down exactly like that, what will I care? I'll be in heaven...
Monday, August 27, 2007
Make it a Great Day
So I started my new job two weeks ago today. For the first few days I felt like I was the brunt of some sick joke, where there's lots to do and everyone knows the rules but me. I do NOT like being uninformed, nor do I like wasting time (at work, anyway), so I can hardly stand the combination of the two that leaves me feel ineffectual and ignorant. Each day of the first two weeks, I would wake up and give myself a pep talk that went something like this, "I am going to learn so much today. I will only get better at this. I will never again be as unqualified for this as I am in this moment." Thankfully, I believed myself each day, and the thought that the only place to go is up really inspired me and helped me reconcile myself to the ugly truth that I am not yet an expert at what I am doing. I suppose it's a good thing, because how pathetic would it be if I went and got my master's to prepare me for this job and then I figured out everything there is to know in the first ten days? That would be sad. Thank goodness that is far from the case.
Amidst a few late nights of working and the crazy busyness (for the first week, I spent most of my time just making lists of all of the things I needed to accomplish - forget about actually accomplishing anything) I must admit that there have been some moments of sheer desperation. Moments when I thought, I am not smart enough for this job, I am not qualified, I am NEVER going to knock out this to-do list. I hate feeling like that (as I'm sure everyone does!) and when those storm-cloud thoughts came on, I tried to quickly rein in my thinking and cast it in a more positive light, because I'm one of those corny people who strongly believes that, "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right." (I don't know who said that and I'm much too tired to look it up, but I wholeheartedly agree!) I think our perceptions of ourselves significantly shape our possibilities, which is probably the reason optimism is so dear to my heart.
Yesterday I was calling a parent to set up a meeting and her voicemail message ended with, "Make it a great day." I hung up and thought about that for a few seconds before getting back to the frantic pace that is my new job. I'd heard it before, of course, but in light of my recent struggle to remain sane (and positive) it took on a new meaning. We can't just wake up and sail through each day expecting things to fall perfectly in place, throwing tantrums each time we don't get our way. Our moods cannot be shaped only by our circumstances, or you'd rarely see people smile at one another. No, we have to wake up each day and decide to MAKE it a great day. For me, that means taking a deep breath and a different perspective when I hit a snag at my new job. It means I take time to enjoy the sunrise for a moment when I get caught at a long light. It means I can take comfort in the underlying peace and hope that pervades my life even when the monotony of day-to-day life buzzes around my spirit like a fly circling round a picnic table.
I'm glad I didn't get a hold of that mother so I could hear that message. Now all I have to do is spend the rest of my life making each day truly great.
Amidst a few late nights of working and the crazy busyness (for the first week, I spent most of my time just making lists of all of the things I needed to accomplish - forget about actually accomplishing anything) I must admit that there have been some moments of sheer desperation. Moments when I thought, I am not smart enough for this job, I am not qualified, I am NEVER going to knock out this to-do list. I hate feeling like that (as I'm sure everyone does!) and when those storm-cloud thoughts came on, I tried to quickly rein in my thinking and cast it in a more positive light, because I'm one of those corny people who strongly believes that, "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right." (I don't know who said that and I'm much too tired to look it up, but I wholeheartedly agree!) I think our perceptions of ourselves significantly shape our possibilities, which is probably the reason optimism is so dear to my heart.
Yesterday I was calling a parent to set up a meeting and her voicemail message ended with, "Make it a great day." I hung up and thought about that for a few seconds before getting back to the frantic pace that is my new job. I'd heard it before, of course, but in light of my recent struggle to remain sane (and positive) it took on a new meaning. We can't just wake up and sail through each day expecting things to fall perfectly in place, throwing tantrums each time we don't get our way. Our moods cannot be shaped only by our circumstances, or you'd rarely see people smile at one another. No, we have to wake up each day and decide to MAKE it a great day. For me, that means taking a deep breath and a different perspective when I hit a snag at my new job. It means I take time to enjoy the sunrise for a moment when I get caught at a long light. It means I can take comfort in the underlying peace and hope that pervades my life even when the monotony of day-to-day life buzzes around my spirit like a fly circling round a picnic table.
I'm glad I didn't get a hold of that mother so I could hear that message. Now all I have to do is spend the rest of my life making each day truly great.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Things I Wish I'd Never (A Miniseries)
Things I Wish I'd Never Done:
While this particular post topic could take me ages to cover, I have narrowed all of the things I wish I'd never done down to one thing: the one worst thing I have ever done. It is with deep regret that I recount this story, as it grieves me to relive it in my mind and it reveals to the world (or at least the handful of people who actually read this) what a terrible person I truly am.
To tell this sad story, I must first set the stage. My family had worked together to build a house on a hilltop in Fredericksburg, Texas (this has nothing to do with the story except for the fact that we lived on a hill.) I was a Junior in high school and was the head drum major of the marching band, "The Pride of the Texas Hill Country". Although in some places this might qualify me as a nerd, this position was rather revered in this quaint Texas town (at least by the band geeks!) and I believed myself to have some sort of special social status (or at least the power to blow my whistle and start 150 some odd people marching across a football field...) My brother Garrett, the poor victim in this harrowing tale, was a Freshman at the time. He was into shopping at thrift stores and was a lowly trumpet in the marching band. Each morning I left extra early for school in order to unlock the band hall and make sure everything was right with the world before the school day began. Plus, it was the "cool" thing to do to hang out with your friends in the band hall until first period, and I was into all things cool at the time. My father was a teacher at our high school and always came to school in his car about 20 minutes behind me. So that's the background. Now my tale of woe shall begin...
It was a morning just like any other. I was ready for the day and was about to head out the door with Garrett, who always rode to school with me so that he, too, could hang out in the band hall. I called up to him from the foot of the stairs to let him know his ride was leaving. And that's when it happened. He tromped down the stairs in an outfit that was unacceptable to my preppy high school eyes. I looked him over: dark blue T-shirt with the word SPAM printed in bright yellow on the front, light blue thrift store slacks, and finally, black army boots. It was then that I was possessed by the evil spirit of teenage sisterhood. "Is THAT what you're wearing?!" Garrett did not see my point of view and he headed back up to his room. I would like to say that, vain as it sounds, I was looking out for my little brother's best interest by keeping him from wearing what I considered to be a fashion abomination, but that would be a lie. What I really cared about was not having to show up at school and walk into the band hall with a fashion abomination trailing behind me. Well, maybe it was a bit of both, but at any rate I was not going to wait around any longer to give this walking fashion faux pas a ride to school.
I headed to the car and took off down the hill. (Remember, I wasn't leaving him without a ride, because Dad would be leaving shortly with the second shuttle.)
It was later that day when I saw Garrett in band that I found out how sad this story really was, how horribly black and evil my heart was, that I was the WORST sister in the world. Garrett entered the band hall and - gasp! - he was NOT wearing the SPAM outfit!!!
He walked over and, still in an understandably sour mood, said, "Why'd you leave me?"
"I left you because you were taking too long and it was time for me to leave."
"The reason it took me so long was that I went upstairs to change. I came running down the hill after you but you just left me."
It still sends daggers through my heart to think of that moment of revelation. The revelation that this poor guy had actually LISTENED to his snotty sister and was trying to appease her (even though looking back he had a MUCH better fashion sense and was actually able to pull off what he wore by his sheer coolness). The revelation that I had gone off and LEFT him, my first friend in life and one of my best friends in the world. The revelation that I was a shallow mess with no hope of being truly cool - a wannabe - and that I had wounded my brother with my hurtful words and judgmental attitude. I have never felt so low, so worthless, so much like a fraud, as in that moment.
Years later, Garrett and I laugh together about this event. But even if I can laugh about it, there's still a part of me that cries inside as I picture what I would have seen had I looked in the rearview mirror - the sweetest boy, in different clothes, running down the hill after the car, wondering why I'm leaving him when he did all that I asked him to, even though it wasn't my place to ask.
I wish I could go back to the foot of the stairs. I wish I could have applauded him for being different and daring rather than taunted him for refusing to be a clone like myself, like so many teenagers just trying to fit in.
I'm sorry, Garrett. I wish I'd never...
While this particular post topic could take me ages to cover, I have narrowed all of the things I wish I'd never done down to one thing: the one worst thing I have ever done. It is with deep regret that I recount this story, as it grieves me to relive it in my mind and it reveals to the world (or at least the handful of people who actually read this) what a terrible person I truly am.
To tell this sad story, I must first set the stage. My family had worked together to build a house on a hilltop in Fredericksburg, Texas (this has nothing to do with the story except for the fact that we lived on a hill.) I was a Junior in high school and was the head drum major of the marching band, "The Pride of the Texas Hill Country". Although in some places this might qualify me as a nerd, this position was rather revered in this quaint Texas town (at least by the band geeks!) and I believed myself to have some sort of special social status (or at least the power to blow my whistle and start 150 some odd people marching across a football field...) My brother Garrett, the poor victim in this harrowing tale, was a Freshman at the time. He was into shopping at thrift stores and was a lowly trumpet in the marching band. Each morning I left extra early for school in order to unlock the band hall and make sure everything was right with the world before the school day began. Plus, it was the "cool" thing to do to hang out with your friends in the band hall until first period, and I was into all things cool at the time. My father was a teacher at our high school and always came to school in his car about 20 minutes behind me. So that's the background. Now my tale of woe shall begin...
It was a morning just like any other. I was ready for the day and was about to head out the door with Garrett, who always rode to school with me so that he, too, could hang out in the band hall. I called up to him from the foot of the stairs to let him know his ride was leaving. And that's when it happened. He tromped down the stairs in an outfit that was unacceptable to my preppy high school eyes. I looked him over: dark blue T-shirt with the word SPAM printed in bright yellow on the front, light blue thrift store slacks, and finally, black army boots. It was then that I was possessed by the evil spirit of teenage sisterhood. "Is THAT what you're wearing?!" Garrett did not see my point of view and he headed back up to his room. I would like to say that, vain as it sounds, I was looking out for my little brother's best interest by keeping him from wearing what I considered to be a fashion abomination, but that would be a lie. What I really cared about was not having to show up at school and walk into the band hall with a fashion abomination trailing behind me. Well, maybe it was a bit of both, but at any rate I was not going to wait around any longer to give this walking fashion faux pas a ride to school.
I headed to the car and took off down the hill. (Remember, I wasn't leaving him without a ride, because Dad would be leaving shortly with the second shuttle.)
It was later that day when I saw Garrett in band that I found out how sad this story really was, how horribly black and evil my heart was, that I was the WORST sister in the world. Garrett entered the band hall and - gasp! - he was NOT wearing the SPAM outfit!!!
He walked over and, still in an understandably sour mood, said, "Why'd you leave me?"
"I left you because you were taking too long and it was time for me to leave."
"The reason it took me so long was that I went upstairs to change. I came running down the hill after you but you just left me."
It still sends daggers through my heart to think of that moment of revelation. The revelation that this poor guy had actually LISTENED to his snotty sister and was trying to appease her (even though looking back he had a MUCH better fashion sense and was actually able to pull off what he wore by his sheer coolness). The revelation that I had gone off and LEFT him, my first friend in life and one of my best friends in the world. The revelation that I was a shallow mess with no hope of being truly cool - a wannabe - and that I had wounded my brother with my hurtful words and judgmental attitude. I have never felt so low, so worthless, so much like a fraud, as in that moment.
Years later, Garrett and I laugh together about this event. But even if I can laugh about it, there's still a part of me that cries inside as I picture what I would have seen had I looked in the rearview mirror - the sweetest boy, in different clothes, running down the hill after the car, wondering why I'm leaving him when he did all that I asked him to, even though it wasn't my place to ask.
I wish I could go back to the foot of the stairs. I wish I could have applauded him for being different and daring rather than taunted him for refusing to be a clone like myself, like so many teenagers just trying to fit in.
I'm sorry, Garrett. I wish I'd never...
Monday, July 30, 2007
Things I Wish I'd Never... (a miniseries)
Things I Wish I'd Never Eaten:
1) On the way back from my grandparent's ranch near College Station, my family stopped at Texas Burger for a meal. (They might have these things other places, but in case not, Texas Burger is exactly what it sounds like it would be - a burger joint that's a few steps up from Burger King but not quite as exciting as Fuddruckers - if you consider Fuddruckers to be exciting, which I don't.) Anyway, after the burgers we decided to treat ourselves to some ice cream before hitting the road. I was quite thrilled because they serve Blue Bell at Texas Burger and in my way of thinking, it doesn't get much better than that. I strolled up and down the ice cream counter carefully weighing my options and finally decided on Strawberry Cheesecake, the "special of the day." It was just as delicious as it sounds and I gobbled it right up in my sugar cone, glad I had branched out a bit from Homemade Vanilla and tried a new flavor. My brother Garrett had also ordered Strawberry Cheesecake. (Here's a tidbit to know - to this day, any time I'm eating somewhere with Garrett I HAVE to order the same thing he does, or I'm inevitably jealous of what he ordered. It makes things really simple because I don't have to decide what to get, and since he is a consistently good orderer, I'm rarely disappointed. So, come to think of it, maybe I didn't decide on Strawberry Cheesecake and simply took his lead like the lemming I am...)
Anyway, we had a delightful car trip and got home just in time to hit the sack. Or so we thought. Instead, Garrett and I stayed up most of the night puking our guts out. Yes, the "daily special" was apparently not so special after all, but rather was the culprit of our distress. Since that day, a spoonful of Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream has never darkened the door of my mouth. And I'm extremely suspicious of restaurants trying to unload their soon-to-be-expired/oops - we should have thrown this out yesterday dairy products onto unsuspecting customers under the guise of a "special." There ain't nothin' special about that.
2) About a year ago, K and I decided to go out to lunch at a new Thai place in town. We love Thai food and were very excited as we entered the restaurant and discovered a surprisingly beautiful atmosphere. I say surprising because this place is smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall, so I guess I was expecting something more along the lines of a hole-in-the-wall than the lavish decor we discovered when we stepped from the bright afternoon sun into the dimly lit elegance of the large room. We were the only customers, but since it was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon I didn't find that very unusual. Surely no one had discovered this jewel of a restaurant... We were escorted to a lovely little table and the first thing that came out was our water. As often happens in town around this time of year, the water reeked of - well, I don't quite know what it is, but it reminds me of lake water. (I picture the boaters out on the lakes enjoying the summer, churning up the murky bottom and somehow getting silt into our drinking supply. I know this doesn't make sense scientifically, and I've since heard that it's due to some sort of algae bloom, but you get the point - this water is NASTY.) I asked for a bowl of lemons, as I often do at restaurants, and found myself squeezing each slice down to a pulp in an attempt to make this water taste a bit more like lemons and a bit less like lake. When I commented to the waitress about the water (in attempt to make friendly conversation about what happens to the city's water this time of year) she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. I thought: either she doesn't speak enough English to know what I just said, she hasn't been in town for a year yet and doesn't know that this happens every summer, or she thinks this water is acceptably tasty. I hoped it was one of the first two assumptions.
When they brought out the menus, it really drove the point home that this was NOT a hole-in-the-wall. Yikes-a-moley!!! I instantly wanted to get up and leave, not wanting to spend our eating-out budget for the whole weekend on this one meal, but K would never be that rude, so we stayed. We ordered Pad Thai, a standard menu item at most Thai restaurants and one we had become fond of at some of our favorite haunts. When it came out, I caught the first whiff and my nostrils flared. (In actuality, my nostrils cannot flare, but if they could have, they would have.) My first thought - dog food. Oh my gosh, this smells just like dog food. How am I going to eat this? Surely this will not taste like it smells. Bravely, I spun a few noodles onto my fork and lifted this pungent pile to my mouth for the first bite. The moment it hit my tongue, I knew things were not going to turn out well. Embarassingly, my gag reflex took over. I sat for a few horrifying seconds trying to decide what to do with this mound of manure in my mouth. Would my body allow me to swallow? As it turns out, it would not. I leaned over and, with an effort to be graceful, spit it out onto my plate.
Since I'm not three years old, this was extremely humiliating. I am about the least picky eater I know, and I have never been known to spit anything out other than the occasional gristle in my meat. Gristle, yes - but noodles? How can anyone ruin noodles? K apparently has the ability to put mind over matter, because he had somehow managed to swallow his first bite. He even took a couple more bites, trying to be polite while commenting the whole time on how grotesque this meal was. I just sat there breathing through my mouth, unable to take in the dog food odor while I stared at my pile of noodles and the smaller pile of rejected food sitting on my plate. I wanted to send it back to the kitchen, tell them it was gross and I couldn't eat it, get my money back and go out to eat elsewhere for dinner. But K is entirely too nice for that. We asked for our check and tried not to notice the confused looks on the faces of the staff (all attention was focused on us, mind you, as we were the only customers dining) as we turned down their offer for a to-go box and left nearly all of our noodles (and literally all, in my case) sitting on our plates.
The most painful part, aside from the gagging, was the knowledge that we had just turned over good money for nothing. We were still hungry, only we couldn't go out to eat anywhere else. We ended up at home eating sandwiches or something equally disappointing. Yep, that's got to be at the top of my list of things I wish I'd never eaten.
1) On the way back from my grandparent's ranch near College Station, my family stopped at Texas Burger for a meal. (They might have these things other places, but in case not, Texas Burger is exactly what it sounds like it would be - a burger joint that's a few steps up from Burger King but not quite as exciting as Fuddruckers - if you consider Fuddruckers to be exciting, which I don't.) Anyway, after the burgers we decided to treat ourselves to some ice cream before hitting the road. I was quite thrilled because they serve Blue Bell at Texas Burger and in my way of thinking, it doesn't get much better than that. I strolled up and down the ice cream counter carefully weighing my options and finally decided on Strawberry Cheesecake, the "special of the day." It was just as delicious as it sounds and I gobbled it right up in my sugar cone, glad I had branched out a bit from Homemade Vanilla and tried a new flavor. My brother Garrett had also ordered Strawberry Cheesecake. (Here's a tidbit to know - to this day, any time I'm eating somewhere with Garrett I HAVE to order the same thing he does, or I'm inevitably jealous of what he ordered. It makes things really simple because I don't have to decide what to get, and since he is a consistently good orderer, I'm rarely disappointed. So, come to think of it, maybe I didn't decide on Strawberry Cheesecake and simply took his lead like the lemming I am...)
Anyway, we had a delightful car trip and got home just in time to hit the sack. Or so we thought. Instead, Garrett and I stayed up most of the night puking our guts out. Yes, the "daily special" was apparently not so special after all, but rather was the culprit of our distress. Since that day, a spoonful of Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream has never darkened the door of my mouth. And I'm extremely suspicious of restaurants trying to unload their soon-to-be-expired/oops - we should have thrown this out yesterday dairy products onto unsuspecting customers under the guise of a "special." There ain't nothin' special about that.
2) About a year ago, K and I decided to go out to lunch at a new Thai place in town. We love Thai food and were very excited as we entered the restaurant and discovered a surprisingly beautiful atmosphere. I say surprising because this place is smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall, so I guess I was expecting something more along the lines of a hole-in-the-wall than the lavish decor we discovered when we stepped from the bright afternoon sun into the dimly lit elegance of the large room. We were the only customers, but since it was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon I didn't find that very unusual. Surely no one had discovered this jewel of a restaurant... We were escorted to a lovely little table and the first thing that came out was our water. As often happens in town around this time of year, the water reeked of - well, I don't quite know what it is, but it reminds me of lake water. (I picture the boaters out on the lakes enjoying the summer, churning up the murky bottom and somehow getting silt into our drinking supply. I know this doesn't make sense scientifically, and I've since heard that it's due to some sort of algae bloom, but you get the point - this water is NASTY.) I asked for a bowl of lemons, as I often do at restaurants, and found myself squeezing each slice down to a pulp in an attempt to make this water taste a bit more like lemons and a bit less like lake. When I commented to the waitress about the water (in attempt to make friendly conversation about what happens to the city's water this time of year) she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. I thought: either she doesn't speak enough English to know what I just said, she hasn't been in town for a year yet and doesn't know that this happens every summer, or she thinks this water is acceptably tasty. I hoped it was one of the first two assumptions.
When they brought out the menus, it really drove the point home that this was NOT a hole-in-the-wall. Yikes-a-moley!!! I instantly wanted to get up and leave, not wanting to spend our eating-out budget for the whole weekend on this one meal, but K would never be that rude, so we stayed. We ordered Pad Thai, a standard menu item at most Thai restaurants and one we had become fond of at some of our favorite haunts. When it came out, I caught the first whiff and my nostrils flared. (In actuality, my nostrils cannot flare, but if they could have, they would have.) My first thought - dog food. Oh my gosh, this smells just like dog food. How am I going to eat this? Surely this will not taste like it smells. Bravely, I spun a few noodles onto my fork and lifted this pungent pile to my mouth for the first bite. The moment it hit my tongue, I knew things were not going to turn out well. Embarassingly, my gag reflex took over. I sat for a few horrifying seconds trying to decide what to do with this mound of manure in my mouth. Would my body allow me to swallow? As it turns out, it would not. I leaned over and, with an effort to be graceful, spit it out onto my plate.
Since I'm not three years old, this was extremely humiliating. I am about the least picky eater I know, and I have never been known to spit anything out other than the occasional gristle in my meat. Gristle, yes - but noodles? How can anyone ruin noodles? K apparently has the ability to put mind over matter, because he had somehow managed to swallow his first bite. He even took a couple more bites, trying to be polite while commenting the whole time on how grotesque this meal was. I just sat there breathing through my mouth, unable to take in the dog food odor while I stared at my pile of noodles and the smaller pile of rejected food sitting on my plate. I wanted to send it back to the kitchen, tell them it was gross and I couldn't eat it, get my money back and go out to eat elsewhere for dinner. But K is entirely too nice for that. We asked for our check and tried not to notice the confused looks on the faces of the staff (all attention was focused on us, mind you, as we were the only customers dining) as we turned down their offer for a to-go box and left nearly all of our noodles (and literally all, in my case) sitting on our plates.
The most painful part, aside from the gagging, was the knowledge that we had just turned over good money for nothing. We were still hungry, only we couldn't go out to eat anywhere else. We ended up at home eating sandwiches or something equally disappointing. Yep, that's got to be at the top of my list of things I wish I'd never eaten.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
